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Tor welcomed the fresh air on her silver cheeks as she trotted, a steady beat which compelled her body to create heat, to fend off the frigid air whispering around her, touching her ears with tender, freezing hands, to nip at her silky gray muzzle with playful teeth. The draft loved the winter, provided you weren't lying in the snow. Unfortunately, it seemed all too often that Tor found injured horses near-death, passed out on ice or crisp white powder. In a sick way, and Tor knew it was sick, she enjoyed finding near-dead horses- so she could heal them. Naturally, Tor felt guilty, feeling this way, incredibly guilty and awful for wishing pain upon another for practice, but she couldn't deny that she loved healing others. Never, never, would she injure another just to heal them, nor would she cause anyone suffering, but Tor loved the chance to heal. Loved it. Healers are one of a kind, different than any other horse, Tor thought to herself. Yes, they were unlike any wardog or even normal horse.
Snow crunched under massive hooves as she trotted, warm vapor evaporating from steel-gray nostrils. The pump of her heart thumped in her chest, a deep bass beat that was comfortingly steady in the mare's fit body. She had been checking up on those from the ex-Edge, those she had healed, to insure their health, and had been crossing through the Threshold to the Deep Forest when she smelled a scent familiar to the healer. Blood. Salty blood, red blood, crimson and scarlet blood- it was all the same to her. It meant danger, someone injured, someone who, chances were, was lying down in the snow ready to pass into the cold embrace of the reaper of Death. Immediately, Tor slowed, nostrils flaring in an attempt to isolate the scent from all others, to find the source of the blood leaking onto the snow she could all too easily imagine. Through the thick yet somehow delicate trees, you could see a white head, splattered with splashes of gray, twisting, turning, looking.
After a couple of quick thoughts, Tor began to head more north, step swiftening to a canter, a steady drum of her hooves beating up the crushed snow, trampled down by horses passing through. It wasn't too long before she reached a silver disk, a pond, run through the cracks on a sheet of ice. Blood. It was red, scarlet staining clean pearl, death and decay. Blood. Warm brown eyes shifted, taking in the scenery with a practiced eye. A bay mare, a horn of black- Tor thought she was one of Mauja's. The other, wounded, and badly, in poor condition. He was a horse with the horns of a ram, which, Tor supposed, made him into a unicorn. Careful to keep out of the creaking ice, the draft moved softly upon the snow, coming to the bay's side. "Sir, if you don't get off the ice, you'll freeze to death. It will be difficult, but you'll have to stand." The only sound Tor's voice held was calm. No fear, no worry. To the bay, she turned her head, giving her a quick look. "I'm a healer. If you can help me keep him warm once he gets out a bit, I'll be able to fix him up." Tor did not mention how the wounds would take out much of her energy.
T O R
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