E S M I R A the chaos and the cowardice kept us apart.
The sun was newly set, and yet Esmira's coat was darkened with sweat and her body trembled with latent heat. Summer had taken a hold on the land, and already it found the mare leaving her herd on the border to find brief respite along the coast. Nothing permanent, nothing longer than even an evening, but she enjoyed the moments when she was able to take in the ocean. Take herself away, at least for a little while, from Xarkath's never-ending anger and vehemence toward the North. She agreed with him in many ways, and yet... sometimes his passion scared her. She worried, if push came to shove, about how far he would go to knock the Northerns from their pedestal.
Here she was determined not to worry about it, though, instead focusing on the steep descent down to the water. It was idiotic, if not suicidal, at night, but the moon above was full and she'd traversed the path so many times that she could... probably... do it with her eyes closed. Not that she was tempted to try. The beach was still warm, heat soaking up through her hooves, but it wouldn't be long before the sand turned cold with the absence of the sun and the continual breeze off of the ocean. She closed her eyes as she stepped into the surf, breathing deeply of the salty air. Even if it was a brief respite, it was always enough to calm her both physically and mentally before she had to return home to weather the long summer ahead.
- There's A lullaby for suffering and a paradox to blame -
A single goal repeated itself in her mind, her objective echoing throughout the crevices of her thoughts, over and over again, static - the same, ceaseless as she walked through the night, guided by the moon. Find shelter, find safety. Protect yourself against your Father. Those three commandments were endless as they drifted through her head, weaving around the neurons in her brain, each nerve seemingly passing the word along to the next as the importance of her goal continually solidified itself, never permissing her even a moment to forget its significance. And she would never forget. First the first time in her short life, Medea had been offered an opportunity of control, a chance at dictating how she would live without the constant input, or rather, orders, from her Father.
The first commandment of her goal, find shelter, instructed for her to find a safe place where she was outside of her Father's sphere of influence, or anywhere else where he could send someone after her. It was upon rumours and stories that she had heard, both in her youth and during her travels, that there was a horrible, desolate place known as the Barrens, one scarred by incessant heat and general poverty of the South. While a supposedly unpleasant place, it would be a perfect temporary home, one where she could find her bearings and construct a basic plan for what her next goal would be.
But now, Medea found herself not knowing how to fulfill that goal. She stood tall, confident, on the beginnings of a beach, right where a sparse grass would mould with the sand that would eventually lead into the salty sea. Despite her confidence, there was one major problem that stood in her way, an unmoving roadblock that only seemed to grow larger and larger with each step she took. She was lost, knowing only how to return to her herd, something that she would die before doing.
The depravity of the Barrens was wholly different from the prosperity of the North, and with those classic differences came a vast span of land that rested in between them, separating those born in each from each other, only allowing those to know each other by a general depiction rather than by face, the depiction, of which, usually being negative. But, it was in that stretch of land that confused Medea, and she knew not how to cross it and thus, meet her goal, a fact that would simply not do.
She walked along the length of the beach, gradually getting closer to the surf, which climbed up the sand before receding back to its kind. She had seen rivers and lakes before, but never had she seen any body of water so vast and large, though the initial amazement that had fallen upon her was quickly replaced with a caution towards the unfamiliar, especially with its stench of salt, which in her mind, smelt very much like blood.
But it didn't take long in her walk for her to spot something much more familiar, a fellow horse, one who was hopefully much more acquainted with the land than she was, and who would hopefully be willing to offer her some direction. Quickly, Medea inspected the area quickly, attemping to listen for a sound other than the roaring of the waves, or to spot something other than the glaring reflection of the moon off of the water. There was no distant whinnying of a herd, and she saw no equine silhouettes moving through the night.
She released a loud neigh, not a warning, but simply an announcement of her presence in a non-hostile manner. Her ears were forward, but not stiff, simply interested at who stood in front of her. She needed information, and, unless necessary at least, wasn't the kind to bully it out of someone.
E S M I R A the chaos and the cowardice kept us apart.
The problem with even a gentle surf was that it effectively drowned out all but the most broadcasted sounds, and in hindsight Esmira had put herself in a rather dangerous position. In theory, the moon was bright enough that it should have helped her be more aware, but that would have required her to keep an eye on the shore rather than gazing out toward the hazy horizon like an absolute simpleton. As it was she didn't notice the approaching equine until they were practically on top of her (if one were being dramatic), and she mentally swore as the whinny startled her into a quick turn that splashed the water harshly against her belly. Stupid, stupid. Only the strong but obviously feminine build of the other told her the approaching roan was a mare, which didn't necessarily put her at ease here on the border, but at least took one dark possibility off the table. Esmira nickered back a bit cautiously, stepping up from sea water to sand with a friendly enough demeanor.
While Xarkath would have started with posturing and demands, Esmira ducked her head in greeting and offered a smile. Closer now, she could make out some of the scars that darkened the mare's speckled hide, and couldn't help but think such marks couldn't belong to a Northern. Perhaps that was naive, but thought of her own scars, deeply tracking from hip to hock on either side of her body. Things were never easy in the South, after all, and no one came of age unscarred.
You scared me, she said wryly, a neutral opening statement if there ever was one. My fault, of course, I should know better. But there aren't many who are reckless enough to climb down here in the dark. She, of course, was included in that statement, and her expression made that clear. Her Lead hated how self-deprecating she could be, but it hadn't caused her any harm, and honestly she felt it made for more friendships.