A Place To Call Home... {Guardian Stallion?}

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^{Daggers flashed, throwing up sand that fell in loose piles onto the beach. Water splashed, spraying black legs that pounded across the shore. Why run? Why keep going? He didn't know. He had to run. That's all he knew. Did he run for his herd, now gone, forever to be? Did he run for his herd, that had been murdered, left forever spinning into the dark depths of a morbid land? He just ran. He didn't know why, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. It felt good, to be pounding across the shore, the sand soft underneath his hooves, hard as stone from three years of traveling across many terrains. Three years... yes, three long years. The moments echoed back to him, flashing through his mind. All those terrible battles, fought, just to stay alive. All those lonely, cold nights, alone, begging for the painful times to be over. All those years, yearning for friends, for compassion; for anybody offering any sort of understanding or care. But none had come. Oh, there had been a few worthwhile mares or stallions here and there that had offered him hope, a home. But it just hadn't felt right. He hadn't clicked there.
The salty breeze caught his mane and flung it back, revealing his damp neck; the tangy scent filled his flaring nostrils. Finally, a cease of speed showed. Slow, slow, slower. To a lope. No, now a trot. A walk. Ah, to cool down... it felt good. Flint waded deeper, deeper into the sea and began to swim parallel to the shore, enjoying the exersion of swimming through the sea, the sun rays warming his wet back. Flint shook his head and snorted in surprise as a wave crashed over his head. Better swim closer to shore. Ah, that was better. The bay mascu' finally swam back to to the sandy shore, and shook violently to free his bay coat from excess water from his swim. He felt much better now; physically, emotionally: mentally. He could think clearer. And he was thinking home. For three years, he had needed a home. And yet, he had not found one. Had not found a herd, had not found a terrain that just quite suited him. But this- this was beautiful. The ocean stretched farther and farther from sight, just as far as the eye could see it was an ocean horizon. Turning away from the rippling waters, the mascu' approached an apple tree, whose roots had found solid ground deep beneath this soft sand. He reared a few inches on his hind pillars, his muzzle reaching, reaching- ah, he had it! Ivories closed around the apple as he came down and munched it, juice dripping into the sand. Turning once more, Flint stood under the tree and gazed out upon the shore and the ocean. How wonderful a place this would be to... well, be. Live. Maybe even command? No, guard would be good. Yes, to live here would mean a good life. Who knows- maybe he'd even start harem of his own.
If only, if only...
The words sang out to him, drumming his thoughts. No, it was too good to be true. Nothing had ever worked out for Flint.
But miracles could happen.
Couldn't they?}

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[Hazel]

His own three beat echoed towards his heirem, eyes wide, ringed slightly in white at the prospect of a fellow stag tresspassing across his lands. A fury emitted, he would not have his family stolen again, he could take no more chances. If this stag was an enemy, he would be killed for even thinking of challenging the stallion of the shores. Flamed Storms powerful bodice soared easily over the sands, he had been born and bred here, so he was used to the ever shifting grains of sands. His legs, though strong and well adapted to his enviroment, were scared and thin from the recent floods that forced the herd to flee from its depth, his hind left pillars had a deep gasp, caused from the floods whilst rescuing his newest mare from drowning. It was scabby and healing easily the the salty air and he no longer felt pain on it. Not that he would whilst adrenaline rushed through his veins as the throughbred mustang cross breed powered towards the equine.

His audits were hung low over his skull, his huge crest was arched, the true sign of a king. He, Storm, son of Spirit and Amber, was a powerful being of vogour and torment, his life being held hostage by the cruel seas. He had been king since he was just two years old when his father had been mudered by the sea itself and by Denizen, the leader of the Outlaws; his uncle, once removed. He shuddered, Denizen had been a huge shire, determined to murder the shores herd and take the lands, why? Because he had a grudge against Storms grandfather, the long dead Sylver. But that didnt matter now. It was all in the past. Now he had to focus on the intruder.

He came to a hault, moch like a rodeo horse, skidding through the sands, sprasying the dusty sediment upwards towards his 'opponants' nasels. He bellowed a whinny, rearing before the newcomer, tossing his his ebon mane and screaming out words.

"Dare you come to challenge me brute? You wish for a fight? Then die trying to steal my lands ffrom me!"

He had changed. His mate had been stolen and forced by the unworthy Sparrow, a rougue stallion, and ever since he had been a shattered soul. Her foal was not his and, to make matteres worse, his only daughter, Sienna, had been kidnapped by a crazy mare. But he did not know that, of corse, and though the poor filly was dead. He snorted, having landed from his frightening rear. He stood expentatly, pircking forwards his audts to better heard the voice of the tyrant.