The sleeping earth was hushed and soft, swathed in veils of low fog. The air was still, but faint with the salty scent of blood.
They came out of the soil, first their strong legs, then their shoulders, smooth and muscled. They rose out of the earth, fighting each other in the dusky light. They were made of a dirty metallic substance and ghostly flesh, these horses who tore at each other until they were fighting slowly, dreamlike – in a pool of frothing blood.
Place of great emptiness. Not even the birds make a sound.