There were times when being a nomad was an interesting life. So many things to see, so many new experiences to encounter on the constant and open road. But, Scheherazade lamented, most of the time it was inherently dull. She had learned this within her first year of travel - and that was nearly five year ago. The trick was finding spots of interest to offset the face-eating boredom that a traveller was doomed to face for miles on end. Occasionally it was seeking out small herds just to ask them where she was, what the status of the land was, if there was war or not. The last one was a big one. There seemed to be war everywhere recently. Bickering, infighting, blood feuds, racial backbiting. The last two were the most common and perhaps the most droll. It was one of the reasons why she had never stayed anywhere for more than a season or two. Either the herd was too small and she was expected to bear the lead stallion’s children (not likely) or she would be expected to fight in a war that wasn’t hers (ditto). Not that she minded. It wasn’t like she was naturally nomadic, but without something other than eat and reproduce to do, herd life just seemed so unappealing. And compared to what her job should have been had she stayed in the land of her birth then a life on the move was infinitely better.

It was with great curiosity that she had learned of a land where war was not at the forefront of everything (at least, that was the rumour). A name of a realm spoken in whispers after dark, spoken by mares that possessed a dreamy look in their eye and a hunger to get away in their soul. Hera knew that they never would, they were bound to their leader and their land too tightly to ever give up their comfortable life, but the roan mare had no such ties. While the other mares, chained to their static existence, dreamed, Hera had already gone. Stories taken with a pinch of salt. An air of caution. Just in case it was all just rumours and hearsay. If she was honest, the story that she was hoping to be true was that of the heat. For so long had she longed to just bask in the warmth of her homeland again, but nowhere came close and she wasn’t about to go back just for the warmth.

It was then, with much disappointment, that she found the temperature to be only slightly warmer within this strange new land. It steadily built as she wandered further in, but never quite got to the heat of the warm sands she missed so much. There was signs of warmer conditions recently, however. The deciduous trees turning the shades of fire much earlier than she was used to - commonly seen, she knew, when the summer had been a particularly hot one. Heaving a heavy sigh, she paused and cast pale blue eyes at the sky above. Not a cloud to be seen but the faint breeze told of coming rain and cooler weather in the future. That was annoying. Scheherazade didn’t like the cold and it didn’t like her much either. Turning her attention to the scenery around her, nothing but trees, she rolled her shoulders and moved off again. Patience and persistency, she told herself, was the key. Without it, she might have gone stark raving mad years ago.

[open to any. this took far too long for such crappy quality]