"You can't beat me!" a voice calls into the wind, obviously feminine, and maybe a little young.
It's not at first apparent who, or what she's talking to, but when a shrill, avian cry answers, attention is drawn skyward, where a large bird drifts haphazardly overhead. It squawks again, clicking its beak at the mare as it swoops down, content enough to humor her games as she challenges it recklessly.
She is a creature who knows no limits; when it pushes, she pushes harder, until perhaps it's only the bird's amusement with her that keeps it there. The two of them tear across the rolling plains, her kicking up her heels in youthful jubilance now and then, and it flying so near, at times, she could touch it. They twist and weave and play until she finds their adventure has brought them to a jagged forest's edge, and she slows, pausing. Ama feels compelled to press on, but her new found companion - an eagle - is too big to follow. So she bids it a fond farewell with a cheerful whinny, and a brief, spiraling dance on her rear legs. It circles once around her, giving another cry as if in parting, and then it flies away.
Ama doubts they'll ever meet again, but her life is often this way, and there's no sadness in it. She finds it's but one long string of small, fleeting journeys, which she enjoys, cherishes, and ultimately leaves. Perhaps that's just her way of things, too whimsical a soul to attach to much of anything. But she likes it! Life has so very much to offer, and she's more than happy to share it with strangers, never really feeling the pang of lasting companionship. Her mother has always warned her some day she'll feel different, but for now, she's as wild and free as anyone could be.
And so, deciding she has not a moment longer to waste lingering here, she turns, breaking through the treeline and forging a path further into the great unknown. When her breathing has slowed, and she's feeling a little less fatigued, maybe she'll even run again...
Mila Farrell
The young stallion was, frankly, bored. The monotony of this month - get up, explore more forests and plains, but not too far from home, eat a lot, and try to run off his excess energy, then settle down somewhere for the evening - was beginning to take its toll on Kyer. He had, perhaps for better or worse, inherited his mother's temperament, at least that temperament that had been present when she was younger. Nowadays Isilme stayed fairly close to Loki and the home range, prefering to raise her next brood in relative ease and comfort. Not that she would ever be satisfied staying in one place for long, but ... she was more content. He chafed at the invisible restraints that tied him here, and that pent-up energy was slowly becoming destructive.
Kyer was an interesting mesh of his parents: a soft gray coat with darker, muddy points - with more tiger splotches than stripes - and a medium-brown mane and tail which darker to almost black at the tips. There is a single streak in his mane, as well, of white; an offshoot from his mother's coloring. His eyes - a honest, speedwell blue - watch the world with the utmost confidence of the young that has never been tested, and never thinks it can't overcome that test when it occurs.
He is cantering along the forest ridge, occasionally allowing an ill-tempered buck to puncture his gait, flinging up his hind hooves with easy precision. If he had known anything about humans, he perhaps would have called it a sort of dance; but this was something much wilder, much less defined. Little snorts and angry squeals - although he looks quite pleased with himself as his head rises after - drop from his muzzle, and his mane goes flying as he shakes his head, hard.
But when a shrill cry echoes over the wilderness, he comes to an abrupt, snorting halt, nostrils flairing, the whites of his eyes showing as he throws up his head. Was that Alta? He never knew; couldn't tell the bird calls from one another, unless of course it was a chickadee compared to, say, a hawk. That did not exactly require any advanced knowledge. Part wary, part eager, the male scans the skies, only to be disappointed as he spots the eagle not far off; even at this distance he can tell it's not his family's companion. She's been gone for several moons now, off to find a mate of her own, and chicks, but Isilme had hoped she'd visit. This, however, wasn't her.
As his gaze lowers from the sky, it drops to the area beneath the large avian, only to find, with some surprise, that the area's already been occupied: it's a mare, who turns abruptly about and into the trees before he can do anything more than stare.
"Hey - wait!" He says, annoyed and belated, and surges off after her. It's not like she could hear him at this distance ... but it was an automatic reaction. Feeling like showing off a little, provided she actually looks in his direction, he runs flat out, powerful haunches propelling him down the hill and into the trees, nimbly dodging stumps and downed branches with relative ease.
