Hoshor Plains it was red

set on the very edge of the plains, between the plains and whitewater gorge

Clods of dirt followed her, kicked up from the violent slam of her hooves into the dirt. Her coat was dark with sweat, streaked heavily beneath her mane and her underbelly. Her tangled tail, shot through with burrs, dragged through the air. Wind whipped past her ears and the little stings of cuts at her ankles, gifts from the forest she had fled through.

Eventually, the land nearly disappeared beneath her, and Swallowtail slammed onto the breaks, skidding to a halt at the very edge of a gorge. Pebbles danced down the steep sides as she tried to catch her breath, nostrils wide, rear sat to the ground. Her sides heaved with the effort it took to just breathe, and the whistle of breath through her nostrils nearly set her off again. Her nerves were pitifully frayed, and with every gust of wind she flinched, throwing her head up to glance at the plains to her right side.

Eventually, she gathered the fortitude to stand, somehow steady despite the anxious rolling of her white-rimmed eyes. The young mare shook out the thick, snarled strands of her mane, tossing her head again to get her forelock out of her eyes, and anxiously yanked up a mouthful of grasses. A horse should not be alone, but Swallowtail was too terrified to let her voice ring out over the plains. Predator scent suffocated her with every breath. It would be an ending to a pitifully short life.