Dance with the Devil [Open]

[Rivre]

OOC: First post with this little guy and a few things you should know: 1) He's very secretive and is generally only seen when he wants to be. 2) This thread is open to youngsters i.e. yearlings and two year olds. 3) He's going to be a bit a picky one, and very old fashioned, so if there happens to be a young filly in this thread who likes him, he will invite her along with him as a friend xD He'll probably fall madly in love with her etc. so there we go! Have fun (; Oh! And also, I know I've gone a little mad with his looks in here - but it's just his way and I want to comvey his sexyness, or likely smexyness xD He has faults... I'm just not highlighting them too much :DD

Moonlight bathed the open stretch of Stockwhip Hill, turning the frosted snow grass, the odd gum's waxy leaves to an eerie silver. The white trunks of the thick candle and gum forests that lined each face of the gentle incline seemed to melt into one another, shadow and gleaming bark, the wind's gentle caress brushing through them slowly, whispering a warning. Somewhere from within the dense bush, a Kukaburra sounded, startled by something, by the silence. It flapped madly and broke through the canopy of branches, now almost leaveless, it's keen eye spotting the thing that it flew from. A young colt.

He stood serenly, stock-still and hidden by the trunks of the surrounding trees, startlingly white hide reflecting the rays of a desolate moon, lighting his features that were obscurbed by his cover so that he all but shone, a whispering ghost horse. He had waited a good part of the day for the horses that haunted these parts to leave for the night, to receed into the trees and their bimbles, so that he could gallop and dance, a wraith in the moonlight, appearing and disappearing as he wished. He had wondered for short time after he had left his mother at the Quambat whether he had sufficent skills to remain hidden as his sire and dam had taught him, and after many days and nights of scouring the bush, he knew the secret passageways and escapes that a large number of brumbies would not. So as he stood, gazing wonderously at the sight before him, grey ears pricked, he felt reassured for the first time that he was safe enough to leave the cover of the bush.

He set out at a walk, allowing the branches of the gums to brush quietly against his snowy hide but never to snap or twack and make a sound. He allowed banner of silver candesence to swish nonachalantly to cover up any noise he did make with a gentle whisper, placing pale hooves on the sprouting silver grass, unable to stop the imprints he made doing so; but at least they would be gone within the hour. When he finaly reached the end of the snow gum forest and stared out onto the magnificent stretch of grazing land that fed off into a thousand other forests at every side, he looked a long moment, checking once more that the space was clear. Satisfied that he was the only creature spare the watching Kukaburra, he felt the joy of being alive and free rush through his entire self, breaking into a steady canter that took him out into the glade; fully exposed to the moon he simply glowed, white light reflecting onto the snowgrass layers below so that they shone too, silver froth of a mane billowing out in a stream behind of him. It was obvious that he was no mature stallion, his lithe frame and light carriage was all that needed to be seen to detect it, but also the almost immature plains of his face, stunted mane growth that leant it an uneven sheer and those long grey limbs. It wasn't odd that a yearling should be on his own, but that he was not with a group of youngsters like himself was strange to say the least. But he prefered the quiet, he enjoyed the company of like-minded horses and to frolick and dance, but some of those brumbies would want to fight him for his odd qualities, for his silent ways and youthful radience. It was clear too, that one day he might even be considered beautiful.

As he went the frosty canvas sprung up with him in a flurry of shards, encouraging him to stretch his stride and burst into a gallop. For any creatures that may have been watching it would have seemed the colt ran for his life for he moved with such speed for one so young, but so full of life. They would wonder if he should remain free, from both men and stallions. They would think, not. In his mad flight he forgot the importance of leaving no track, tearing up the surface of the Stockwhip's silver cover and leaving green prints blurred by his speed, but in that moment he felt untouchable, he felt wild and reckless. Skidding to a precarious halt he leapt up the steep bank beside an iced-over creek and turned quickly on his haunches to face to sight of the blue and endless mountains from which he had come. "It is I! For the south wind, it is I!" he called, young voice not nearly as powerful as a stallions but quivering with excitment non-the-less, for he knew that horses of the Tin Mines would hear him and delight in their wondering. He was exposed and shinning on his rise for only a moment, and then he was in shadow, the grey shadow of the enormous gums, hidden once more. And silent.

[Corowa]

The bay filly threaded her way down through the ghostly trunks of the snowgums. Here on the long stretch of snowgrass and granite there was none to see the young brumby, a shadow in the blackness of the night.

The bush thinned to only a few spreading snowgums, and for a moment, the filly stood, poised on an outcrop of rock, every proud line of her silvered by moonlight. A shiver ran through Toowoomba, and presently, there was the strong feeling that she was being watched. Soundlessly, the young filly melted away into the sheltering timber.

It was a queer night. The wind sighed as it moved through the snowgums, and her hide prickled at the sound. Toowoomba remembered the feeling of unseen eyes watching, and she stuck to the steep tongues of rock, the rough spurs of granite, where her tracks would not show. A mopoke flew silently over the ghostly snowgum forest, and the filly shied sharply sideways. Slowly, she stepped out from the cover of the bush, feeling something stir deep within her.

A sudden, throbbing cry filled the stillness of the night, and Toowoomba stood perfectly still. She threw up her head, listening, the blood singing in her veins, every part of her tingling with a wild excitement. Her own call carried on the wind, and it contained all the splendid beauty of a filly longing for a mate. Come tome, it said.

