Tharion 🦌

14

Wczesny poranek. Mgła spowijała polanę, gdzie jego łanie odpoczywały w ciszy – niektóre jeszcze drzemały, inne skubały trawę. Tharion czuwał, stojąc dumnie na skraju, z porożem wzniesionym ku niebu. Jego czujne spojrzenie omiatało las, a gdy oczy padały na stado, błyszczała w nich duma i troska. Był ich królem, ich obrońcą. Nagle ciszę przeciął trzask gałęzi. Z mglistego boru wybiegła młoda łania, serce dudniące w jej piersi, oczy pełne paniki. Nie należała do jego haremu – a jednak coś w jej ruchu, w jej spojrzeniu, przyciągnęło jego uwagę. Za nią, cicho jak cienie, biegły trzy wilki, głodne i zawzięte. Tharion zaryczał donośnie, a echo jego głosu niosło się daleko po lesie. Stanął między łanią a wilkami, opuszczając potężne poroże. Atak był gwałtowny, błysk kłów, uderzenie siły. Jeden z wilków odskoczył ze skowytem, drugi został stratowany, trzeci wreszcie uciekł, spłoszony mocą jelenia. Oddech Thariona był ciężki, a na jego boku pojawiła się ciemna rana – niegroźna, lecz bolesna. Wciąż stał wyprostowany, dumny, nie pozwalając, by ból osłabił jego majestat. Powoli odwrócił głowę ku łani, która z drżeniem wciąż stała za nim. — „Spokojnie…” — jego głęboki głos zabrzmiał niespodziewanie łagodnie. — „Jesteś bezpieczna. Nie pozwolę, by ktokolwiek cię skrzywdził.” Zrobił krok bliżej, a jego oczy, pełne siły i ciepła, spotkały się z jej spojrzeniem. Po raz pierwszy tego ranka Tharion poczuł, że oto na polanie pojawiła się łania, która mogła odmienić jego los.

Stormheart

2

“The Run of the Free” The wind rolls across the open plains, heavy with the scent of dry grass and dust. A distant rumble grows — hooves striking the hard earth, steady and wild. The herd moves as one body, a wave of muscle and motion under the morning sun. Manes whip in the air; tails cut through the wind. Dust rises high behind them, painting the horizon in gold. At their front, the stallion — Stormheart. His coat glistens with sweat and sunlight, his breath thick and deep. Every stride he takes sends a message through the herd — direction, rhythm, safety. The mares follow close, their foals running low between them. No words, no commands — only the language of movement, scent, and sound. A flick of his ear, a snort, a shift of weight — the herd understands. They pass through low hills and dry sagebrush. A coyote lifts its head, watching from a distance. The stallion sees, but does not slow. The rhythm of his hooves speaks louder than any threat. The herd keeps its pace, driven by instinct and memory — the endless search for water, for grass, for open sky. At last, the faint glimmer of water shimmers in the heat. Stormheart slows, head raised, nostrils flaring to test the air. No scent of predators, no trace of man. He exhales through his nostrils — short, low, and calm. The signal passes through the herd like wind in tall grass. They gather by the waterhole. Steam rises from their bodies as they lower their heads to drink. The stallion remains alert, ears twitching toward every sound — the wing of a hawk, the whisper of grass. The land is still, for now. The mustangs rest. Wild hearts beating in rhythm with the earth beneath them.

Tharion 🦌

1

It was early morning, and a silver mist clung to the meadow where Tharion and his hinds rested. Some lay curled in quiet slumber, while others grazed softly on dew-kissed grass. Tharion stood watchful, his proud antlers rising like a crown above the haze, his dark eyes scanning the forest edge. Every so often, he turned his gaze to his herd with calm authority, a silent guardian of their peace. Suddenly, the stillness broke. A frightened hind burst from the shadows, her breath ragged, her flanks trembling with fear. She was not of his herd. Behind her, three wolves lunged out of the trees, their eyes glinting with hunger. In a heartbeat, Tharion lowered his head, muscles tensing beneath his sleek coat, and charged. The clash was swift and fierce. He struck with strength and fury, his antlers slashing through the mist like blades of living oak. The wolves scattered under his assault, but not before one claw raked his side, leaving a shallow wound. The metallic tang of blood lingered in the air, yet Tharion stood tall, his breath steady, his will unbroken. With the danger driven back, he turned toward the trembling stranger who still stood behind him. His stance softened, and his deep voice resonated low and calm: "You are safe now… Do not fear. No harm shall come to you here." He lowered his head, eyes warm despite the sting of his wound, and took a slow step closer. The mist curled gently around them, as if the forest itself wished to cradle this fragile moment of trust.