He knows this is his home as soon as he sets foot on the blanket of pine needles and bright autumn leaves, as soon as he smells the cool tang of fall twined with the sharp, faint prospect of winter. With the mare at his side it is only clearer that this is where he should be, for the trees provide shelter and secrecy that he desires. He does not want his future herd found, for he wants any future offspring to grow safely, without the threat of other equines who may not understand their isolated lifestyle. His nostrils flare as he takes in the familiar scent of the woods, mixed with the mare's intoxicating one, and he moves deeper into the trees, looking for a perfect place to start his family.
He knows what time of year it is, and he is sure that the mare does as well. His instincts, his body, ache for her, but he knows that sex is a careful song-and-dance between feral creatures, for no words are passed to convey desire - only body language - and if read incorrectly, his pride may be smarting for a while. So he simply nickers to her, every once in a while, bumping his muzzle against her silky neck as they move between the trees. Her companionship is wonderful after too long without it, and he does not want to risk their relationship as of now by acting too harshly just because instinct tells him to.
Moss had seen the faraway look in his eyes, and she disliked the thought of interrupting him as he sinks deep into a place she cannot follow but she grows weary of the hustle and bustle of the field. Her heart longs for quieter spaces, like wherever it is that they both go when they do not look at each other but still end up deep inside themselves - that space behind their eyes that is far reaching and almost searching for something that isn’t there. She keeps one ear on him, listening - always listening, so that she is not surprised by his neigh or the way he begins to romp at her side, overcome by the playful antics of a colt, though it is clear he is no colt - the brawny heft of him says as much. His prancing display is infectious and she cannot remember the last time she leapt and cavorted so freely - it would have been at her mother’s side, of that she is sure, and under her father’s careful watch but now she is free to revel next to him, careless and happy in their shared understanding of one another.
Then she is struck still and dumb by his unexpected nip, only for a moment until her own instinct soothes her bruised mind, telling her it is the way of stallions and mares - that he must nip to lay claim to her, and his mark had been gentler than others would have been. She moves at his nudging insistence, instinct once again kicking in and telling her that her stallion desired her to step forth and she does, her pace similar to his until he moves into a canter. Moss is a little slow to follow him, watching how the muscles bunch and gather beneath the painted flesh and how the light plays over his fur as they move together down the trails. Her face is alight with an exuberance that seems to echo his, and she feels it all the way down to her bones. Leaves crunch underfoot as they remain in the trees, the forest branching out and away from them as she trails him, having fallen back to gaze wonderingly at the beauty of the land. She thinks that he has chosen well for a place to start a herd in, that he can do no better than this because it is full of secrets and promise.
It occurs to her then, that the time is upon them and that by rights, nature should run its due course and she ought to grow fat with foal but all too soon, she avoids his advances and remains barren for another season. Moss didn’t fear him, or fear growing fat with foal either, but she had simply never given it much thought really. She knew it wasn’t right to deny him his stallion’s right to breed her but she kept her distance despite his gentle whickering pleas and his darling touches that were altogether too tender for the likes of him, all feral and focused. Maybe next season, she thinks, daunted by the prospect of being a mother but certain that under his care, she’ll blossom into the kind of mare she could be for him - loyal (he’s put roots down in her already, she knows this), good and true, and above all else - capable of ensuring his bloodline for years to come. She just balked a little this season, unsure of it all after everything else but she comes to him, at season’s end and winter’s beginning and lays her head upon his back, entirely too trusting.
He does not blame her for keeping her tail tucked and rump from his eyes as breeding season comes to a close; he physically desires her and does mentally as well, but he knows that after the briefness of the time they've known each other and the suddenness of the discovery of their new herdlands that it isn't quite right for them to start creating a new herd. They are not settled enough, yet, and he does not yet know all the secrets of the land they now inhabit; it is not safe enough for a child and he knows this, although his body ached to do as the season declared, he knows that they must wait to listen. So he does not push it, but he cannot help the soft nickers and gentle nudges he gives to her.
She does seem to like his choice of land and he appreciates this, for if she did not like it he would move them because her opinion of the land is important to him, especially because it may reflect how other mares view it as well. He knows it would be best for him to build a strong relationship with this mare first, for she deserves to be his lead, but he cannot help thinking about having a small band of mares and foals once again. But he is content to stay in their little area of the woods, especially since winter has fallen upon them and he is eager to explore.
