<They Came Before Sunrise>

[Hunted Hoofstock]

When they came, the sun was still a memory, nestled deep between the rolling swells of distant hillsides that seemed to stretch on endlessly across the horizon outside of the fences. The stars winked down upon us all from high above, paling as the sky bled from black to deep blue as dawn approached. It was long before the hours when the men would come to feed us, and longer still from when they would come to hunt us, when I first heard the rumble of tires flicking up stones along the dirt road.
From far away, it just looked like a cloud of agitated dust in the moonlight, an invisible force creating sound and disruption without showing itself. In retrospect, I now realize this is because the shining lights on its great blunt muzzle were turned off, unlike the other midnight passers-by who occasionally rattled past the distant roads surrounding our confines. Hiding, I suppose, for whatever reasons humans hide. In this case, hiding from Those Who Own Us, for the bursts of gunfire that later filled the night would be, for the first time ever, directed at man, not beast.
The bulls weren't even awake yet, you see; it was mostly just myself. I can never sleep at night, it seems; the anxiety of wondering when you will next be raped or killed tends to do that to even a doe who was once a level-headed, bold creature. I haven't been bold for years; it becomes difficult to hold your head up high in a place as unnatural as this any more. No formal herds, no heirarchy of dominance, no miles of roaming or new grazing fields; just dull, dry piles of hay, chainlink fencing, and the crackling boom of gunshots.
I hope, where we are going, you will never have to learn about guns, or any of man's wicked ways. Perhaps this long voyage in this hot, crowded trailer is only the next step before our inevitable deaths, in which case you and I will never meet. But this feels so different, like some kind of promise; there is a gentle sense of urgency in these men I have not encountered in another human being yet. I've heard rumors of masked warriors in the night, bringing victimized animals to far-away places, never to be hurt again. Could we be the lucky ones?
"Eloin?"
<The doe blinked her large brown eyes once, hard, as if coming out of a daze. The muzzle brushing her flank was a familiar one, but she still stamped her hoof warningly, large ears flopped back and nostrils flared. Pregnant does were always a bit unpredictable, not that Salen knew much about the ways of does, or of his species in general. He stared dumbly at the fae's reaction to being roused so suddenly and unexpectedly from her day-dreaming, snorting and drooling in the opressive heat of the tightly-stocked livestock trailer, absently chewing his cud. The female's head swung his direction in an agitated and dismissive gesture, but he couldn't have moved if he wanted to, his flanks allready pressed between other hoofstock and the hard, metal walls of the trailer.>
"Are you allright? You've been standing there for hours, just staring at the wall."
<The concern was genuine enough, even if he had no real attachment to the doe. A bit too domesticated, a little too tame, the clueless bull-elk had that aura of unnatural friendliness and altruism that tainted the behavior of anything that had been bred too long under man's discretion. From his stark-white pelt and bright pink nose, to his bold and curious nature, he was a predator's wet dream, a healthy, powerful, prime animal too stupid to realize his strength and too ignorant to sense danger.>
"I'm fine, Salen; just thinking."
<Eloin's response was short and vague, hoping to discourage conversation. It was probably not entirely healthy to have lengthy mental conversations with a fetus, but frankly, something that couldn't talk back was more favorable company in the confines of the trailer. Between the heat and thirst, the diesel fumes burning her delicate nose, and the deafening roar of traffic and road noise, she was in a sorry mood for chatter...>
<At the opposite end of the trailer, in a sort of make-shift pen created by tethering a series of gates together into a small 4x4 stall, the din of horns clattering ceaselessly against steel only compounded the intensity of the din. Even in a double-decker, with the stirring of hooves resounding from the ceiling above them, the rattles and clangs of the blackbuck's spiraling horns muted all sounds by comparison. Dearg's relentless assault on the bars was interrupted only occasionally as he turned to face another gate, hoping to find a weak spot somewhere along the barrier.
It was probably very clever of the activists, even if the rest of their plan was ill-concieved, to have placed the blackbuck alone. Impossible to catch without tranquilization, he'd split the forearm of one of his "saviors" from wrist to elbow in one final struggle before the drugs took effect. His terror had transformed the shy, flighty beast into a thrashing, rabid, illogical beast, hellbent only on finding freedom from his frightening new surroundings. Loose in a two-level trailer stocked muzzle-to-rump with deer, elk, bison, antelope, and other hoofstock, those twin spyres adorning his head could have become deadly weapons instead of beautiful adornments.>
"Christ, would you give it a fucking rest allready?"
<Brechin threw his impressive rack against the bars opposite of the blackbuck's flank, causing the nervous animal to startle further, now thrashing against the gates with his entire body. The buck let out a long, huffing sigh, his nostrils flared to their fullest size and head lowered in agressive frustration. A monstrosity of tangled tines, the deer was the result of breeding that strived for the most impressive racks possible. Loaded with testosterone and emboldened by years of victorious fights, Brechin had no compassion for a pitiful, neurotic creature like Dearg>
"I swear, if the humans don't shoot you, I'll impale you if you don't cease that bloody racket."
"Shut up, Brechin; you're only making things worse."
<A gruff voice and strong words came from a comparatively small animal, a diminutive species of deer of the fallow variety. Pitch-black like all melanistic specimins of his kind, Larn seemed to blend in with the shadowy steel that surrounded him, his lofty cupped antlers seeming unnatural and cumbersome on such a delicate beast. Presently, the said antlers were thrown down and fowards, brow tines in line with Brechin's great, muscular chest as he pawed the ground in agitation.>
"Larn, I don't even need to run you through; I could trample you if I so fancied, so mind your own business."
"And I'll tussel any time, Brechin."
<Retorted the fallow deer, staring heatedly at the other buck until the larger deer snorted and looked away, settling peevishly against the rattling gait to his side. A satisfied sneer spread quickly across Larn's face, pleased that, as always, he'd proved the whitetail buck was more clatter than stab. Turning away to reclaim his spot on the cold, piss-soaked steel floor below him, he caught sight of a peculiar piebaled whitetail watching him with wonder, and smiled just a bit. Rannoch was a foolish and youthful thing, so young he hadn't three tines to his name, but he admired Larn for both his intellect, and his striking ability to intimidate despite his size. The fallow could see just from looking that the buck fancied challenging another deer so boldly some day.>
"It'll come, Rannoch."
<Said Larn with a wink, folding his elegant black haunches beneath his bulk and settling back down on the unforgiving metal that seemed alive with the vibrations of the road.>

