True Intentions [Open]

[Rivre]

As the last rays of sunlight set upon the ranges, a chill wind stirred the sensetive hair of a pale stallion's ears, itched his hide and bit into him mind and soul - an unsettling feeling of loss creeping over him. The hot rays had stirred the scent of eucalyptus off the gums heated leaves, waxy strands leaving gauged marks on oddly tainted coat, pale sandy hues lifted from warm neck to sway in the breeze. A stillness had settled over the bush, and the creatures stirred restlessly, waiting, a wombat's eerie cry painful to the ear and silver lobes flickered back to strain against well-set poll.

The red sky tinged his hide with an angry reflection, lighting his oddly transparent self into a horse of fire red, standing between the gap of two snowgum barks, blending into the bleached ancient wood. In himself he was a greatly muscled horse, hooves wide with slanting shoulders and breadth for lung, his hide an odd mixture of palomino and cremello, a nightruner cross, keen black eyes ringed only slightly by the pinkess of his kind. The light did not bother him too much, if not at all really, his dam having been an ordinary brumby, the genetic disorder of the night dwellers seemed to have passed him by, and so he stood only with the very mildest of discomforts, basking in the last rays of a dying sun.

For a good while he stood, so long a while in fact that he began to feel the blood still in his hooves- and the heavens now a deeper shade of blue splashed with the light of starshine- so that he had to move on to keep himself upright. The chill autumn light of the moon washed his pale hide into a luminous glow, the threads of gold brightening so that when the muscle of his self pulled to and fro
across his hide, the shadow was a brilliant cream and silver smudge. The country here was unchanged, perhaps still from so long ago – that the hoof prints beaten into the ground had stayed centuries after they had occurred. As he traversed the scape of shaly track, Wandarri placed his own hooves wondrously into their midst, wondering as to whether the legendary Thorwa had once placed them here as a youngster.

He was a persevering stallion to be true but often myth and legend escaped him – even his own supposed mystery did not encourage him to believe in any such nonsense. He had traveled a long way, longer in fact than one could imagine, and from his perspective there was nothing quite so ordinary about the scenario he found himself in. A single frustrated snort distilled the cool air, signs of the coming spring already clear in their environment, golden silk banner rippling as he broke into a stunted trot. It lasted only a few strides, as much as his momentary anger could allow but in those few, the power and grace of a night runner, and their oddity – so far unforeseen in his mature self – was quite evident.