Hoshor Plains lord hear me now, junkboats and english boys

her muzzle dipped into the river, cold and clear, the water cutting a path down her parched throat as greedily she drank. it was sometime after she pulled her muzzle from its waters that she approach of another was made apparent, her ears flicked forward to stand rigidly atop her crown, head whipping back to peer hawkishly over her shoulder. 

the yearling twisted to face the newcomer, tail twitching at her hocks in an attempt to put the stranger at ease; she was no threat. he was a male, dark and svelte, reminding her in some ways of her own angular form. and yet something felt distinctly off, the male seemed for all accounts to be no threat; and yet she could not immediately cast aside the notion that she ought to be wary.