Talk some sense to me; Elektrum/any.

[sinew]

She remembers things she should not be able to remember: the plains, the thunder of hooves - buffalo and horse, strange upright beasts that laid their hands upon the necks of horses like her, their skins trembling in reaction to the touch, the way lightning crackled across the sky and storms ate up the distance. Sinew wakes; she knows that she has been dreaming again - dreams every day since she slid from the womb. Maybe she is too young to dream like this, of a time before that was not her time but her dam’s, but the dreams are there - in blood, in her marrow, in the very sinew of her that holds her bones and fur together. She knows that the things in her dreams do exist, or did once, just like she knows that she was not really there - an observer from a distant future, displaced outside of time, is this then what her immortality should feel like? Even as a foal barely days’ old, she is comfortable in her skin and does not stumble around like the rest of them do on their long legs. She has slipped her mother’s grasp and strayed off (but Scalped lurks ever near, hot on the trail as any mother ought to be); these explorations thrill her in a way that her callow mind cannot explain, perhaps it is the allure of danger that flavors her tongue, her own bravado false in the puffed out baby-chest and the way her eyes shine, scintillant and strange in their blackberry gloss - she knows, oh she knows! Sinew is far too new to have drunk from the cup of immortality, and it is a heady elixir upon which she is drunk with the knowledge that death is far from her, and she is no more unfeeling towards it then it is to her. She revels in her long legs, her lank thin body that is all ribs and hips, the milk on her breath and the way her lips twitch in smiles that roll out like hills before her, useless disruptions to the flat certain earth of her being. Sinew doesn’t question why the night is absent of the usual noise that should fill it; she accepts it for what it is - unnatural but somehow not, somehow it was more natural for the night to sing with silence then anything else. It is in the night that she meets him, their paths having somehow crossed - maybe meant to be, and maybe not, but it happens, and the tiny overo looks up at the stallion, curious and not in the least bit afraid like she should be. “You,” she mutters, sounding vaguely imperious like a warrior princess though we both know that Sinew will never do battle.