01-04-2016, 08:38 AM
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.