[Rivre]

For a few moments the silence was chill, empty, and all but the silver colt moved within the wattle gap of a snowgum clearing; then a call answered his own, setting the hair tingling on his spine, causing grey ears to flicker forwards and walk to slow to a gentle halt. The wild echos still span and Pukara snorted quietly, listening to the promise of a mountain horses freedom that was held within it, to the pounding of blood in his ears, his chest, his hooves. Someone was close, but they did not seem to be a threat. He would go and see.

Judging from the direction from which the call had come, the brumby that offered it was almost directly North of his refuge, and so he trotted silently towards them, moving into the slightly more dense covering of branches and silvered trunks that would dull the glow of his white coat, tendrils of smoke spilling from his nostrils and into the freezing air, jogging swiftly through the night. He stopped often to check for spores, but it seemed that only womats had traveled the untraveled path and that it was only luck that the sweet scent of a young filly was brought to him on a whim of northernly breeze. So his pursuer was a filly, how joyous to be able to play again! If that is, she were alone... Peering out onto the stockwhip the grey colt scanned the thickly frosted expanse, searching. But it was not there he found the refuge of a choclate and beech hide, but in the trees themselves. It took him a while to pice together the delicate outline of a young brumby, it seemed she had the same knowledge as him of the bush and it's creatures - perhaps even more! But one silent horse to another they would always be evenly matched.

Putting aside his feelings of doubt, because he trsuted in his speed to get him out of a tricky situation, Pukara stepped boldly into the moonlight, silent as a wraith, neck arched to the poll and silver wisps of mane blowing. Only the sharp crunch of frost as his pale hooves hit the snowgrass and the slight parting of the branches as he moved could be heard, otherwise he stood still, gazing. It felt good to be alive! "It is I!" he called, rising in a half-rear of greeting, snowy hide now dampened slightly by the early morning dew, more aware now of the space around of him and how the sound seemed to carry far and wide. If he was to have the company of others he should not induce older horses, stallions even, to come and disturb their play. "Pukara, for the south wind that blows chill in the dawn and tells of a coming snow!" He was eager to gallop again, now that he had been somewhat rested, and longed to draw the filly out into the openess with him and play.

[Corowa]

An answer came ringing on the wind, and Toowoomba stilled. Every part of her throbbed with the intensity of the call, and her blood sung with longing. Not even the mopoke dared stir in the hushed silence that followed. It was as if the very bush itself held its breath, and to the listening filly, the gentle rustling of the snowgum leaves as the wind moved through them, seemed a sigh of wonderment.

A pale grey brumby stood, gloriously outlined by the moonlight. He was no more than a silver wisp in the blackness of the night, and Toowoomba could feel the pounding of her heart as she watched and waited. There was the promise of greatness in that upflung head and proudly arched neck. The filly watched him intently. Her nostrils curled, and she let out a shrill squeal of excitement.

There was something compelling about the silver-grey colt, and Toowoomba pranced forwards; dancing lightly over the snowgrass. The bay filly possessed neither the pale splendour of Goonama, nor the wicked fury of Goolara. Yet there was wisdom in her dark, shining eyes, and longing to know if this queer grey colt was real, Toowoomba came to a sudden standstill.

The filly stretched out her nose to his, and blew a shy greeting. “I am Toowoomba,” she said softly, and seeing this was indeed a colt of flesh and blood, she nipped him boldly on the neck and slipped back into the darkness of the night.

[Rivre]

The filly that seemed to be made of liquid shadow and moonlight pranced closer and Pukara felt a shiver of excitment that made the tips of his ears quiver and sweat break on his flank, chilled by the freezing air. He was momenttarily distracted by the sudden realization that it was slightly warmer, and spared a look at the clouding sky, the moon still unobscured, for now. It looked as if they might have the first snow. The grey colt touched his nose eargerly to that of the filly, mood lightened even further by the apparent change of weather and velvety muzzle tingling from both cold and a queer fear. Now that the filly was fully exposed he could see that she was perhaps a bit older than him, yes perhaps, and although she was a 'plain bay' as his dam might have said, Pukara could see wisdom and beauty in deep brown eyes.

He only had a moment to take her in however before she had nipped him and retreated to her cover of the night. Calling with a thrilling exuberence he leapt into a canter, steering clear of her darkness, one ear trained on the gums and instead remaining under the light of the fading moon, the first white feathers touching his nose and rump, keeping level with whatever sound he could decipher of her otherwise silent travel. He had heard of many plain brumbies that now possessed the knowledge that he himself and his own sire and dam possessed, but he had seen only one so far, quite by accident. It was odd to think this filly could most probably track him , but it also excited him, what adventures they could have!

The snow fell in a steady curtain now, obscuring the land in a soft layer of bleak cold and making it harder and harder to decipher Pukara from the gale of white flakes, him with his own pure snowy hide, not a mark of steel on him spare a slightly darker nose. He turned slightly now, winging to the right and away into the blizzard, galloping wildly, bucking and cavorting: invisible in a snow storm. As if he danced with some sort of devil. After some time of frolicking and no apparent sign of the filly whose name was Toowoomba, the grey colt pulled to an unsteady halt, "It is I!" he called, trying to imitate the joyous and exciting call he had heard his father make to other young mares, although he had no intention of keeping the filly captive, it had been a while since he was in any sort of enjoyable company.