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BY THE PRECEPTS OF HER PURITY
She looked over the field. Field? It was covered in snow; an astonishing whiteness that reached further than the horizon. She blinked against it, eyes squeezed to slits. One would almost think that the answer to the mystery of the warmer, golden desert in the winter, without the freezing sensation and droppings of snow, could surely be found here. She stood there, wondering if she should go on or not as she was feeling slightly out of place. She could still feel leftover grains from the beaches and sand dunes from her desert-herdland, itching in the fur of her shoulder blades, tickling between the skin of her her buttocks. There were a few trees around her. A mere few. The needles of the small firs leaned down as more snow fell on its branches. “Mr. Teatime,” she questioned rather politely into the cloudy air that left her nose. Her gold eyes darted around to find him, but as it had been her motherly instinct questioning the facts, he had gone off again. She looked down to her hooves, which were nonexistent in the heavy layer of snow. Perhaps he has drowned underneath the frozen water. But then she could not believe that was even possible — after which she continued to be amazed by her wandering thoughts; why she had once been so sure that, on a blank canvas like this, it would be hard to lose the brightly hued, orange blob?
Thick clouds that must be heavy with snow swirled in the shadowed sky as she wandered a few steps more, sniffing the dried out blades of what might have once been decent food — had it not been so stone cold. The halo that bloomed in the shadows, shone slightly underneath the cloudy heaven as her nose searched for more dried-out grass helms. She folded her whiskered lips around them and nibbled for longer than it was worth. The stillness was tangible in these forsaken plains, yet, her head rose quietly again, standing tall(-er, being quite small) in the elbow-high snow as a sound had made her ears fold around her head like antenna’s picking up on something. The pearl-white wings lay still on the wind, carefully spread out next to her white cheeks to perhaps not to interrupt the signal. Crystal flakes of snow continued to fall down in a whisper, settling on the mare’s frame as the quietness of her golden eyes slithered around the disturbed canvas that was her view.
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