i apologize in advance; anyone

[Rhylie]

This is the story of how, when the wolves knocked,
I met them at the door and I became the beast instead.

It isn’t enough that the food ran out, no.

That’s not even the fucking worst of it.

Being led by someone with no sense of direction, dragged through hell and high water—that’s bad, yeah. Leaving elders behind because you know they can’t keep up is pretty awful. But the children? Leaving the littlest ones behind, just because you can make more? That’s the worst of it. That’s pretty fucking awful. And Rhylie knows, deep down in the darkest parts of her soul, that she’s next; she’s going to be the next one the herd leaves behind because she’s just too weak to keep up with the rest of them. It’s her own mother that breaks the news to her. Because, hey, that’s just the way life is, doll.

So a couple of weeks go by, she’s all cried out; bitter, but definitely all cried out when she spots what she thinks are the tip-top of mountains—unless she’s hallucinating. Which, at this point, is very plausible. The last drink she’d had came from a dirty puddle the day before. Her mouth is so dry that her tongue feels funny and fat; she can’t remember what being in the shade feels like, the sun has been fucking relentless and she’s pretty sure her brain is fried. Maybe. Possibly.

Actually, could she still form a coherent thought if her brain were fried?

Is that even a legitimate question?

She should probably never say it aloud, you know.

If those are mountains and there’s food and water.

And she doesn’t die before getting there.

That would be pretty nice.

Luckily, they are mountains.

Jungly, mountainy mountain things.

She spends the next few days in said jungle; until, you know, she realizes she isn’t the only horse in town and they’re all big, buff scary mares and she’s quick to get the fuck out as soon as she can before she’s detected. Which isn’t easy, mind you; whoever runs the place keeps a tight ship and she’s half-convinced they just let her leave for the hell of it. They have no use for a scrawny, frightened little girl child. Bag of bones she is. Probably won’t make it much farther. But Rhylie does.

Somehow, she manages to make it all the way to a meadow; THE Meadow, the natives correct her. Because apparently it’s a super fancy, super important meadow. The meadow to end all meadows. Or something. Rhylie snorts, shaking her head and slinking along; there’s… a loooot of horses. But also plenty of food to sustain them. Some of them are weird colors, some of them have wings—horns! She’s pretty sure she just saw a stallion turn into a squirrel and bound off. Which is pretty freaking fantastic. She… kind of wishes her family could see it. The spotty yearling frowns, flicking her ears back. She doubts they ever made it to wherever it is her father was taking them.

R H Y L I E !

[Dalten]

He isn’t good at these things.

Let me rephrase that: He isn’t good at anything.

Socializing, leading, succeeding, believing—it all fell into his “weakness” category.

He walks to the meadow with a very unusual slug—it’s a pace that proves his reluctance to actually get somewhere. He was (unfortunately) a master of procrastination. He procrastinated socializing with his father when he was young. He procrastinated learning the diplomatic ways from his mother while he lived in the jungle. He procrastinated actually getting to the Dale for two full years when the original plan had been at time of weaning, you will go learn from your father.

He can also thank his lovely talent in disappearing for that one.

The mares of the jungle aren’t terrifying—or even intimidating, in his eyes. They raised him, they loved him, and while they were crazy bitches on multiple occasions (when their heat cycles lined up, it was traumatizing to be a maturing stallion), they were in most cases tolerable. He enjoyed their company about as much as he enjoyed the ooing of monkeys from their vibrant green vines. They got annoying, they got overwhelming, but they were always entertaining.

They (to him) are like the family a boy ensures his new girlfriend avoids. The family that makes all the wrong meals on holidays, tells too many personal stories in front of friends, and cracks the crudest of jokes around the Christmas tree. They are that sort of family to him. He loves them.

God knows he loves them.

And they mean well.

But that doesn’t mean he wants to go home and snuggle up on the couch with them every damn night of the year.

Within his deepest train of thought is where he forgets to actually pay attention to the real world. His grey muscular body (handsome devil he is) wanders between trees, a mix of evergreen, oak, and some foreign green thing, deep within the memories of females and heat cycles and monkeys flying about when the sight of a transformation greets his eyes.

A stallion, well.. Once a stallion, is now a squirrel bounding off.

He shudders—what male would want to turn into a fucking rat?

Does anyone else notice how useless that skill is?

A tree climbing rat.

And then, his gaze fades to his left to realize he wasn’t the only one to see it.

No, this beautiful woman saw it.

And…

Oh God. It’s a woman.

His stomach gets tingly and his throat runs dry. He feels this sudden urge to run away but then realizes that would be like watching a bull run from a flower. He is a strong, burly appearing male.

He must act like a man.

He lifts his head, his entire demeanor cool and collected, as he lets out a very masculine faint nicker in her general direction.

A greeting, or so he thinks what would be considered a greeting.

He hasn’t really nailed down this whole “greeting” thing.

Anyways.

“Hi,” is what escapes his throat next. Thankfully, the dryness is what caused his voice to sound overly raspy and dark, matching his charcoal grey-mouse coat and dark blackened socks. “I am Dalten.”

Greeting: Check.

DALTEN

maybe there's a shark in the water