the deer queen--any

[Elka]

She's not sure why she's here but there was a reason. She hasn't been in Beqanna long but the alabaster woman finds herself in the throng of the meadow. It reminded her of the field but without the stress of a stallion forcing you home for anyone for that matter.The chilled winter tugs at the inky black mane, knotting it and teasing it to give the mare a bit of a wild look. Call it casual messy, if you will. The svelte frame moves carefully over the patches of dry foliage to near the bank of one of the small streams that thread through the meadow like veins. Slender skull dips to taste the cold mountain waters before lifting and looking about. Perhaps there are other meadow bums hanging around.

Dark pools gaze silently with jaw set and muscles tense. The arab framed woman stood like that of a seasoned ballet dancer, tense, poised and ready to move with the practiced grace.

The dished skull moves upon the snow hued neck to twist and observe the small bands of equus lazily discussing weather and most recently, pregnancies. Elka gave silent praise that she was not with child--depsite never ever having been before. Yet it was a small blessing in her book. A soft sigh falls from her lips as she observes the sky and the wind, looking like a dislocated weather vane at times but the girl wasn't much of a big talker. She was more observant and analytic but the bit of a curve to to her lips and the chiseled cheeks gave her a youthful and softer look upon her pretty features. Hopefully she would have some company to converse with. It was hard being friendless in Beqanna.

elka
the deer queen

[Pevensie]

It is a sharp contrast from the Desert, coming to the meadow in autumn. To get there, she must walk through the woodland adjacent to the grassy pasture, embracing the chance to look up at the fiery reds and warm oranges of the dying season. She smiles, enjoying the reminder that there are seasons, for every inch of the year in the Desert is only hot, dry and breezy. Out here though, the reminders of death and life are closer, almost tangible, as if by reaching out her muzzle to touch the delicate leaf it might burst into flames before her, only to be reborn as a new tree in spring like a phoenix.

Eventually, the trees begin to thin and then disappear altogether. She has made it to the waves of grassland, as far as the eye can see. Pevensie pins back her hears, hobbling her way down a slippery hillock to reach the even ground. It has not begun to show yet, but she feels different in herself, a sickness in her stomach, an aching in her joints. Not from old age or low mood, a good sort of ache. Her time with Hurricane has not gone unnoticed in her flesh and bones.

Still though, to all outward appearance, the wild buckskin pony is no different. The ostrich feather still floats in her mane, the mud still clogs in her fetlocks. She is not the picture of grace and beauty that catches her honey-brown eyes. Another mare, white and finely sculpted. Something worthy of a place in a hall alongside Michael Angelo or the Greek Masters.

Beauty has never intimidated Pevensie though, so she approaches unchecked, warm smile in place, glassy eyes curious. "You look nervous. Are you ok?" she asks, cocking an ear toward the girl to hear her response.