The herd welcomed a filly in Silverbirch, a dark grey filly that Fancy was certain would pale with age, perhaps to become a palomino or a dun. Had there been more mates in their herd, Fancy would have started a bet to see if anyone could guess how the filly would shed out.
A lone bay mare joined them- a quiet, soft-spoken two year old named Cedar who had lost both her mother and her newborn sister to wolves. She was young and wild-eyed, but in Fancy’s eyes, any addition to their herd was an asset.
With Selenia’s birth came a rush of emotion for Fancy. She had not conceived the year before, and felt a slight pang of envy. This envy sparked the want to bear a foal again- and within days of their newest addition, Fancy became receptive.
She knew she would not need to call for
@Maplesmoke- she wetted a patch of grass with urine, and allowed her aroma to waft on the breeze while she grazed, feigning obliviousness.
if anyone had expected maplesmoke to take part in raising the filly, or doing anything beyond protecting the herd as a whole, they would be disappointed. he kept far from silverbirch and her mother. his interest in the mares he had so far collected had waned considerably once they had settled upon the plains. the stallion was far more interested in the growing scent of wolves everywhere.
the bison were aloof to all things; maplesmoke tested their resolve (and his own) with frequent skirmishes along the outer limits of the collected bulls when he was feeling especially daring. as he grew bored of this game (more likely the bison grew bored of him and did not show as much posturing his way) he went for a trot across the grassland.
this was the moment he noticed the invitation in the grass; if that was what one would call it, anyway.
he rounded back to where he'd found the strong scent and whickered, feigning interest in the grass nearby as if it were somehow delicious, and made a point to stomp at the dirt, as if demanding who has done this? but the only mare he could see now was fancy.
She flicked an ear toward the stallion has he skirted the herd, keeping one eye toward him for a response. She grazed calmly, lifting her head and pricking both ears toward him momentarily as if to show willingness to volunteer.
She swished her tail, making it hiss like dry, wild grasses before it snapped against her own flank. She flirted, lifting her tail and allowing it to sway from side to side with each stride she took as she playfully walked away from him.
There were no other stallions that she could see or smell- but she would make sure he earned the right to breed regardless.
in response to her scent Maplesmoke lifted his lip and took a deep draught of it, and then shook out his mane as if he had ingested something that he particularly liked; he had not experienced being the chosen one among mares before, and it was certainly empowering.
as fancy drew away from him he pursued, obviously. maybe a little too eager, and not understanding the game she played. he whickered to her and as soon as he was close enough to reach out his neck, he nipped and nosed at her rump as if to coax her to slow down.
He pursued, and while she didn’t ignore him, she didn’t slow her pace. His teeth gently pinched the tough skin of her rump, and it earned him a sudden squeal and a half-hearted cow-kick.
She shook out her mane, and picked up a bouncy trot, flagging her tail. She kept one ear turned toward him, one eye watching to see how showy he might become.
While she ignored stallion decorum for the rest of the year, she yearned for it when she was receptive.
she nearly clipped him, and he wheeled back.
then feeling the challenge, Maplesmoke picked up to a center and bounded around her, so he could parade himself, and rounded back to where she moved.
he bellowed so that all the plains could hear him, and made a show of corralling her by drawing very close, grabbing at the tendrils of her mane and giving playful tugs.
She heard his hoofbeats, felt them thundering like her heartbeat. She eyed the valiant arch of his neck, the way the skin rippled like snaking sand dunes beneath his thick and tangled mane.
His bugle would catch the attention of any other equines and yet he risked it still. She veered toward him when he tugged at her mane, whickering and flaring her nostrils. To free herself, she dipped her head, whirled and bucked, making the air snap with the flick of her heels. She missed him intentionally, but a strike from her heels could have caused permanent damage had she not spun away from him.
If any predators eyed them in their dance, they would reconsider their approach.