Without direction or purpose, he wandered.
What was a horse to do, without a rider, without a master? Where did one go to find food, to find shelter, to be combed and praised after a long day? Not here, not in this wasteland. The only things to be found here were ravens, painted red, and the echoes of soldiers’ desperate cries.

He wandered further towards the river, which only days ago he had crossed over with the master. That was a glorious day. They had come to meet with friends of the master, and as was the custom, the best blanket, the freshest saddle, and all the other decorative fixings were out. He had loved being adorned with the warm blanket, better than the one that he had for those cold summer nights. The way that peasants looked at him when the silver he wore, the clasps that glistened with the sun and glowed in the moonlight, it was always a special treat. But that was two days ago.

The silver was cloaked in mud. The warm blanket was torn, and only a remnant still covered his back.
“Where could the master be, and what am I to do?” he pondered.


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