The Centaur's Guard

Not morning already? Brithaheim blinked, wondering where the time had gone. How had she slept so soundly? So late? The dawn was nearly upon them, and it was high autumn. Cold penetrated her aching shoulders. She should've been more used to carrying heavy weights for hours, but then again, her shift was longer than expected and her withers had been rubbed raw from the guard armor. She stumbled to her feet and out of the hollow. Grabbing a comb she went to work on her hair in front of the silver stand by the desk. At least she would be presentable, if not early. Racing out onto the balcony, the sun blinded her for a moment. Once the stars cleared from her vision, Brithaheim noted the warmth of the rays against her back; this was the best part of every day. The part she looked forward to seeing here in the garden. She pulled her hair up into a tight ponytail and started on her coarse tail hair. It was thicker but untangled with much more ease, chestnut hair catching the sun like copper. As a foal, she'd wished for black hair, or white. The palomino, bay, and black-hided centaur girls got much more attention. Now, she was glad for the mud-colored hair of her horse half. It blended well in the woods. She could travel and not raise attention. Neither from horse bottom nor human torso. She glanced down with a twinge of disdain. Her belly pooched just enough to make her unexceptional, and her arms bore the scars of numerous sword fights. Brithaheim shook her head as she snatched a handful of black-eyed daisies and carrotweed from the garden. Filling a vase from the cistern by her bed, she replaced the three containers of wilted plants on the desk with the new one. It mattered not how she looked as long as she was faithful. Right? Her equally chestnut hair didn't need to be fancy, so long as it didn't get in the way of her blade. Her pale face didn't need to be flawless, only functional. Better to sneer at the colts and fillies who got out of line.