Wreathed with light, [O]

[Corowa]

When the stallion bounded away with his high and graceful step, Warridanga began to tremble violently. The dance he wove was beautiful, taking him far over this brilliant white carpet of snow-daisies, each movement strong and sure. Forefoot raised, the expression in the filly’s eyes was one of confusion. For though she longed to run with Burrello, she was torn by the restlessness within her, this wild freedom, which would never truly be tamed. Loner since the time she had been born, Warridanga had not run with a mob of brumbies since leaving her sire’s herd.

Burrello vanished where the flat dropped steeply down to the hard country of the Ramshead. Unable to stand still for a moment longer, Warridanga gave a sudden shrill whinny and tore down the rough snowgrass slope after him. Burrello was swift, and the filly was tired after her long gallop. Coming to a dead stop, Warridanga tossed up her head. Eyes ringed with white, and fine head flecked with lather, the filly stood with nose lifted to the wind and ears strained and listening. Hearing the faint throbbing of galloping hooves, she snorted and then leapt quickly away at a gallop, wondering if it were Burrello she followed, or some teasing, mocking ghost. The snowgrass made it difficult in picking up his trail, and it was only when the snowgrass merged with the great granite slabs of the North Ramshead, could the filly more easily track it.

Suddenly there was Burrello, his mane and tail streaming out behind him, like the wind-tossed limbs of a black sallee. Warridanga tried to go faster, slithering and slipping down the precipitous slope, calling to the stallion as she ran. Breath sobbing, heart pounding unevenly, she propped to a standstill on the shaley line of ridge. Her legs were all bloodied and bruised, and shaking all over, the filly limped slowly down after Burrello. Afraid she would be left behind, Warridanga’s ears flickered nervously, and she gave another rasping whinny. ‘Wait’ her call seemed to say, ‘wait for me, for I shall come’.

OOC: She’s only young, so she probably couldn’t run very far without needing a rest. Also, I made them near the North Ramshead because that’s where they’d end up.

[Ehetere]

Burrello had become caught up in the thrill of the run; completely forgetting the young filly following him a ways behind in the exciting rhythm of his hooves drumming on the ground. When her shrill whinny alerted him to her distress, he whirled around to find her limping after him with cuts and sores covering her delicate legs. He hung his head; ashamed he had pushed her so far just to follow him. But he was also proud; for she had followed him, promising him that she would follow him for as long as he could hold her.

He walked slowly over to her shaking, exhausted form and dropped his nose to snuffle apologetically at her wounds, trying to lick them clean. He knew enough from his life with humans that when a horse got a wound it could turn very ugly very quick, and humans always washed wounds off very thoroughly. “We will need to find a creek so you can wash any dirt out of your cuts,” murmured Burrello in a thoughtful manner, as soothingly and caringly as possible. It was his fault that this beautiful little filly had been injured, and if she was now in his care, he would see to it that he fixed them. “And then we will need to go and find my missing mare… and perhaps her foal.”