She watches from the sidelines
A subtle frown carves out between her brows, her jaw tightens and her limbs straighten and clutch with each anticipated hit. There are a few who practice in the ring, dirt at their hooves. Teachers scolding students, and opponents assigning purpose to each breath, and every movement.
Some dance with feral intent, poised where others struggle to define their violent reckoning. Though not to the degree of a starved wolf, or the rage of a beast – this chaos is restrained within the ring, and forgoes the blood, teeth and claws of an animal.
Though, they are not far from it – she thinks to herself. Perhaps they are training for greatness, for noble causes. Warriors protecting their people, their Queen – though rumor has it the Queen is more than capable of protecting herself.
The day is running low, and the sea ushers a cool chill – a return of death, and snow to entomb the living – winter at its heels.
There are only a few of them now, practicing in the pit. The public has largely returned to their warm homes, for food and drink – combatants resuming to tend to superficial wounds. Or more likely off to drink in company.
Curiosity draws her past the opening against the wooden barricade. Hair pulled back in taught braids that give the false impression of a bulging neck. The mare’s steps are hesitant, as she begins to walk along its edges. Trying not to stare at the pair grunting as they sought purchase for an opening. Mouths frothed, and skin wet.
Great big stakes are planted at various ends. Some of them crossed, others of lines and targets. Their skin is weathered with scrapes and cuts. They begin to loom as oppressive figures in the dim light.
She picks up her speed, feeling the earth underneath her with an exited magnetism. Propelling high steps, and a firm drive. She thinks of green, electrified clouds – and the brightness of bodies flashing for a moment, and dissolving the next.
Why did she fight? She thinks of her mother, plunging head first into an inescapable ending. She is lost in those strange clouds – she can never recall her features, past the frame of an ever-changing body, or the horn attached to a chain. Memories of a child, and a dead relic haunt each step.
Her breath picks up, as she darts towards one of these wooden polls. Stops with her hind legs, and comes to a sliding halt. Suddenly uncertain of her intentions, her purpose for being drawn into a game she would have otherwise ignored.
She walks up to the pole, gathers her limbs and rears with a grunt. Stretches out one of her forelimbs, and ‘boops’ the target painted closest to her height. When she lands, a half-hearted laugh escapes her.