<On the second level of the trailer, Finbar rested soundlessly in the far corner of his confines. He, too, had been segregated from the others by a large, tightly-fastened gate, not so much because he was agressive, but because he was massive. Humans tend to equate size and strength with brutality, as it is the way they would use such prowess. Yet despite his hulking mass, the white bison - or perhaps the hybrid, for no one really knew - was as serene as the much-exhalted doves of a similar color. Drool leaking steadily from his slack jaws in the heat, the snoozing bovine was a sanctuary of silence in the noisey trailer full of terrified beasts>

[Herne Casalodi Hespera]

:Casalodi huddled close to the floor and wall of the trailer, his liquid-dark eyes squinted near shut and body quivering in a mix of excitement and nervousness. While the white buck was naturally submissive, any change from his previous endless cycle of confusion and denial could only mean good things. After all, in Casalodi’s mind, he was not the white buck but the average doe- the confusion that this caused amongst his fellows led to much of the woe in his life. In his mind, the trip meant an easy way to get away from the others- who were obviously mad- and into a realm of level-headed, intelligent beings whom would accept him for what he was.
:His peaceful contemplations were ended as Brechin incited the poor blackbuck. Casalodi glanced up with a disapproving scowl, annoyed at both the extra noise and the other herbivore’s torture. Loud and obnoxious it may be, but Casalodi was sure that was the humans’ fault, not the slender beast’s. Once Larn stepped into the altercation, however, the white buck sunk into himself, huddling against the corroded steel of the trailer and shuddering miserably. Such fights, with lowered antlers and hot words, always made him feel intrinsically uncomfortable, some mostly-hidden urge that desperately fought to emerge.
:Once, a white tail doe- his friend, before she was shot- had tried to explain to him the glowing, egotistical feel of having bucks fight over one, to see the winner prance towards you, knowing your young would be powerful and bold... Casalodi longed for that feeling, for that experience. But, no, all of the fools always insisted he was a buck, when he was obviously a doe. More the fools them. And here, his subconscious telling him lies he didn’t wish to hear. The words stopped, the fight ended, but Casalodi stayed huddled to the rumbling metal.:
:With his towering antlers and spotted coat, Herne made an odd image to any whitetail not used to his species- axis deer. The dark markings on his face that made him appear to wear a anthromorphic frown furthered his aggressive image. All early warning signs of his abrasive nature- in fact, his whole face was crashed down into a scowl, at the moment, and his posture was stiff and offended. The whole situation injured his sense of pride- the loading onto the truck, the following ride amongst the noisy multitudes. None of them his species... not even a doe.:
:Hespera was on the upper level of the trailer, standing with her body parallel to the bison’s ‘cage’. The tawny beast had passed from frightened to nervous, and now she gazed placidly at the zen dove-beast, unfamiliar with the species and wondering if they were all so calm. She had gathered her nerves several times during the trip to talk to the beast, wanting to ask after its origins, its name, its philosophy. Each time, she saw the expression, the posture, and could not bring herself to disturb the peace. Boredom had finally set in, however, and she gathered her will.
“Excuse me... what... who... what’s your name?” Her small head dipped on her angular neck, cocking to the side and displaying the spikes on the back of her crania. Her eyes rolled back, took in the trailer full of animals foreign to her- none of them shared her stocky, square body and antelopean limbs. Her skin shook with the creepy feel of being the only of her kind within such an enclosed space. She turned back to the white bovine, pressed her face to the bars in an obvious search for comfort.: