Wild Plains

Chapter One

"LYRA!" called a voice outside the young filly's tent. Not wanting to listen to him, she rolled over with a groan, trying to go back to sleep. Unfortunately, her plan was foiled by the owner of the voice, who ripped the flap of her tent open, causing the bright orange beams of the sunrise to stream into her tent and flood her eyes, even though she wasn't facing them.

"Get up Lyra, the Choosing ceremony is happening in about ten minutes whether you like it or not!"

The voice just couldn't let her catch a break, could it? With a massive sigh, Lyra pulled the woolen blanket up to her chin before turning to face the voice's owner with a scowl on her face and a complaint on her lips.

"Why do I have to go, Sanden? Everyone knows I'm not going to be Chosen, especially since I don't belong here. You know it, I know it, they know it," she whined.

The voice's owner, Sanden, had adopted her when she first came to the Plainsclan. Unlike the rest of her Clanmates, Lyra wasn't born into the group, or even on the Plains. She was a Caballashifter, but instead of a Plains Mustang, Appaloosa, or Quarter, she was a Streamsclan Percheron. The fact that she had virtually no natural adaptations to the hot, dry grassland made it hard enough, but the inability to belong and the way no one accepted her made life just that much harder. Over time, she had aclimated to the heat and lack of moisture, both by simply getting used to it and doing things herself to alliviate the discomfort. Typically, she would either roll in the dust to lighten her glossy black coat when she was in horse form, or swim in the nearby lake as a person. But for all that, she could never acclimate to the hard stares, mistrustful gazes, or pinned ears that always seemed to follow her around. She would never understand why this was, for she knew only the bare minimum about Streamsclan, and she certainly didn't have any communication with them, therefore couldn't exactly cause Plainsclan any harm, but they didn't really care. She'd spent countless nights wondering why she'd been dumped as a newborn foal - she only had one theory, that she was the lovechild of some affair, and that a mare up in Streamsclan had worked very hard to get rid of her.

Lyra took a deep breath through her nose, ready to argue with her adopted father even further, but he cut her off.

"How do you mean everyone knows? No one ever knows who will be Chosen. The Great Wind is not the type to share secrets, Lyra. You must participate in the Choosing ceremony whether you like it or not. Just because you're not accepted by everyone doesn't change the fact that you are a Plainsclan filly, and therefore you must follow tradition," he told her, disapproval edging into his voice. When Lyra didn't move, still staring intently at him, his face and voice softened somewhat. "Look, I know most of Plainsclan has not treated you well, and cast you aside because they believe you to be something you aren't. However, kicking a screaming at them doesn't help you - proving them wrong by showing how true your heart and soul are does. Now, for spirit's sake, please get ready," he ordered, turning to go and letting the tent flap fall closed behind him.

Lyra hated to admit it, but he was right. What she never told anyone was that she truly wanted to be a part of Plainsclan - she'd grown up in their desert and grassland territories, and knew no other home. Perhaps her breed belonged to the Northern Streamsclan, but Plainsclan was her home, and she was determined to showcase that. Rolling out of her bed (a long deerskin pouch stuffed with grasses and winter coat shed), she washed her face off in the small wooden basin near the tent flap, pulled on her best cattlehide dress, and combed her fingers through her thick, black hair before weaving it into a long four-strand braid. Satisfied with her appearance, Lyra scrambled out of the tent, closed it up behind her, and began making the trek to the center of the encampment. It was time for the Choosing ceremony to begin...