The Creation

The stallion snorted softly, heading toward the rising sun. With each hoofbeat he was headed toward his destiny...

His eyes were fixed ahead, ears twitching nervously in anticipation. The sky was a hazy tone of light blue, and the trees a blur as he cantered lightly, swiftly, onward.

This land of darkness would be his. The dark stallion, Flare, was of no more; the fight had been brutal, lasting a day and a night.

The healing of his wounds, especially a near-fatal one on his shoulder, had begun slowly. Never had the sun shone upon this land, until now. Desimated, the realm was nothing compared to what it had once been.

But now there was hope.

Only one thing lay in his path. Flare's only son, just of age where he would have overthrown his sire, was he who must be stopped. The bronze stallion stepped forth. A gust of wind reassured him of the forces, unseen, that were forever with him.

Not long now, thought he.

The black's ears pricked; where those light-footed steps that of the steed who had killed his sire, now coming to fight himself? How dare he! Why, any fool would know that he was ten times strong as his father, and surely unbeatable!

The auburn eyes flashed violently, chestnut coating flaming hot as a thousand burning suns. Now was the time.

Upon the great hindquarters he rose, forelegs curling underneath as his lungs inhaled the once sweet air, his entire being burning with life, fire. A surge of energy raised up a call that even the distant lands would have heard. A clarion call to battle! All the world held its breath, all nature kept its silence a moment longer. Such a thrilling, wonderous being would come to rule... if he won.

The black responded with a lesser, self-righteous scream of rage. All those under his rule knew he would never be as great as the bronze.

Honor. Life. The soul of the wind. Justice. Glory. All these, and something deeper were within the bronze. And what did this black steed hold? Pride. Nothing more...

And this pride would be his downfall... the chestnut let the raven coloured stallion make the first move, galloping headlong toward him. The black's own thinking told him this battle was his, this land was his. Never would there be one greater than he!

A simple sidestep confused the black, who skidded to a stop, ears laided back, orbs rolling as his depthful rage was given out in a tremendous scream.

Now the bronze moved forward, springing at the black lithly, teeth bared. Ever equus in the vast herd watched and waited. The prideful black horse roared with excitement, finding himself dizzied by the fleet bronze.

But, shaking his head clear, the black one reared and struck, hitting only air. The bronze swung right and struck him in his right barrel, while the black rose, then crashed his immense weight on the back of the bronze.

Falling the the ground with a shattering, agonizing whinney, his gathered his couage once more as the black came hurling at him. Swinging his hindquarters at the oncoming black, two hooves struck their mark, sending the other stumbling back.

Chestnut and black hide mingled for a moment, before they danced 'round eachother without either placeing another blow. The bronze waited for the black's advance, the whirled in and placed a thundering kick into his chest.

The fight went on, blow enchanged for blow. But in the end only one could rule.

And, not an hour later, the victor stepped forth.

That day, the bronze known as Aviaro, descendant of the Silver one himself, claimed the land that would be come to known as Dreamscape Meadows.

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