The air rippled over the verdant plain, like the vision of a disoriented drunkard. A southern summer in the Riddermark was pleasant, but at the high hour of day, man and beast alike sought refuge under whatever shade was closest at hand. The woman in the dark green tunic was no different. Beneath the cloudless sky, she paced the familiar trail through the tall, waving grass, moving down a gentle slope and towards a meandering line of trees that promised water under their boughs. The Snowbourn, which flowed nearby on its path from the White Mountains and whose waters were ever refreshed with coolness from their heights, giving the river its name, graciously extended a finger in the form of a little stream that stretched out across the plain near Bancross.
She bent her head to pass under the first, low-hanging fronds of a willow tree, and the leaves brushed softly over the flaxen cap of her hair. Bending down, she reached for the laces of her shoe. She could hear the quiet laughter of the creek only a few paces ahead, gurgling happily between moss-laden rock and root. In her mind, her toes could already feel the first, sweet shock of the cold water.
From somewhere behind, a horse neighed. This was, of course, not remarkable, for the land was full of horses, both tame and wild. Another equine voice joined in, and then another, and she could feel the ground trembling faintly with the weight of approaching hooves. She forsook her shoe and stood straight again. At the crest of the slope, a proud head appeared above the tall grass, quickly followed by another, and then another. Multi-colored manes whipped and danced as the horses trotted eagerly towards the relief of shade and water.
The herd was small. She counted them swiftly as they came; a dozen in all. So great was their thirst and desire for shelter that at first they took no heed of the woman standing only a stone's throw away, watching them with an expression of warm delight, as if she were beholding dear friends. The lead mare showed the way to the stream, but waited for the younger mares and their foals to drink first. At the back was their stallion, arriving last to ensure his herd was safe before granting himself permission to partake.
The woman stood motionless, with her hands loose at her sides. The lead mare swept her head side to side to survey the cool, shady hollow, and then began to bend her neck to drink. Only then did she spy the unmoving figure who had at first appeared to blend in with the trees.
The mare gave a great, startled snort and leapt backwards, tossing her head. The other mares jerked their heads up in a similar fashion, one after the other. Water droplets sprayed from muzzles, sparkling through the sun-dappled air. The foals were less aware of the perceived source of alarm, but followed their mothers' examples, as was their nature, popping back on their spindly legs and squealing. The woman did not move, though the joy in her eyes dimmed to see their dismay. With a commanding whinny, the lead mare turned and cantered heavily away, passing not back into the sun-broiled grass, but along the length of the stream, where her family could find a more suitable place to refresh themselves without the offense of a Woman's presence.
A few seconds passed, wherein the woman watched their retreating rumps and chuckled lowly to herself, before she noticed that one horse had not fled with the rest. The stallion had lingered back slightly, half-obscured by the low-sweeping willow branches. He was staring back at her now, his eyes glinting in the soft, green light. She adjusted her feet slightly, expecting perhaps a charge if he were of a bold and aggressive nature.
Instead of a lunge, he pawed at the earth, stretching his neck low with a deep, breathy snort.
"I mean no harm," the woman said softly.
His head snapped up, and his ears flicked forward. Listening. He was a powerfully built beast, with a deeply ruddy coat. But the light betrayed a pattern of hollows and divets over his sides, hinting that he was not well-fed, or perhaps ill.
The woman tilted her head, frowning gently.
The last of the herd was fading from view, but their heavy footfalls and disapproving snorts carried back to the stallion, and he turned his head towards the sounds.
"Go on then," said the woman, in the same placid tone. "Your family is leaving."
And then a curious sound began to arise in the broad chest of the stallion. A low sort of fussing, grunting; like a peeved child who cannot decide whether to go play with his friends or retreat to solitude in his bedroom. He pulled his chin down, and his unkempt tail began to flick side to side, and one foreleg stamped anxiously, repeatedly.
The puzzled tightening of the woman's face only increased. With his attention scattered, she dared a step closer. And then another, squinting to see him more clearly.
Faint lines decorated his head. The wearing-down of hair around his nose, and another stretching the length of his cheek.
A quiet gasp passed her lips. "You are not wild at all!"
The stallion whipped his head about at the sound of her voice. Horse and woman regarded each other with wide-eyed wonder for a moment, before he turned at last with a vexed bluster through his lips, and trotted hastily after the rest of the herd.
The woman watched his retreat, frozen briefly with the mystery she had witnessed.
Then she followed.
