early riser x. [open]

[rohan]

birds don't sing because they have something to say, they sing because they have a song.

First blush of the morning, the blue jay sat in his nest of mud and twigs, whistling his sweet song as if the sun wouldn't rise without his dulcet voice. The sun began it's excursion towards the sapphire lid, cottonball clouds lumbering slowly out of the way. Today would be lazy. The melon soft sunlight filtered through the skeletal branches of the trees, warm rays spreading over the surface of Ana's back. She wasn't quite awake yet, though she was beginning to stir. Her eyelids fluttered as her body seldom moved, sinewy muscle quaking every so often with the mechanical movement of her languid breaths.

Ana had always been an early riser, ever since the dawn of her time. Her former herd had taught her to peruse in the arts of habitually rising before the sun had a chance to set so that predators had no chance of catching them unguarded, and so that they had a head start on their daily junkets. Of course, Anahera was sans herd nowadays, but she stuck with the habit anyway. However, this morning she was late on her quota. Routinely, she would rise with the birds and meander to the meadow to graze, but this morning she remained under the shade of an oak tree, standing with her hindleg propped on her hoof.

It wasn't until a wind shifted past her that her eyes began to flit. Her triangular ears pirouetted, angling towards the familiar noise of the brook babbling noisily a few yards away. She smacked her dry lips tactlessly, snorting gently. She took a stilted step forward, her legs numbed from lack of use. Gradually, sluggishly, she ingressed towards the stream, her eyes still crusty with sleep. She continued walking until her hooves were sinking, and she realized that she was standing directly in the water. Sheepishly, she backpedaled, clambering back up the bank, and turned around to slip her head down towards the surface. She lipped up the water, taking generous gulps as though she hadn't taken a drink in ages.

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[Corowa]

Yarrawah had been grazing further north, in the upper country of the Crackenback, when she’d been chased by a stockman on a fine, leggy chestnut. Driven along with a small mob of brumbies, she had suddenly and furiously, swung the mob about on a rough, steep brumby track. When a young stallion, sweating and blowing, bumped her shoulder with his, she sprang at him with an angry squeal. Ears flattened, open-mouthed, the mare turned those galloping brumbies back on the stockman and his horse. Terrified as they were, the brumbies scattered, galloping headlong down the shaly track, and she heard the stockman shouting as he was swept up in the mad gallop.

In the confusion of the stampede, Yarrawah slipped away into the low scrub of wattle and ti tree, watching from between the rough trunks of the snowgums as the stockman and his horse tried frantically to turn the stampeding mob. For while they plunged wildly up another of those steep and narrow brumby tracks, towards the rough country of the Ramshead, Yarrawah simply vanished. Turning southwards, the mare had sheltered a while in those deep gullies of the Crackenback, stretching far back into the mountains. For only when the wind murmured softly in the leaves of the snowgums, the bush silent but for the joyful song of the currawong, did Yarrawah leave for the lower country of the Cascades.

Grazing in the narrow fringe of bush, the grey mare stood with ears twitching, listening to the peaceful stillness of the bush around her. Lifting her nose to the wind, Yarrawah’s nostrils quivered, for blended with the sharp scent of eucalypts, was the faint smell of smoke, drifting northwards from Cascade Hut. Worried, she melted hastily away into the cover of the trees, hide prickling uncomfortably. One forefoot raised, the mare stood a moment, wondered whether she should return to the Tumut, where stockmen so rarely came. Then, she swung around and headed for the low snowgums and scrubby bush of the Cascade creek.

Here the creek was narrow, sheltered by wattle and hop scrub, shallow water flowing lightly over rock. Threading her way through the trees, careful to leave no tracks, Yarrawah pulled up sharply on her haunches when she glimpsed the young mare through ribbons of bark, black sallee all hung with moss. Laying back her ears, Yarrawah tossed her head, and then purposefully grazed her way forwards, leaving the cover of the trees although every nerve tingled with sudden anxiety. Sunlight streamed through the leaves of the snowgums, and the mare felt it warm upon her back. Reassured, she drank thirstily of those cold, cold waters. However, her ears were still flattened, and the whites of her eyes showed. For Yarrawah was mean-tempered and quarrelsome, with no longing for the companionship of a foolish young brumby.

OOC: I was just going to say, I noticed you'd put an oak tree in your post. Since there aren't oak trees in the High Country, I thought you might like the little tree guide I put together a while ago. Hope it helps!

