Chapter 1 - An Oncoming Storm
Soft winds sigh across the water of the lake, stirring the lightest waves to rise upon its surface. The water's unbroken lines are like plates of shimmering glass, sparkling in the slate-grey light. Without warning that single piece of crystal cracks, a shape breaks out from its surface then dives back, spreading ripples across the lake's skin as it glides beneath the play of the hidden sun's glow. Our attention comes closer, can you hear the whisper of the water, and the - oh, so soft - rush as this eye on the world drops into the embrace of the dark liquids hold? We see the diving body, water playing across short, silken hair. Beneath the surface, this watcher falls into the eyes of that living form.
She gasped at the bitter air that gave sweet life, with almost painful cold. The water ran beneath her as her arms grabbed the firm rocks of the quarried landing. The mare waited reluctantly in the refuge of the water, pondering the likelihood of the sun coming out at all. But she knew that that was not going to happen, and with a gentle sigh hauled her body out onto the shore, bracing her palms against the cold grey rock which mirrored the heavy skies above.
Rolling onto the stone, Scarlet brayed momentarily at the fierce chill, then quickly pulled her hooves from the water and stood up, proud against the growing wind that swept down from the lush green hills around her.
The horse's form dripped water sensuously from her cropped hair. Her strong legs shivered gently; hooves ever so quietly clattering, and liquid pooled from her tail onto the slate below. Her nude torso was tensed against the icy cutting breeze, and from her belly to her nest her hair slowly rose as it shed water and dried. Invigorated by the hard swim, her chest rose and fell with her hard breaths, her sallow cheeks were flushed and her long, golden mane shuddered at her exhaustion. She cut a beautiful sight; strong and tall, a creature in the prime of life.
She put her hands to the back of her neck and stretched, hips tall and level belly clenched then stared, tail swaying gently, at the powerful sky overhead. The wind was slowly rising and the clouds, swollen and dark, threatened imminent rain. Scarlet frowned and chewed her lip slowly, she had preferred the dry summers of her youth, and the frequent, almost pathetic rain of these hills disagreed with her nature. But still, she enjoyed the slick feeling of droplets upon the curves of her frame, and the rage of a heavy storm always made her happy. This brooding sky certainly looked like it might go that way, and the mare hoped that it wouldn't simply turn into another bout of the still, light, quiet rain that was so common here. She needed truly fierce weather to let her emotions free themselves, and without it she soon felt incredibly pent up. But now she could smell it in the air. A soft scent carried by the wind as the air filled with moisture, and the earth turned rich with life.
She took a few more moments to glance about her at the familiar blanket of oak and beech, and the open fields of sheep; arrayed on the high hills, where great rupturous spires and ridges of slate broke out from the soil's cover. Then she let her hands fall back, and picked up her towel from a low table of wrought iron. She wrapped it about her breasts and tucked it closed, then turned and walked the neat stone path to the half-timbered house that rested on the island in the centre of the lake. Her hooves clicked neatly on each stone as she approached, looking up at the wide windows and mighty beams; the house had been in her family for a very long time, and her presence there now was dictated by necessity.
She had quarries to organise, and since her father's retirement those demands had grown, so much that her presence in the valley was required to ensure that the quarries stayed efficient through traditional means. Her family was built out of rock, or so people said. Rock, and metal, and the hills. Mining was still big business, and slate was a very profitable rock when it was prepared well. For years the mines across the country, and the quarries, had remained tightly in the ownership of her family. They were firm oligarchs, some of the most prolific of industry-owners in the nation, and the tradition always had to be upheld. Every child of the clan had worked with metal or with rock, and nearly all went on to run a mine, or a quarry, or a number of each. The few that were disinterested were often those who lacked the mindset needed to hold up the business, but few turned out to be unintelligent.
The walk had dried her off, and she pulled open the heavy oak door, stepping across the threshold, smoothed by years of hooves and paws. She dropped the towel from her bosom, tossing it into a basket by the door; and walked straight through the airy hall, ascending the solid stairs, swishing her tail across her firm buttocks for the pure pleasure of doing so. Her hooves sounded out in the quiet house, as she strolled into her commodious room on the upper floor. She stepped around the pile of mess she had left on her floor, and walked to the wardrobe. Pulling the door back and considering what to wear, she pulled the rack out into the room and frowned, pondering.
Scarlet grabbed a purple dress, calf length and split to just above the knee, pulled some white underwear from the shelf and laid them on the bed. She dressed in a leisurely way, watching the crops play in the wind outside of her window. She finished, adjusting her dress, and turned back from the window.
The heap of mess on the floor caught her eye again and she sighed. It was a series of sheets of paper and reports from the night before, as well as discarded plates and accounts books. Suddenly she realised that, hidden under the books, a toy she had used last night, driven to boredom was poking out from the pile, just visible. She bit her lip and smiled, realising that, had her housemate come back from the southern quarry early, he could easily have seen it, which would have been somewhat awkward. She wasn't quite ready to take that relationship forward just yet, though there were temptations. She hurriedly picked it up, giving it a sly sniff, nostrils flared, and dropped it in the drawer under her bed.
She wandered back downstairs, bored with nothing to do, and for a few minutes just listened to the silence, and the soft hum of the wind. She turned a discarded spoon in her hands, considering the light playing on it, then looked around at the gathering gloom, stood up and flicked on the lights in the open plan hall-cum-kitchen. As the lights flickered into life, she decided that her restless boredom was intolerable, and headed for the workshop to carve the developing statuette which was her current show of creative flair.
Suddenly she rued her choice of impractical clothing for carpentry. Stepping into the stillness of the workshop, she smelled the gorgeous scent of green wood, and picked a chisel from a bench, then walked over to the half-formed figure, grimacing at her lack of progress so far. She shaved a flake from a line, and thought on her direction, happily losing herself in the joy of creation.
The shrill ring of the phone interrupted her creative thoughts. She hissed in irritation, finished the line she was carving in a mad flurry of flakes, brushed sawdust from her dress, and stomped out to answer the phone, grinding her teeth in anger. '
This better damn well be something good...'
