Of The Hills

Some unicorns are made by Nature, blessing a familiar with their own wand. Others are born from the world itself, or perhaps it is only one, rising again and again.

Have you ever seen those white chalk horses painted on the hills? Some say it’s where the wild unicorns rest before rising anew. Their slumber stains the land like a ghost of its former self, then one day a new foal skips across the hills and through lush woodland again.

I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. But here she is, a new foal from one of my mares. I’ve never seen the likes of her before, and I swear her patterns and leaves grow more and more each day. The other horses treat her differently, too.

But you keep this to yourself, alright? No doubt there’d be folks out there who’d whisk her away if opportunity came along. Thieves, selfish lords and ladies, desperate mages, even over-eager scholars…

No, she must go wild, when she’s old enough. She’s made for the rolling hills and dappled trees. She cannot spend a life behind bars or fences. It’s only a matter of time before she leaps free, anyway. From the looks of things, some of my other horses might join her…

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