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The trip to this new place, this secluded valley nestled amongst the snowcapped Mountains of the North, had been nothing in comparison to the many long, arduous miles Larkspur had spent traveling on her own in the last few months. The strange, dark, ever looming stallion, that chased the earth and very life of nature from his path, that had led her from the woods and through the mountain pass to this oasis, had been a fair guide, though as far as conversation went there had been little. Actually, there had been none. But that had suited the mare just fine, for there had been something easy, uneventful and peaceable about the silence, a feeling that had so far evaded the facets of her life. And though she still did not know the stranger's name, he had left her with an uncanny sense of normalcy that had escaped the clutches of her previous, vain attempts at finding a common ground between reality and her expectations.
Larkspur had been nothing short of a wreck upon her presentation to the herd here, a mess of tangled ebony and azure locks and ribs and hips that screamed and jutted out from her dull coat, caused by a lack of a decent meal. However, a week spent rejuvenating herself and resting had done wonders. The hot springs had become her favorite place, where she could soak weary bones and tight muscles in the radiating, ever present heat of the warm waters. The new spring grass that riddled the meadow of the valley floor had replenished and renewed the fullness of her frame, and she no longer looked like a rangy outcast, but rather the formidable and elegantly dangerous creature she was designed to be. Hikes through the cave riddled ridges of the mountain side and morning walks had slowly returned her stamina and strength. Her coat, a dull and dingy, muddled blue at her arrival, was now healthy and shone with eye catching brilliance. Her neck was full again, tying into the strong slope of her shoulder, and the line of her back no longer looked sunk in and neglected.
Her striking wilderness, her indescribable allure, was restored.
Gilded, bright eyes observe their surroundings from where she stands grazing, greedily and unabashedly pulling and tearing at the fresh, emerald blades with sharp, snapping bites of her teeth. There was nothing lady like about her what so ever. So far she had kept to herself, remaining silent and unspoken, listening to the whispers of the Plague and of Lady Psyche who claimed this land. Larkspur had landed herself amongst what seemed to be a group comprised of mercenaries and thieves, the unforgiving and the unseen. Familiarity encased her in its warm embrace, though at the same time unsettled her as she tried to define the train of thought that wrecked war and wreaked havoc in the confines of her head.
Was it too much like home?
Larkspur let the worrisome thought slip past her like a child discarding an idle, now boring play thing. Even the mare knew that there was no sense in allowing one’s self to linger in the past, yet she found it following her like a nagging, constantly pestering shadow, an all too similar image of her mother, never leaving her be. She tore into the grass with renewed vigor, conflicted emotions of guilt and anger and confusion allowing her senseless attack on the plant life to increase in its intensity. Better it than some innocent by stander that wandered too close.
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Like slow-spinning redemption. [Déodat]
