Sarell takes a step, and then another, and another. In front of her, she sees churning soil and plodding hooves if she looks down, and snowy peaks against wide open sky if she looks up.
The herd is moving as one.
Their destination, the pass between the two closest mountains, seems only a few strides away but in reality it will be a hard day's run to reach it. Time to start running, then.
She picks up the pace, mane flying, tail streaming behind her, nostrils flaring. Soon a mottley herd of horses is flying over the landscape like a colourful cloud.
A movement on the horizon catches her attention.
"Marceline!" she calls. "What's that over there? Near Tarrow's Peak?"
This space has been left intentionally blank.