Wind runs through her mane.

[Nykeln]

the haematoma in your chest, ♆ Years of abuse had shaped me like a worried scar, a frown upon the brow that never went away. It's those years of abuse at the hands of my sire and his many bachelors, that makes me stand hard and fast against verbal insults; my shadowy frame remains just that, a dark shadow, a stain upon the background. Oblivion eyes watch the mare, and now an addition. Both swollen with life, both as swollen with egos and pride. My ashen hoof pounds the earth, scrapes the dry flint with a concentration of a hawk eyeing it's prize. Two vulnerable hearts, ripe for the picking, two planted seeds, ripe fruit for the taking. I inhale them, my nostrils fluttering, dried blood marring the ashen pigment into a deep, dark burgundy stain. I breath them both in now, lungs flaring with a strong gasp. Salty waters, sandy shoals, they smell of the ocean with it's frothy currents and rocky pools. They have a home, somewhere, and a stallion -- a man that most likely has them beneath his hoof, having already had his wicked way with them -- a steed who is still not rearing his head. Alas, his two maidens, ripe with his seed, and he is nowhere to be seen. Such a shame. 'There you both are, ripe with children that soon will grace the earth.' my breaths come ragged, the memories tainting me, making my skin perspire in a nightmarish swear. The tiny black bundle, slick with life, but cold as death's handsome touch. I feel the deadened heart within me quiver and quake, a sneer pulling my lips all places, my eyes alive then, watching the two with a whole new perspective. 'You come here, you flaunt such life, is it only right that someone might be offended?' my words are black magic and frostbitten whimsy. I stalk forward, willing them closer to the edge, my towering frame imposing and pushy. I snake my neck outwards, teeth barring, snapping with a ferocity that taints my darkest dreams. My tail snaps at my hocks, wavering over my tender loins. I scrutinise them both, the pale princess, the black maiden. My eyes resting upon their thickset barrels; the life within them ripe and fresh, it sends my mind into a downward spiral, right there, right then. 'Home is so very far, don't you think?' I threaten, my lofty frame growing inches taller as I stand prouder, stronger. Heavily feathered limbs shifting, standing strong on the shifting ridge. 'Perhaps it wasn't the wisest choice, to wander so far, in your conditions.' my eyes snap from one to the other, cold, like the frostbitten winds in winter, but alive like the raging infernos of summer's promised heat. There is anger, hot, blistering anger lacing my words, 'To risk the lives of your children, before they even get to see the light.' ♆ the dying scream upon lips; vagabond of the meadow

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