Hoshor Plains it was red

She could see great, milling shapes in the distance. That wasn’t her sisters. She slowed to try and see them, from her frantic gallop to a half canter, head swinging rapidly. Side to side it shook, before she finally found their shapes.

Her voice didn’t raise again, couldn’t, the hoarseness felt deep in her throat, but she came for them. At least, up until the shape of another joined them, circling like a hawk. Swallowtail felt the freeze before it happened. She slid to a great halt, muscles locked. Fear swept into her scent, more now than before. Her eyes rolled, a nervous hoof stamp showing how the mare was feeling.

Who is this? She wanted to say, but no words would come. All she could do was sit and quiver.