He nickers at the mare, gently, and treads through the bit of snow to get to her, breath coming in clouds from his flared nostrils. He exchanges breath with her, briefly, enjoying the piney aspect to her scent ever since they had entered the forest; he tugs playfully at her mane and nibbles at her withers before bobbing his head towards the trees. He wants to explore, to see if there is a glade that they can reside in or a clearing they can return to when the grass returns, as well as find water near them. His instincts tell him to go for he is restless in this area, and he does not want to leave her alone.
His advances did not go unnoticed; every little nip and nicker undid her further and she nearly gave in but something held her back - something impractical that told her not just yet and so the season passed without seeing her grow fat with foal like the mares around them. Not once was she envious of their state of bodily change, almost glad she was still fleet of foot and not encumbered by the bulging large bellies the other mares sported. She is curious as to why he has not increased the size of their herd yet, for there was safety in numbers, as they travel through the trees just the two of them. Moss likes his company, just cannot fathom why such a stallion (rugged, handsome) like him has but the one mare - herself, and no other foals on the ground. She doesn’t dwell on it long, too immersed in seeing the sights of this new place to call home; something about the forest beckons her, and she feels like her spirit is lighter here, freer beneath the great old boughs of the tall tall trees.
He approaches her again like a great smoking beast from tales her father told her when she stood at his knee, small and laughing, back when Moss had a voice and knew the language of this land. She has since given up on speaking, shutting language away deep inside herself after her mother’s early desertion and adopting the easiest form of expression - bodily. They touch noses and breathe one another in, their exhalations twining together and creating a cloud around their heads; he smells like himself, musky but of the forest too, like he’d groomed himself on the greatwood trunks until he smelled more oaken than earthy. She probably smells like that too, now that they’ve spent a good amount of time amongst the trees. He makes his intent clear in little playful tugs and nibbles, and she responds in kind with little whickers and lipping at his chest for a moment.
As much as his instincts tell him to go, hers tell her the same - stay on the move, follow the rivers and the growth of grass, and life is good. She lifts her nose to the wind and sniffs for a long moment, not scenting much beyond the influx of horses, him, and the trees around them. Eager to be off, she bumps her shoulder against his and indicates that she will follow, excited to explore and find a more naturally agreeable place for them to reside in for as long as the grass is green and good and the water flows clean and true. Moss knows that even after a time, newer lands must be found because they’ll exhaust their supply of grass and water, depending on the size of the herd but she trusts his judgment more than her own. Nickering, she inclines her head towards what appears to be an old deer trail left unused, and she knows the deer are clever, secret creatures fond of good forage and lovely thickets.
He wants to venture into the field, again, to find another mare to bring into his herd, to grow his numbers. But he must be patient, for he can tell many of those who wander in the field want a kingdom and not just a wandering stallion and his one mare, and he is reluctant to leave the mare he does have alone. Although it is spring and many a soul is wandering, put in a good mood by the warmth after a long winter, he is still reluctant to let the mare move on her own. He supposes he could venture into the adoption den, see if there is a foal he can take beneath his metaphorical wing, but alas, he doesn't know whether the mare would care to join him on the trek.
Her gentle nickers and soft lipping at his chest warm him as they move through the trees easily, hooves soft on the soft covering that blankets the ground, and when she nickers he does in turn, ears pricking towards the deer path she has spotted. He knows the deer are even smarter then they are, sometimes, and know they can find resources that equines miss. So he nods his crown towards the somewhat hidden path and trots towards it, ears flicking, curious as to what this path may lead to. He is thrilled to be exploring the area with such a strong mare, one he knows will be a wonderful first addition to the herd he wishes to rebuild.
The path is not long but it is more hilly than originally expected, although it is nothing strenuous. And where it leads makes it all the more rewarding, for it leads to a little glade, with the sound of running water reaching pricked ears. He doesn't want to linger here, for it would be better for mares or foals to reside in for the early spring, but he has to make sure that it is safe enough for those whom may join them in the future. So he snorts, softly, before venturing into the little clearing, head low as he inspects the ground, ears swiveling - as always - as he tries to determine its safety. It seems relatively unused - as unused as it could be, anyways, for there are still deer-prints in the earth and patches of grass that have been eaten - which is fine by him, for the deer could keep it safe and relatively beaten down whilst they didn't use it. He lifts his head and nickers to the mare as a congratulations for finding the path - without her, he would've missed it.
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