The stranger she suddenly finds herself face-to-face with is small and pale, with wide, curious brown eyes. Ravnur stands stiff and tall, having frozen the moment she’d heard the other’s hoof beats, and simply waits, quietly and quickly formulating a first impression of the stranger before her. The mare is pretty, and unusual with her creamy coat, but there’s none of the soft vulnerability that she might expect to see in the face of one so ethereal in appearance. Is this one of them? she thinks hopefully, but lets no hint of her thoughts show on her tawny features.

When Valencia finally speaks, Ravnur is at first taken aback by the bluntness of her proclamation-esque greeting, and flicks back the ear which is torn in two atop her raven crest. This must be the matron, she decides, and feels an instantaneous flicker of guilt for not having presented herself more modestly. But, of course, Ravnur is never one to bow down to another. So instead she allows her velvet lips to faintly curl in the ghost of a smile. She can appreciate how straight-to-the-point Valencia is, at least. I didn’t even have to ask. She gave me the information I needed.

“Thank you. I am Ravnur, a new recruit. Are you the only one here?”