Dawnlark Plains manifestation

For the first time in weeks she could feel the sun without the bite of winter's chill to soften it. The wind remained cold as it coursed across her body; she was running, always running, and this time it was with the rich azure backdrop of an unblemished sky. It was like flying — or, what she imagined flying must be like. White-noise from the rapid flow of air against her ears; the pressure building in her lungs, the tension of each stride.

It was rare to run alone. She did not like the way the others would watch her, and their idling drove her mad. To sit still in one place, to stagnate, that was hell for Taima — and each time she rounded upon the herd's grazing patch she thought, 'Run, you fools! It is what you were made for!' And would take off at a faster clip again, sweeping the fringe of the grassland on yet another patrol for danger.

In the months since her run-in with the local herd, and the subsequent charming of the lead stallion, she had little to show for it except a healthy weight gain. Lingering with the women as they grazed was far too boring and Taima had to get away; so she fell in with the yearling colts as they learned the lay of the land and patrolled the grounds, knowing how foolish she looked in doing so — but nobody stopped her. Perhaps they were glad to be rid of her.

A gust billows from the north and brings a soft chill to the woman's sweat-slicked limbs. She breathes deeply of it, her nostrils flaring dramatically while a plume of breath rises and dissipates around her. With a light snort she turns and veers in another direction, cutting through the thinning snowscape with a thunderous beating of her hooves.