A Fool's Fun [Tiggs/O]

[Rivre]

The bitter gales were the only thing to disturb the so-far frozen colt; a colt of silver magnificence who was outlined against the radiance of a pale purple heavens, sunset. Well, not entirely silver, but a pale enough dappled silver roan to be merely a wisp of hair or mane against the high-country.
The sweet heather under-hoof felt hard with the moving frosts, brittle from the cold and slippery to the rogue horse's hooves, rather hindering those who dared to cross there. Patches of white, the snow which continued to fall from relentless clouds, dusted the ground and the rocks which jutted from its rough surface, a surface that he longed to gallop across, on and on into the night.

But with such weather, and the skys seeming to promise more of it if not plenty, Mering had unwillingly come to the conclusion to leave his icy cliff-tops and perilous mountain ridges for the safety of the foot-hills. Although one could not call them safe at this time of the year. As the wind roared around him, lifting his forelock from his watering eyes and the slight of his mane from his sweat cloaked neck, he could make out the faint cries of the fighting stallions down below, blown on the wily wily of winds, forever to haunt the nearly deserted Ramshead Range.
It did not comfort him to know that they were awaiting the arrival of the young ones, the ones who waited out the worst of the beginning, only to be left stranded when cover was needed the most.

He was nearly of three years, but not quite a stallion. His muscles were well built, and his frame nimble, although gradually starting to bulk out, he was indeed a different animal than he had been as a yearling. He had known then the troubles of man and the danger of facing stallions, but now that danger was real enough that he was ready to risk everything to stay alive. He was for the living, breathing, fast-paced world. The world of dangers and perils, a world where he could fight for his right to love his mate and protect his fillies.
As the sudden impulse of emotion rushed through his quivering body, he threw his head back to scream an almighty challenge to the sky, fore-feet rising in a half-rear as he shook his head in wild protest.
"My country and mine alone!"

Remaining only long enough to hear the echos of his call ricochet off the Northern spurs, he began the steady journey downwards, his trot proud and his neck arched as his forelegs rose to glance his chest at their height. However he did not loose his wit and stayed solely to the dry heather, leaving no track and making no sound as he wove in and out of the descending mists, the vapour covering his winter silver hide in a sheen of water.
For now he would stick to the places he knew well, a valley to the south that had perhaps escaped the snowfall which would surely be only deeper as he descended. It would be wise to graze as he went, but his limbs felt too full of power, his haunches drawn under him as the pace increased to a lengthy canter. He would surely appear a ghost horse in his country if he were to be spotted, and it made his every hair tingle with warmth despite the cold seething around him.


OOC; Such a bad post Dx Got to get back in the swing of the roleplay style so bear with me on it....

[Tiggs]

Winter was following her. As if the snow knew she needed cover, it came down through the mist in lonely flakes, catching on her lashes and clinging to her body wetly. The mare was a majestic sight. With sides impossibly wide with foal, it was a struggle to make it up the inclines but Calca was determined to give birth somewhere she could be proud of. No foal of hers would be deprived of the boasting rights of their birth place! She could be proud when her foal could brag that they were born in the depths of winter on the high Ramshead tors! Well it was the foothills, and it was not the depth of winter yet, but Calca was amazed she had got this far being so fat!

The mare was a tawny brown in colour, with dark legs and a flaxen mane and tail, darkened near the roots with brown. She had moonfilly heritage in her, and it would be hard for one not to notice when they experienced her vanity. Calca had inherited more than her silver mane and tail from her mother. Brael had taught her everything important: how to look regal at all times, and how best to keep one’s coat pristine so one could always be admired and envied.

Calca was tiring now, and she stopped to catch her breath. There was a collection of sheltering rocks nearby, and she headed toward them. Before she could get there, however, a shape emerged from the snow and the mist. She snorted, and pulled up. It was a young stallion, appearing to be a desaturated version of her, without the moonfilly mane and tail, of course. She huffed and arched her neck, looking as indignant as a heavily pregnant mare could. “What are you doing here?” She challenged. “Don’t you know mares like me are looking for some peace and quiet from stallions like you?” She was not overly angry with her words, but there was a certain ire to them. She had not traipsed all this way to be interrupted by a stallion.

[Rivre]

Mering propped easily to a halt, ears flickering in surprise that a mare of such frame was attempting to travel so high, and yet he did not question it, merely wondered how he had not scented her coming.
As the wind tore at his hued mane, he ushered himself once again into the silence of the mist, partially obscured by its covering furls.
"I? I am traveling to the foothills for a better winter. I ghost the high country and the mountain ridges, I am a part of where you travel o' curious mare of foal" he answered, a little miffed that she would question the motives of a clearly cautious young colt, who knew better than to go trotting off into the night without care.

The snow was thicker falling now, landing delicately on the silver-grey hair of his back, icy cold as the breeze brushed over the wetness.
"It is dangerous for you to travel so far in your condition, but I will not hinder your progress. I wish you well," nickering softly, he backed away completely into the also thickening mists, unmoving in the silence of the bush, he watched carefully, silently.

From her very stance he could see that she was tired, but again he reminded himself that even the worry of a colt would have to face the wrath of the stallion who claimed her, and he shook out his mane quickly so as not to disturb the cloak of white, pushing off the few rocks he stood on back to the now slightly damp heather he had traveled on, this time at a trot once more. If he were lucky enough to meet some younger brumbies on his travels he knew now that he could at least keep them safe, for he had been born in depths of his own harsher winter, and he knew these foot hills well.

As he continued downwards, he wondered again about the fat little mare and her newborn foal, or what was soon to be anyway. Would they be safe going where he, Mering of the earth, could not even stay? Surely not. But it was none of his concern and so he kept his steady pace flitting downwards towards the promise of grazing.

Where was he to head to in this bleak weather? A place of protection and grounds to graze he hoped, but hope was a very mild emotion when compared to three angry stallions... He would travel first to Dead Horse Gap, to check the men had truly gone and see what grass was near there, in a valley of snow probably, then he would travel to the old Brolga's Country in search of his secret creek.

[Rivre]

It had been some while that he shadowed the grullo stallion through the wavering mists, and it only hoped to prove that his brother was indeed the ghost horse he had come to be known as.
Mesbra was not as easily fooled as most older horses by the pretense of Mering's power, he could see that he had much growing to do, but even still, he was a strong young animal, and one that he had now lost...

As Mering continued to anchor himself into the hillside, he became dully aware of a second presence in the snowgums, a flicker of black hide, the wisp of deep bay mane- a horse who could hide himself as well as he in his country!
Drawing to halt he eyed the bush carefully, neck arching further as he once again saw black in silver paint. After waiting a few more moments he threw himself into a half-visible rear, screaming out a joyous call to his brother in the storm.