Ceri.


Reference Image: www.shiningchorses.com/aqha-grulla-mares?lightbox=dataItem-l7arrhfl

Name: Ceri

Age: 3



Gender: Mare

Birth Season: Spring.





Body Type: Warmblood

Height: 15.0

Color: Blue dun. Kind of mousey-coloured, with a prominent dorsal stripe and some visible light guard hairs in her mane and tail.



Eyes: Dark brown

Distinguishing marks: A narrow stripe and snip on her face. A ragged scar on her left shoulder.

Genetics: EE, aa, Dd





Overall General Health: Fair.



Personality: As a foal, Ceri had been called bright, and kind. “Gentle, like her mother.” They would say. She did not always believe these easy compliments. And yet she loved her family fiercely, (Just like her father!) and was trusted, and these seemed to her to be the most important things of all.



The thing that was Ceri’s own though, was her curiosity. As she grew, it grew with her into a sense of adventure that was hard to fathom at times. her best friend had called her much too sensible and not one to leave home without a kick or two. Ceri promised that they would leave together.



Ceri always kept promises. And it did hurt to leave, but it thrilled Ceri all the same.



After the wolf attack, she found herself more used to being alone than not. Resilient, but regretful. Shier than before, with a bitter seed inside that she is unsure how to quash. That sense of adventure not quite quenched, but diminished in the way damp would lessen a flame.





History: Ceri was born to a herd in its good years. Her mother was old enough for wisdom, but not old enough to slow down. Her father, enduring, quiet. It seemed impossible to believe that he had not always been there, watching over those wildflower meadows of her youth. Those first years had been idyllic, nature had spared them any of her cruelties; the winters had been mild, the springs plentiful. There was no shortage of playmates, and no shortage of places to play.



They left because it was easy, as easy as snowmelt in the sun. They left because the meadows had after all this, seemed to be too small after all. Ceri, and her closest friend Vianne. With glossy summer coats and bright eyes, tired of chasing butterflies in the grass.



They met a young stallion, Rowan, in the autumn. He was awkward, still growing into his new muscle. Just as awkward with his words. But he had been nice. Ceri was happy to stand back at watch as Vianne flirted, she had a way of prancing around as if she were weightless. She would always find a particular slant of light under the trees to make her coat shine. It had been fine, silly even. Often the two would race, as if they were foals again, and Ceri would be at the finishing line, cheering them both on.



It had never seemed anything but fun, until the cold started to nip at their heels.



The forests in which they chose to Winter had seemed endless to Ceri. There seemed as many miles as there were trees, and Ceri had never seen so many of either. She came to dislike the way the stark branches scratched at the heavy sky, and the way the smell of damp earth and decay clung to their coats. But she had never been really, truly afraid.



One morning found them drinking at a stream. There had been a break in the weather, and a pale sun scattered its light on the bank. The sounds of groaning, dripping branches had been replaced by the rush of the swollen watercourse. Too vigorous to have frozen over, but its water still bitterly cold.



Vianne had made a noise of displeasure, and then a smart stamp of a hoof in the mud. Ceri turned, watchful now, but not yet concerned. It had more than likely been only a moments impatience with the sloping bank, or the surprise of such cold water. They were all hungry, all tired.



The shriek of a dark bird in the canopy. The sound of Rowan’s gentle, empty words. Ceri felt the first prickle of unease. She stepped back to her friends; Vianne, whose expression was almost accusatory, Look. look! it seemed to say. And Rowan, who was inspecting something at their feet.



A pawprint. Round and perfect in a patch of mud. She lowered her head, the mark of each nail was clear, the scent rank, faint. All though perhaps it was only her imagination. Wolves. She had never seen one. They were still roiling shapes in nightmares, shadows in childhood tales. Things given teeth and cunning by cautionary elders.



“What do you think, Ceri?” Rowan had asked.



Vianne had snorted and stepped further away.



“I think,” She paused, her mouth dry. “I think we get as far away from here as we can.”



And they did.



But the wolves still found them.