11-02-2016, 12:46 PM
It's winter, but it isn't snowing. Remember your education, remember what they taught you. She can hear the whispers amongst the trees, her mothers voice caressing her memory. She had been so young when they'd sent her away, when they told her go – learn. She can't even remember being in Beqanna. It feels so strange, coming back. It doesn't feel like home.
The wood around her is eerie, inky in the winter sunset. She picks her way purposefully through the murky trees, threading through like a silver needle in the dying light. She doesn't know where she's going of course, it's all new to her. It's not like horses have a map that they can pull out to help them. In the absence of reason, instinct guides her. She goes which way feels good.
This abstract methodology leads her to a creek. It's bubbling. When she lowers her slate muzzle to the waterline, the texture is silky smooth – yet the cold of the splash assaults her. She flinches, before going again and finally quenching her thirst. The weather is definitely on the turn.
She raises her head and looks around. It's all very dark, but peaceful, quiet and still. Despite that, she has the inclination to think she's not alone. Call it gut instinct. There's something, or someone out there. She isn't afraid though, they taught her never to loose face. It might just save your life one day. Instead, she heads off along the aimless road, still looking as if she knows exactly where she's going. She might not know geographically, but in the game of life, Anjou has absolutely no doubts about her path.
The blue roan comes across a clearing, sets about grazing absent-mindedly. Of course the grass here isn't great, it's winter and it's been starved of sunlight below the bows of the trees anyway – it wouldn't be a great place to graze in even perfect circumstances. However, it gives her a chance to find out who's been following her. The trees are sparse, little cover in this part of the forest. Come on then friend, let's see what you're about.
The wood around her is eerie, inky in the winter sunset. She picks her way purposefully through the murky trees, threading through like a silver needle in the dying light. She doesn't know where she's going of course, it's all new to her. It's not like horses have a map that they can pull out to help them. In the absence of reason, instinct guides her. She goes which way feels good.
This abstract methodology leads her to a creek. It's bubbling. When she lowers her slate muzzle to the waterline, the texture is silky smooth – yet the cold of the splash assaults her. She flinches, before going again and finally quenching her thirst. The weather is definitely on the turn.
She raises her head and looks around. It's all very dark, but peaceful, quiet and still. Despite that, she has the inclination to think she's not alone. Call it gut instinct. There's something, or someone out there. She isn't afraid though, they taught her never to loose face. It might just save your life one day. Instead, she heads off along the aimless road, still looking as if she knows exactly where she's going. She might not know geographically, but in the game of life, Anjou has absolutely no doubts about her path.
The blue roan comes across a clearing, sets about grazing absent-mindedly. Of course the grass here isn't great, it's winter and it's been starved of sunlight below the bows of the trees anyway – it wouldn't be a great place to graze in even perfect circumstances. However, it gives her a chance to find out who's been following her. The trees are sparse, little cover in this part of the forest. Come on then friend, let's see what you're about.
anjou