She passes through the awkward portion of land that winds between four holds; a crevice in the earth, seemingly dimpled by some gargantuan hand that had broken a vale shaped as a serpent through tall, dark forests. Dappled with flowers of the season, the fields grow tall and lush with the season, the Gilded Blade floating down the compacted dirt path that would lead her to the Thistle Meadow at an easy trot, sinew rippling beneath a gleaming and pristine pelt and partially hidden from view by the platinum plating along her chest and spine, the burgundy fabric that holds it all in place. She jingles with each step, her amulets striking each other and the metal that three of them ride beneath, and while she does not let the song that fills her reach audible air, it rings in her head to the tune of her prance.

She’s got things on her mind, plans of sort that formulated while down in the caves, witnessing how well her people could get along with their inferiors, even when forced in such small confines.

Breaking through the tall, bright grasses of the meadow at the path’s end, she sweeps towards the northern most branch of the river that reaches its fingers into the heart of the area, hoping to catch some peace and time to graze, perhaps a hornless or two to torment. Instead, she finds the area she usually frequents already inhabited by another mare, viewed from a distance through narrowed golden eyes. Through first glances, it is not prey lingering in her personally claimed territory, a land that was not hers unless she wished to visit it; the woman wears horns, two of them even, her white hair in sharp contrast against the pitch tone of her pelt. The Gilded Blade spends only a moment observing her, catching the tail end of her chasing the robin away and pondering whether she feels up to social interactions this afternoon.

She had, after all, come here to be alone.

Sweeping in towards the other woman on golden legs that dip and flash in the grace of her trot, her dark tail snags and tangles against the stalks she brushes through as she comes into the shorter grasses that surround the laughing brook, coming to a stop with neck gracefully arched and amulets still swaying before her unknown sister. She’s decided that she must delegate her time to strangers, those who fit her physical requirements and serve her use beyond slavery or a few hours fun and torment; it would do well, she thinks, for there to be good circulating around the ears of those outside the boundaries of their mountain, however slant, to contradict the black.

"Salutations," she says, dipping her head ever so slightly with the faint traces of a smile gleaming on her plastic face, "do you often come to chase the birds away?"

@[Agrona]

There was a river once,
with many round stones
enchanted by shallow hopes
of embracing the ocean;
water is peculiar this way,
how its life is a line
that cannot bend or change
without the approval of its bed.