»There is no worse death than that of hope

[art]

But when it seems that all is done
And hope lives on no more
A mud-coloured filly traipses on
Weary to the core

Art was tired; that was perhaps the first thing a stranger would notice. Every movement of hers was slow, and near every breath labored; for she had come a very long way in a very short time. The layers of mud on her sleek pelt could hardly be discerned from her actual colouring; and so she ignored the mud, focusing every bit of her being on merely going on. Catching the scent of other equines, she halted, ears pricked; perhaps, now, she had finally had some luck. She continued on, with a tad more vigour, wondering what this place was. She knew it was not mares only who came to this spot; for the aroma of stallions lingered here as well, though perhaps with less potency. At that thought, her heart froze in her chest. She stood stalk-still, dreading what she thought was true.

Stupid mare, have you done it again?

It was almost a snarl, a strange sound to come from such a mare. She wondered though, if she had. Was this a mere claiming ground or something of the like, where she was welcome? Or was this some terra where she was anything but?

Shaking the fear off, at least for awhile, art found makeshift shelter and dropped like a stone. The sun was low again on the horizon, and, for the moment, she was far to weary to care what happened to her. Let fortune run its course! For now, she would rest, but not sleep; for sleep never came easy to her, and she did not care to wrest with her demons tonight.

A r t
Give day; and, since thy sovereign will is such,
Destruction with it; but, oh, give us day!