Sleepy Fox Hollow umber

he came creeping up the hillside of the hollow with his head lowly aligned, a hitch in his step that was being compensated for, and a tired drag to his expression.

there was blood across his chest. a tear to the muscle behind his right shoulder, and bites cutting through the elbow of that front-most leg.

and he would not stop his ambling walk; not when the musk of other men crossed his path, or the sweetgrass women, or anyone. not until the shadows of the hollow swept around him.

The sorrel filly danced in the coltsfoot that swayed in the playful breeze. Fancy whickered in amusement, and went back to grooming @Selenia’s shoulder.

You know what? I think I’m gonna call her- 

The breeze came up, over her friend’s withers, and the scent it brought made the mare stiffen. First- blood, addressed with a harsh snort intended to fetch the attention of all equines within earshot- a warning to any carnivores if they brought the scent with them. 

But then came the scent of a stallion. Maplesmoke, She breathed, her breath fanning over her herdmate’s shoulders. She looked for @Colosseum. Their sire, She spoke, an advisory that might inform his actions.

Her daughter, spooked by the harsh snort, returned to her mother’s side. She ushered her daughter in between herself and her herdmate, and looked off into the wooded area, conflicted between the affection she held for the stud, and the dread she had of bloodshed.

she did not go to him.

the last time she had seen maplesmoke, he had been dismissive, not at all caring of the filly silverbirch born to his band.

a low, warning whicker accompanied fancy's words as she gathered pippin and followed the lead mare. colosseum was given a knowing glance, but the buckskin kept pace with the other.

and when fancy pulled the filly close, selenia trotted after, keeping pippin snug at her flank.

maplesmoke did not deserve to meet either foal.

his head lifted from grazing, nostrils flaring wide as the stench hit him. copper. rank. male.

the sharp breath from fancy cut through the air like a whip, and that was all he needed.
he was moving before thought caught up to him—hooves thudding low and sure against the hollow floor, cutting across wildflowers and stone, drawn by the stink of old wounds and the kind of rot that only lingered on men who overstayed their welcome.

as he neared, he touched selenia’s hip—just a brush. silent reassurance.
then a softer sweep of his muzzle across fancy’s shoulder, hot breath and flared nostrils saying what he didn’t need to voice: i’ve got it.

and then he was in front of her.

between the mares and the man.

he cut across the trail, blocking the path with his full weight—head high, tail lifted, ears pinned. the muscles along his chest rippled with the slow coil of a predator backed into patience. no trot. no dance.

just the cold, bracing stance of a stallion who owns this land.
his eyes locked onto maplesmoke—the drag of his gait, the blood on his chest, the coward’s quiet that hung around his ribs like shame.

colosseum huffed through his nose again, a wet, aggressive snort that sprayed earth and noise into the air between them. no welcome. no warmth.

just warning.
come any closer, and he’d find out quick that blood meant nothing to a stallion ready to spill more.

he did not anticipate finding anyone here. the hollow would have served as a place for maplesmoke to finally catch his breath, to rest, or perhaps to die if infection set in to his wounds—but to do all of it alone.

he swung his head and thought he saw fancy, and thought there were farther bodies... but no, not far from the eye, just small, and new. before anything else, there came a thundering.

a broad man stood to bar the way.

maplesmoke's nostrils flared; he took in the scent of the band before him, the man that shepherds them - and does not seek confrontation.

it would be foolish to seek ownership of something he knows nothing about. dangerous too, given the disparity between the men, with maplesmoke aching. he holds no desire to fight.

his eye alights upon selenia briefly, but it is the man who stands in the forefront that demands all of his focus. the roamer gives a whicker and takes an unstable backstep.

When Maplesmoke came into sight, her lips pulled tight. She tracked his lameness from the ground up, noting that the limp came from a combination of wounds. They stifled his movement, and the low carry of his head, distant look of his expression changed him; she’d seen him born, and had watched him grow- but he was nearly unrecognizeable now. 

Colosseum would handle their interaction. Fancy turned her attention to Selenia and the foals, keeping them both close. She’d sent a glance to @Sundown, too for she felt wary of the attention the scent of blood might draw. 

Fancy can be skipped unless addressed <3

selenia also!

maplesmoke stepped back.

the mare found she could not take her eyes from him, gaze flickering between the posture of their band stallion and the wounded man who had fathered the youngest members.

earlier anger was replaced by pity, and worry.

but this was not her decision to make.

with fancy she stood, accepting that the bay stallion would not be entering their fold unless colosseum willed it.

colosseum watched him. watched the way the stallion’s body carried itself—barely, like loose hide slung over brittle bones. too thin. too torn. too late.

there was no rage in him. just resolve.

when maplesmoke stepped back, colosseum stepped forward—measured, slow, like the stone pressed down under his hooves was just waiting for an excuse to split.

his ears were flat now, teeth clenched behind drawn lips. not a sound, not a call. just the weight of his silence.

and then, without fanfare, without flourish—
he bucked.

a single, brutal rear and snap of his hind legs, hooves cutting through open air like blades. the force of it split a gust down the hollow, the echo thundered against stone.

he landed, hard.
tail lashing. neck arched. eyes sharp.

go.

his message rang clearer than any whinny could. he gave the stallion that moment—just one—to catch his pride, if there was any left.

the mares were not his.
the foals would never be his.
and colosseum was not the type to let ghosts linger.

not a sound uttered, not a moment of warmth.

the only thing to break the stillness was the crunch of another man's weight in to the soil; the cutting of hooves through the air, the easing after.

the stillness after broken by maplesmoke's heavy breaths.

the other man was in much better condition and even if maplesmoke had wanted to take back the women, he would not have been able. the command to leave was felt as much as it was understood. a sweeping of his gaze from face to face, many of which he did not know, ended with the point of his attention back the way he had come.

he was slower, then. it was not a purposeful lethargy that he placed upon himself, as if trying to exacerbate this painful moment—he merely could not move that quickly with his wounds. his haunches quaked. he left a smear of red among the grass and bramble as he crossed it.

in this, they condemned him to death.

colosseum watched him go.

not with cruelty.
not with pity.

just with that same, unflinching stillness he’d held since the stallion crested the rise—like the hollow itself had given him weight.
his ears flicked once at the sound of torn breath, of muscle giving beneath bone, the stagger in maplesmoke’s gait. a smear of red followed him, but colosseum didn’t follow. didn’t call. didn’t look back once the man crossed the line that marked the herd’s claim.

he huffed—a final exhale through wide nostrils, blowing dirt and silence from his path.

then he turned.

his hooves pressed into the earth as he strode back toward the band. no rush. no show. just the returning presence of the stallion they belonged to.

his muzzle found fancy first—an upward sweep along her cheekbone, soft and wordless, grounding. she’d known him. she’d called. and he had come.

then to selenia, a slower nuzzle to the ridge of her shoulder. a subtle thing. meant for her. not for show.