’No time like the present,’ she thought to herself trudging through the winter covered plains. The world once green and fresh, now stark and cold. It was uncomfortably silent too, save for the crunch of their hooves, the far and few between chatter. Traveling through the snow drifts, was a task in and of itself for the rather small mare. Add pregnancy to that, and well, she had made wiser decisions.
Wichita was all of 14.3 hands, her frame was what some might consider small or petite. Pony like even, if you were to take consensus. Still though, it might be hard to lose her dark form against the blinding white of the frozen landscape. Her coat had come in thick and coarse, a shaggy unbecoming thing that she did not care for. Parted from its life saving warmth, she might think differently. Tiny ice crystals drift peacefully down from the sky, covering the world in their white cloak. Any other time this might be a welcome and beautiful act of nature to the woman, but today she was of a different opinion. Each time her daggers hit a slick patch of ice, she recovered, looking around to see if Rapscallion had noticed. Hoping to spare herself some dignity that she lacked, and some embarrassment that she swam with. That was another thing!
She hadn’t quite figured out this unfamiliar buckskin, he had just shown up, offered to accompany her. The silver dapple had a hard time finding the words in her anxiety to tell him no, so instead she had stuttered an ‘all right.’ She kept herself wary of him, as time and time again, she had shown to be a poor judge in character. A state of unease found her at their interactions, but then again, when it came to males she was at unease in general. The time had passed slowly on this trip, she tried her best to offer faint conversation when goaded, but otherwise she was silently watchful.
Upon nearing the borders of the Amazons, the drifts seemed to melt away. The chill that held the air, released its victim from its unwelcome embrace. Ears tuned forward in interest, the mare stopped short at the edge. However curious she might be, she still held true the time old saying ‘curiosity killed the cat.’ Now that she had found her eyes painted permanently with such markings, she held what she felt were justified superstitions. Wichita had met few Amazons, the ones that had visited the Gates some time ago, Sunday and Wrynn. As well as the young filly she had met in the meadow, Ephrelle. Otherwise the Jungle dwellers were a mystery to her. Once upon a time she might have merrily crossed the borders, found the women herself, and greeted them whole-heartedly. Now, she held more reserve, Beqanna was not like her home had been, and she would do well to remember that. Beads of sweat rippled along her skin at the sudden rise in temperature, against the blast of winter it felt uncomfortably hot. Her winter coat was no friend to her here, and she snaked her head around to look uncertainly at Rap.
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