She walks with the weight of her Friesian form, the light feathering of her feet caked in a drying mud, barbs of sharp burrs tangle in the length of her mane. She is aware of the snarls in her hair but there was nearly no time to dig through the length just to prick her lips on their sharp edges.
With the fall of the sun, cricket song is heard in the distance despite the humidity that lingered heavily on the air. The smaller bits of her mane stick against the blue neck as she grows further annoyed. Insects buzz near her head and her tender parts despite how many times she slams her legs into the earth to stir them from vicious little bites. Hels can only pray to find some kind of water to drive herself into so she may relieve herself of the damned bugs and their hunger.
The blue mare slips into the growing shadows, a breath of cool breeze finding it's way along the length of her back, and she sighs deeply with a little relief. By now her mane is glued to the shape of her arched neck but there is no mind to be paid as darkness falls for the wolf wakes with a lagging tongue and empty belly.