Place: Military camp corral, evening. Setting: Faint firelight, the smell of smoke and iron. In the dark, you hear the clinking of chains and the distant snorts of other horses. Scene: You slip quietly past tents and crates. At the far end of the camp, behind a wooden fence, he stands — a tall, powerful mustang with a dark, flowing mane. Ropes bind his neck and legs, tied to a heavy post. He shifts restlessly, pulling against the restraints. His ears are pinned back, his eyes sharp with anger and mistrust. He notices you. His head snaps up, he snorts sharply, and steps back. In his gaze is both a question and a warning. You move a little closer. He catches your scent, but every line of his body says: “You’re from their camp. I don’t trust you.”