[o] Songs of the Dead

[Illu]

This was strange country. All around stood a sea of dead trees, cracked, spindly trunks bleached white like skeletons, some still charred black at the base. Their thin, pale branches reached for the sky in a mocking echo of how they had stood in life. Around them, saltbush and ground grass grew thick; the lands attempt to heal itself. Green and white, as far as the eye could see, with an overcast sky to cast a pale light over the world.

It was in this strange forest of twisted white that Gunshot had found himself. An overly tall, gangly young horse – easily more leg than colt – and black save for a curiously solid white head and bold leg markings. He seemed quite unsure of himself as he inched through the dead landscape, stopping on occasion to nose at a saltbush or fresh sprout of eucalyptus.

What had happened here? Something about this forest was harrowing. Almost like a mass grave of trees. There were no birds, no lizards, and seemingly no signs of life. Just the trees. Skiny, white, dead trees. And bones. Here and there were the scattered and charred remains of small animals. It was enough to send a shiver through him.

He'd heard tell of a fire from here – and even seen the smoke from his home up north – but fire couldn't cause this, surely? This was like nothing he'd ever seen before.

The yearling kept on, head low, nostrils flared and fighting a rising sense of apprehension.

He almost didn't see it at first. Almost hidden at ground level, just in the corner of his vision and almost indistinguishable from the dead branches surrounding it. Long, white, even, stems emerging from the ground in a curved barrel shape. It was morbid curiosity that drew him closer, ever closer, and the yearling was almost on top of it when he saw it half buried in the ground. A skull.

Gun gave a violent snort of surprise, almost rearing in shock as the realisation struck that he was looking at the bones of another horse. One too slow, perhaps too old, or simply unlucky enough to escape the inferno. Now just another feature of the already haunting landscape.

[Tiggs]

OOC: Dingoes are like fillies, right? *pegs one at*

If there was one creature in the High Country that revelled in death and destruction, it was the dingo. Oh, Warrigal was not a cruel creature, no. It was simply that killing was a way of life for her species. A brumby lived off the living plants, this place was a barren waste and completely at odds with their nature. A dingo like Warrigal lived off the death of other animals; the forest of bones, both critters and trees, was simply not harrowing to her.

A fire could ravage the dingo population as viciously as it could the brumbies and every other critter out here, but it was easier for Warrigal to deal with the loss of life when she coped with it every day. Death sustained her, and this graveyard was perfect territory. The ground cover – useless for brumbies to take cover in – was at a perfect height for the tawny dingo to move about in undetected.

The ghostly forest was not as empty as it first seemed. Where there was undergrowth, there were always rabbits. The voracious creatures were one of the first to bounce – literally – back after the fire to devour the new growth. There were wallabies and roos, and many smaller creatures just the right size for a dingo’s mouth. They were all secretive creatures, nervous creatures, and with good reason. There were no birds to sound the alarm, and so Warri was having a bumper harvest.

The unmistakable stomp of a brumby perked the dingo bitch’s ears, and curious, Warrigal padded toward the sound. She found him easily – a leggy youth, too big to risk hunting now after what looked like a year of growth on him. Pity, brumby foals had a particularly delightful taste. Huffing, the dingo laughed at the horse’s reaction to the bones. “Get out of it, brumby, bones are for dingos, not for colts,” she teased, sitting primly next to a gnarled bark-less tree stump. He did look a little out of place, with such a strange white face and cold blue eyes. He had a distinctly alien look about him, not to mention scent, “You look a little far from home, young one,” she said, tilting her head, tongue lolling and showing sharp yellowed teeth. If she couldn't eat him, may as well get some amusement out of him.

[Illu]

So concerned had he been with the bones, Gun hadn’t even heard the dingo’s approach. The small padded feet of a hunter made almost no sound compared to the characteristic heavy step of even the lightest brumby. The colt gave a start at the sound, whirling around to find himself staring at the grinning face of the carnivore.

Before his brain could catch up, Gun bared his teeth and snorted angrily at being caught off guard, mistakenly believing himself to have run into a stray dog. And that's when it hit him, and he recoiled a little in sudden fear that dogs weren't usually yellow.

Gun's experience with dingoes was limited to the occasional story overheard from other horses. He'd never seen one up close, and could he say, he had never expressed any desire to either. He had no fear of dogs, and although the dingo looked just like one, it was hard not to react without a little sign of apprehension when confronted with the creature that mares so loved to threaten would eat him for misbehaving back when he was a foal.

“What would you know?” the colt snapped, baring his teeth, ears flattened and the whites of his eyes showing in a way more indicative of a bravado brought on in an attempt to choke back fear as opposed to actual courage or aggression.

[Tiggs]

Ah, a tetchy one. The young males often were. Warrigal snorted and licked her nose. “Dingoes know a lot of things that brumbies don’t,” she said cryptically. She didn’t seem threatened by the colt. The harlequin horse would have to move fast to catch her. She could melt back into the bush as quickly as she had come. The brumbies were a cumbersome creature, not even a silver could match the stealth of a dingo, no matter how much they protested they could.

The hunter bared her teeth in a smile, “I know you’re not from here. I know you’re alone...” She tilted her ears, listening, “And I know I scare you.” Technically, his heart rate could be up because she startled him, but brumbies were unintelligent herd animals and inclined to believe what they were told.

“You don’t need to worry, little brumby, my stomach is full. And you wouldn’t fit,” she snickered, shaking her head. Poor creature. She was being unnecessarily cruel, yes, but if the dumb grass-eater was fool enough to believe that a small fragile dingo could hurt him when he could crush her with one kick, he somewhat deserved it.