They venture farther and farther from home, recently. There was a time when neither ventured terribly far from the Tundra (or rather, neither ventured far from the other, and the Tundra was home to both) but childhood has left them, and adolescence is well towards past, and as young adults they grow restless. Or rather, Dagny grows restless, and Olivier is ever by her side. Only once had she ventured where he could not go, and she had returned with nightmares and strange colorings and a temporary need to stay close to home.
She is just slightly shorter than him, a bright chestnut framed in white, and would be average if not for the blue that marks her at her legs, ears, and eyes, and the yellow streaked in her mane. He is more striking – a glossy gold-champagne all over, and a horn spiraling from his forehead. They are galloping, paces matched exactly, wild across the distance from Tundra to Meadow, and have just slowed to a walk, breathless, when they stumble upon the stallion and both turn, catching his mumbled words with flicking ears.
Two pairs of hazel eyes focus on him, curious, and she takes a hesitant step towards the strange, head tilted. “Hello,” the greeting is offered brightly, a smile painted on her face. Ollie is half a step behind, plastered to her hip, and he does not smile, but he does not object to her friendly overture. “I’m Dagny, and this is Olivier. Where are you from?”