[rohan]

ooc: sorry, i didn't know. i've only seen the movie and a bit of the animation series. thanks for the guide.

After taking her share of water from the pool, Ana stared contently at the glass surface, melted caramel eyes following undulations pinched on the crystalline water. The small blue jay that had sung her a morning cadence earlier fluttered about the treetops, making a noticeable fuss, though for the moment the pied mare didn't seem to pay any mind. Anahera was, to put it bluntly, a newbie to the realm of the brumbies. Unlike many of her brumby counterparts she wasn't birthed and reared in the Kosciusko Country, and knew little of the telltale King or any of the handfuls of bands that navigated the rugged terrain.

That said, she had started to grow comfortable here at the creek. It wasn't the ideal accommodations she had in mind when coming here, like rolling grasslands and acres of free-range to kick up her heels, but it got the job done and she felt safe enough to hide out in the brush until she knew their world well enough to explore the country. She had grown familiar with the particular smells around the creek, whether that be a good thing or not. Occasionally she'd see a cluster of feral brumbies navigating their way through the gum trees, but they never looked at her or bothered to stop along the way to greet her. Ana guessed that this was their way, that intermixing with a newcomer was taboo and she was to be alone for the rest of her life. Maybe she was just being paranoid.

She had started back up the steep bank to go back to the shelter of the trees when she caught smell of a frenzy. Her own blood mingled with foreign snatches of fragrance. Then she heard it, panicked hooves closing the distance between them quickly. The she felt it. The vibrations in the ground, and the labored snorting. She pivoted, and silently watched as the mare creeping along the skirts of the creek. She didn't look friendly, which almost turned Ana away. "What's with all the noise? A badger bite your tail?" she snickered. Ana had a way of thinking that she could sway her counterparts, charm them into cordiality.

Sorry if there are spelling mistakes. My computer's keyboard is being wonky and won't type my words very well, and therefore it takes five seconds for me to type a letter.

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[Corowa]

Yarrawah lifted her head when a currawong stirred in the wide-spaced branches of a candlebark. Laying back her ears, the light grey mare’s nostrils curled, for there was the smell of smoke once again, stronger than before, the winds hot and dry. Yarrawah sensed some danger in the air, in those loudly blowing winds, which roared through the uppermost snowgums, tore at those wildly swaying leaves. Only half-seen between the rough, gnarled trunks of the snowgums, the mare glimpsed a mob of kangaroos, then they vanished into the shadows and she trembled all over. Feeling something dreadful was happening, Yarrawah would have simply turned and melted into the cover of the trees, had not the brown and white filly called.

Far more worried by the sudden silence of the bush, silent but for those raging north winds, Yarrawah promptly laid back her ears, and bared her teeth at the filly. “I hear nothing but the wind and the nonsense of a foolish filly, one who looks as if she has no more wisdom than a wombat,” she snapped. “Though perhaps the wombat is wiser still, for at least he has sense enough to be quiet.” Swinging her rump around towards the filly, the mare threatened her with a swift kick. Pale grey hide darkened by sweat, Yarrawah tossed up her head, worried by the strange haze of heat, the stillness of the bush. For the smoke grew stronger, stinging eyes and throat, a thin grey pillar rising from the trees further down this wide grassy flat.

Yarrawah was aware of every hair on her sweaty grey hide, standing on end. For every nerve tingled, told her to go, to turn southwards, away from those gusting winds, thick with smoke. Suddenly longing for the deep damp gullies and snowgrass glades of the Brolga’s Country, the mare moved steadily towards the shelter of those huge spreading candlebarks. Then, having forgotten the brown and white filly, Yarrawah turned swiftly to her, wondering whether she too had a feeling something bad was coming. For surely young as she was, the filly must have noticed the queer hush, which had come over the bush, as if it too held its breath and waited. “Go carefully young one,” Yarrawah said softly, and those grey ears twitched nervously. “For I worry it is not the smoke of men, which blows so strongly on the wind.”

OOC: I was thinking maybe we could have a small grass fire (not anything big), break out to give the thread some action. I only just noticed we changed seasons but we can still pretend it’s summer.

[rohan]

ooc: I find it a little strange that she's calling her filly and "young one" when Yarrawah is only a year older than her. But this is coming shortly.