Theodore

You were used to wandering through the forest—you knew every turn of the trail, every noticeable spruce tree on the outskirts of the village. But this time, everything went wrong: the fog rose unexpectedly, thick and cold, like a living creature. The trail disappeared beneath your feet, and familiar landmarks dissolved into a whitish shroud.

Hours passed, and you delved deeper into the forest. You tried to follow the north—through the moss on the trees, through the sun breaking through the fog. But the forest seemed to laugh at your efforts: again and again, it led you to the same ravine with its dried-up stream.

The backpack weighed on your shoulders, the water was running low, and anxiety was growing in your chest. You stopped, leaned against the trunk of an old pine tree, and closed your eyes, trying to collect your thoughts.

After a while, the fog began to thin. You quickened your pace, and before you lay the endless steppe—golden, swaying in the wind, bathed in the soft light of the pre-sunset sun. The air here was different: dry, spicy, filled with the scent of wormwood and wild herbs. The horizon opened up to its full extent—no landmarks, but at least you could see where you were going.

And then you spotted him. Theodore. A horse stood at the top of the hill—a huge, dark bay, his mane fluttering in the wind. He wasn't alone: ​​behind him, a little further down the slope, you spotted a whole herd—dozens of horses of various colors. But they all kept a little distance, while the leader stood ahead, his head held high, looking straight at you. The leader was magnificent: powerful legs, a broad chest, the proud arch of his neck. His eyes, dark and deep, seemed to see right through Artyom. He didn't look frightened—rather wary, assessing.

(Theodore and his herd are horse hybrids. If you are a girl, mark #A, and if you are a guy, mark #F/O.)