"So, you want to transfer to someplace I've never heard of?" Chief Constable Owens said, the words rolling out around the thick chewstick in his mouth.
Stormare blinked at him. She'd already packed her stall, stowing everything safely away in her inventory. It had been a bit iffy at one point, but it seemed that being Herd Mare meant that she could heft as much as she wanted. Stormare huffed a mental sigh at the thought of having this conversation with her two sons. One of them was Herd Stallion and wouldn't be happy having to mediate the fights his mares would start over her moving out of contact.
"It's not unheard of," Olson, the head ostler of the police stables said as he strolled into the stables.
Stormare spared him a glance before returning her attention to Chief Constable Owens. The man needed a better chewstick. He was part beaverdam mixed with high elf. It gave him a set of ever-growing front teeth that needed to be filed down.
Beaverdam usually chewed on a variety of chewsticks cultivated for their hardness and tastiness over the last few centuries. The Chief Constable's family sent him sticks periodically, but stress made his teeth grow faster.
She wasn't happy that she was giving him stress, but she was set on transferring.
"Just tell me why, Stormare?" Chief Constable Owens said, yanking the chewstick out of his mouth. "You're my best nabber."
Stormare shook out her mane. The end of the chewstick wasn't even soggy. He'd likely grabbed it on his way out. She made a mental note to talk to his wife. K'ahli would appreciate the notice. The woman was constantly complaining about how he kept forgetting to gnaw enough, giving their kids a bad role model.
Stormare activated the gems on her halter.
"I'm not needed here anymore. There's no more challenge." The words were soft yet firm. Stormare stopped herself from preening just a little. It'd taken a lot of tweaking to get that voice just right. Half the time, she'd thought the artificer would just chuck the three stones at her head instead of enchanting them.
"There's plenty of challenges! Why, I heard that, erm, um," Chief Constable Owens paused as he absentmindedly shoved the stick in his mouth. Stormare could hear his molars grinding away. "I know there's something," he mumbled, turning away.
Olson and Stormare exchanged looks. Olson shrugged, shaking his head. Stormare snorted; she dearly wished she hadn't shoved all her feed into her inventory. Taking it out for just a bite was far more trouble than she wanted.
The whole load would drop out if she tried. Stormare envied her youngest stallion; he could hold anything in his inventory and remove just the slightest amount without any trouble whatsoever.
"Boss? I don't think that there's any open cases Stormare can help with," Olson finally said.
Chief Constable Owens whirled around, stick nearly dangling from his lips. He chomped down on the chewstick, causing it to inscribe a neat circle in the air.
Then he deflated.
"Fine, fine, I admit that we've cleaned up the port pretty well these last few months," Chief Constable Owens admitted. "The only thing I can think of is those thieveries of old pots and dinnerware. Who steals that sort of thing?"
"I heard there's a market among the new residents," Olson said diplomatically. "Still, that's more a two-legged job and not suitable for Stormare."
"Those people!" And with that, Chief Constable Owens stumped off, muttering about inconceivable behaviors.
"Guess you're transferring, then," Olson said, patting Stormare's neck.
"Guess so," Stormare replied. She hoped her other conversations would go better.
*****
"I'm going, too," Krin said.
Beside him, his older brother shook out his mane but stayed silent. The gems adorning his mane glittered in the bright sunlight. Unlike his dam, Thunder chose the simple expedient of having his gems braided into his mane.
Of course, the gems would have to be rebraided in every so often as the mane grew out, but it was a small price to pay for not having to wear a halter, harness or strapping of any sort.
Behind Thunder, two of his mares exchanged rather hostile looks. The others in his herd were slowly backing away and the nascent start of cliques started showing.
"Why would you? Aren't you happy here?" Stormare asked, looking towards the distant shadow of Harbor City.
"Aren't you?" Krin countered. He and his older brother shared a glance.
Unlike most herds, Stormare and her brood were descended from the heraldry. Their ancestors had been the mounts of knights and kings, lawmakers and scholars and when that ended, had in turn sought out those professions.
Krin was an enforcer and a scholar, something Stormare was particularly proud of. Thunder was content breeding the next generation of horses, having retired from the constabulary after a particular fierce arrest.
It had ended his career along with the lives of half his constable house. There was a large patch of fertile fields in his name near the capital which he'd disdained in favor of one of the family pastures.
Stormare had found it telling that someone had massacred the horses the rancher Thunder had leased it to had placed shortly after he'd arrived with his herd.
"It isn't safe to travel alone," Krin said stubbornly.
"I'm joining a caravan for most of the trip," Stormare said.
"It's not safe to travel to Crestfield alone," Krin promptly replied.
Stormare was speechless. She could faintly hear snickering from somewhere in the depths of the herd.
Thunder turned his head and snorted. As if on cue, the herd dissolved into disparate groupings.
"It's decided. Krin will go with you. If it's safe enough, we'll come as well." Thunder shook out his mane again. "There's something in the air around here lately."
"Which is why it isn't safe to travel alone, especially you," Krin added. He snatched up a mouthful of grass.
Stormare frowned at him and then at his brother. Both stallions had resorted to grazing.
"Fine. We leave at dawn. The caravan is at Crestfield."