she painted fire,

[pres♥]

The air tasted cold and crisp, like sharp metal laid across her warm tongue. A heavy breath of morning air caressed her face with cool fingertips that trailed lazily across her soft, creamy skin, leaving her tail splaying gently around her hocks and strands of flaxen forelock swaying in her eyes. The moist earth of the morning dampness muffled her fleeting passing, every careful step a whispered hush of easy grace and poise as dew flecked and beaded her legs in starry diamonds. Briseida stood in the shadows of the woods lining the field, not really thinking about anything in particular other than listening to the whistle of a wild summer wind playing in the treetops and racing the hawks, shattering the fragile silence of the blooming dawn.

She stepped forward towards the barren meadow hesitantly, momentarily sweeping her dark gaze up to the tangled canopy of glistening leaves and branches gnarled like old vulture claws. The wane, dribbling sunlight filtered weakly through the branches overhead and dappled her back in a smooth skeleton of laced shadows and scattered lines. Through the knotted branches of the trees, she could see the last fingers of night trailing away in a smear of gray-blue, and the last stars trembling on the horizon glittered coldly and faded into the folds of dawn.

She brushed by the dappled undergrowth quietly and drying fern rattled against her thin shoulders. As she emerged from the woods, strands of sunlight hugged the dips and curves of her body.

Briseida’s heightened senses tingled as the meadow view spread out before her in a vast sea of rolling grass. She pawed the moist earth gently, enjoying the cool dampness at her feet and the warmth of the sun on her back. As the sun climbed the glowing horizon, Briseida fell to grazing; avoiding the writhing shadows of shade cast by the trees' flailing branches. She watched the sunrise with a distant, faraway expression, while solitude and the early hush of dawn settled around her rosy figure in a close embrace of emptiness.

[Tiggs]

As the morning fog started to burn off in the new day, a mare whose coat quite suited the misty air could be seen more clearly. The mare was large, not just in width but in height too. She loomed out of the fog like some sinister beast, though that could not be further from the truth. Furrow was a gentle giant of a mare, and although she would hurt a fly if it landed on her, anything that didn’t buzz was as safe as a wombat in its burrow.

Morning dew soaked the thick feathers on her pale legs, and her mottled roan coat was a soft strawberry in the cool gold sunlight. White streaked her mane and tail, making her seem elderly when she was not more than four years old. Soon the sun would be high in the sky, and the chill of dawn would be long forgotten. Summer sun would bake down on her back, dry her feathers to crisp spikes and darken her mottled coat with sweat. The sabino mare would find herself shelter for the rest of the day, but so would many other brumbies. Grass was scarce now in the shade, and so she would make the most of being out in the open now.

The grass of the High Country lacked the easily attainable sustenance of hay that men provided, and although she ate constantly, the giant mare had lost weight since the escape. She seemed unconcerned though, and munched her way merrily across the Bogong with no specific direction in mind.

It was only when she was reaching the tree line that Furrow noticed she was not alone. A second roan mare, much smaller and of the brumby-shaped persuasion, stood at the edge of the eucalypts. From up the slope, Furrow nickered a friendly bass greeting and began ambling slowly toward the brumby mare.

[pres♥]

The meadow was a somber place—somber but beautiful.

The wind whistled through the golden strands of browning grass in lonely, mournful tunes, and the lazy morning sunlight lanced in filtered bars through the fields—particles of dust falling and rising gently in the sunshine like stars. It was as if she were the only living being in the world, the only beating heart, the only breaths breathed, the only soul.

The grass bushed her pale legs and tickled her stomach as she strayed through the stalks, quite alone, because that is how it had always been as of late. There were no others in her life, no home, no friendships. No, none of that. Sacrifice was Briseida’s life, sacrifice of all those things for the chance at a new life.

It was like a dusty music box, the meadow was, perhaps lonely and forgotten, but still carrying a song so beautiful, so sweet, that she appreciated it. Her heart went out to the vast, sprawling land of gold, to the sky that swept above in smeared sapphire hues, and to the lonely, hollowed sun that warmed her back in pale beams.

She lifted her head as soon as the call swept across the meadow, the wind swirling strands of her flaxen mane across her face as she searched for the stranger who had greeted her. It was not difficult to find what she was looking for—an enormous mare, larger even than any stallion she had ever seen—strolled across the soft summer grass in her direction, seeking her company. And Briseida welcomed her openly, returning a soft snort of acceptance, glad for companionship.

It had been lonely this past season, and harsh. Very much alone, fending for herself was wearisome and stressing, especially when she’d nearly been captured by a straying man a few days ago. The strawberry mare was much thinner than she should have been in the height of this windswept summer, and her dark eyes hollowed with fatigue, though they were still warm and soft, as they had always been.

She was a survivor, it was in her blood.

“Hello,” she said at last, gazing up at the immensity of the bay roan mare, eyes bright with curiosity. “I’ve never seen anyone quite like you, I don’t think.”

[Tiggs]

It always surprised Furrow just how small the wild horses were when she got up close. The stock horses around the farms were not much taller, but brumbies just seemed to look like foals in comparison to her. Perhaps it was their leaner bodies, or seeing them in the large scenery of the outback, it dwarfed them.

