i don't want to let this go - woodrow

[RAENE]

Some part of her realizes that she should be worried.

The world she knows has turned on it's head after all, and nothing she knew was the same.

Yet the black and white mare feels mostly excitement and a desire to explore this new place. The mist hinders her, of course, but she has walked the edges of the blue and silver mysterious. She cannot see past the few barren trees and the eerie glow, but she just knows that whatever is hiding beyond is incredible. 

She has the same sense as the rest of them - that the lands will be revealed when they have proven themselves to Beqanna. Yet Raene has no desire to prove herself to the god; she only wants to know for her own curiosity. She is probably not worthy anyway.

Tiring of peering into the nothingness beyond the mist, the young mare returns to the Meadow, wondering if more horses have made it down from the mountain yet.

@[Woodrow]

[woodrow]

Worry woke him;
Worry and the fact that his nose was cold. Why was his nose cold?
His tail ought to have been fluffy and covering his nose, but it wasn’t - it was strangled by knots and brambles, the hairs long and black instead of short and buff.

Well, that was all wrong!
He had gone to bed as a coyote and woke up as a horse.
What in tarnation is that all about?

Woodrow can’t say that he is altogether happy about this loss of self. He is as much coyote as he is horse; it is in his blood, tied to the deepest part of his soul - he feels like that piece of his soul that was all coyote had been ripped right out of him and all that was left was a deep dark rift. It aches in a way that nothing has ever ached but his paws - no, hooves - have; he feels clawed up and torn, and it sickens him a little. He realizes that perhaps he had come to rely on that coyote-shape more than he ought to have but that doesn’t make the loss of it more bearable. Woodrow thinks that he’d rather mope about except he can’t - he’s not meant to mope, he’s meant to take great big strides that chew up the earth and spit it out!

The mists intrigue him;
If only he had his coyote senses to poke about them with!

Some part of him still thinks as a coyote; he could sniff and look and mark each place he has been by piss and spoor. He could do all those things as a horse too, but it is less becoming of him to be so uncivilized. Still, curiosity propels him forth and the bay dun roan finds himself lurking on the edges of the meadow (some habits, even coyote-habits are hard to kill) and then a smell hits him - her! The spotted mare that he remembers could change the very color of her fur like he could change his shape, though her boundaries were endless and his, very limited.

“Raene!” he cries, happy to see a familiar face (beyond the glimpses of family members he’s passed, but family is family and they are everywhere and scattered like ash to the wind) - happy to see her face, to be exact.

“You look well…” he falters in his speech, a lopsided coyote-like grin finds his face in his embarrassment. Truth be told, the mists and mysterious looked good on her - spots and curves included.