The roan mare bowed her head, coming to a halt not more than a few steps away. She was a very social mare, and her pure size meant she had no cause to fear anything. It never even crossed her mind. “Hello,” she replied, her voice deep and soft, slow like her ambling pace. “I don’t expect you have, little one. I am a man’s horse.”

Remembering that brumbies were not always glad to hear this, she added, “But don’t worry, none follow me here. I am a long way from home.” She smiled, ears constantly perked forward, her head lowered so she was at eye-level with the mare. It was all part of the mare’s natural behaviour. She never tried to intimidate with her size, and she always felt guilty when it worried the brumbies. Most of them had been wary of her, and no doubt due to her affiliation with man.

“My name is Furrow, what’s yours?” She asked, in her slow and gentle voice. Brumbies fascinated her, with their strange names and impossible quickness over such rough ground. Furrow had never seen such steep hills! She was a lowland horse, used to ploughing the flat ground for fields after she had helped clear them of trees. The High Country was completely wild to her, and completely amazing.

[Ehetere]

A dark grey shape made its way through the bush in the grey predawn light, followed by a little beam of sunshine and snow. Lark was still astonished that he had managed to keep the creamy mare with him this long. That wasn’t to say it was not an arduous task, or that he didn’t hate himself for the complete and utter rubbish that came from his mouth, but it would all be worth it for the looks on his brother and Jiba’s faces.

He had discovered a number of things about mares since keeping meeting her. Firstly, all mares seemed to want foals, a lot. Secondly, that this could be shamelessly exploited. Thirdly, mares lapped up complements like a cat laps up cream. And finally, they were very, very clingy.

Were it not for his plan to get revenge on the two betrayers and the prestige that having a silver filly all to himself brought, Lark would have ditched the mare long ago. As it was, he was forced to put up with her, feed her with ample compliments and not snap or bite as he surely wished he could. And would it kill her to be a little quieter? Lark had still not fully healed from his injuries and he had no intention of attracting the attention of other males until he had. He was used to moving swiftly and silently across the landscape a dark and unseen shadow. Now the pale mare was making that almost impossible. This cloud did not want a silver lining!

They were nearing the Bogong, and Lark deliberately stayed just within the treeline, on the edge of the shadows. A snapping branch behind him reminded him of how even this was unlikely to save him from detection, and he slowed down to make sure that the creamy filly could keep up with his fast pace. He did not have a destination in mind, that was not the cause for his hurry. Lark simply wanted to be in a secluded hollow somewhere the pair could spend the day away from prying eyes and the oppressive heat.

He picked up the scent of mares, and immediately became alert. “Kurrin, come here,” he called softly but urgently, insides churning as it caused him physical discomfort to speak so mildly. He would have much rather give a demanding whicker and a commanding nip, but he had schooled himself. He would not give up all his hard work now.

Returning his attention to the matter at hand, he crept silently forward to the edge of the scrub so he might look out upon the great plateau. Where there were mares on the Bogong, stallions were usually not far behind. Standing very still, he peered out from the shadows and into the golden dawning light. There were two mares, both turned strawberries and cream by the light. Lark immediately thought of their resemblance to Piringa’s beloved mate in colour, and at least one of the two looked very similar indeed. The other was like nothing he had ever seen before.

The mare was huge, taller even than he and nearly twice as wide. She was a colossus, a giant among horses and truly dwarfed the other mare she was conversing with. Her legs were thick and feathered, smattered with white and roan. The over all effect was eye catching certainly, and Lark did fancy her colour. The much smaller mare was a similar pinkish hue, and by Lark’s reckoning a very attractive mare indeed. He preferred them to the creamy filly currently in his possession, despite his defiance of his mother’s beliefs he could still not shake a lifetime of practice. He would probably never come to view silvers or anything vaguely similar as attractive as other colours, it had been drummed into him for too long.

He could neither see nor smell any stallions that had been there recently, and if he was perfectly honest he mightn’t have cared much either. He had long since decided for a number of reasons these mares should join his little herd of revenge. Nickering to call Kurrin out with him, he stepped gracefully from the shadows, a tall, dark, dappled stranger to the two mares. He mightn’t have the same exotic look that his older brother did, but Lark was more muscular, still with a refined face and clean features. He’d managed to woo a silver-ish filly, so surely he would be able to do the same to these two.

Half rearing on bunched hindquarters, he came back to earth and trotted over to where the pair were standing, offering a deep stallion’s whicker to the strawberry mares. He might be young by most stallion standards, but he was well grown, though not as filled out as he one day would be. What he was was potential, not yet fully developed but blossoming, the bud of something more in plain sight.

“Hail!” he proclaimed, coming to a halt and throwing up his head more so to look the taller mare in the eye than to look impressive. The little strawberry was even smaller than Kurrin, though probably not by much. He dwarfed her as much as the white and roan mare did. ”Greetings to you both on this fine morn, though not so fine as the two of you. Pray tell, how a mare so tall and a mare so small came to befriend one another?”

He saw the snow-touched filly emerge from the bush, and he waited patiently for her to come over. Perhaps with more than one mare with him he would have to spend less time continuing this annoying charade as well. ”This here is Kurrin, and I am Lark. By what beautiful names are two fair fillies such as yourselves known?”