U n f o r t u n a t e l y for The Poet, taking a chance to tresspass in order to figure out where she has found herself is a risk she must take. It is very possible that it could take her nearly a week to find the island named The Crossing, the island that would be very similar to the Mingle grounds back on Kusheth. That would be days spent alone and at the mercy of not only predators with teeth and claws, but also at the mercy of predators that clench at the borders with their stench, eyes watching for one hoof to step out of place so that a mare unmarked becomes that which is theirs. That is why caution surrounds each step the painted mare takes as she approaches the quarrelling couple, wary of distance as the mare did not seem too welcoming upon The Poet's approach. This is solidified by the cow kick sent in her general direction. The Poet remains calm towards the mare, lowering her head calmly, respecting the mare and the power she fights with. The Poet is hardly here to cause any troubles, she is not here to run out mares, she just wishes to figure out where she is and where to go from this desertland. Unless, of course, she is welcomed to stay in The Desert, but that seems like it is not a possibility.

T h e Gladiator is quick to answer her question, also offering his name and for a moment she smiles softly. It is rare for her to come across another that has a name that sounds like it is more a title than an actual name. There plenty with foreign names that also start with the word "The" but it sounds so much more beautiful in foreign tongue. There is tension that is more important than her amusement over his name, however, as the powerful mare speaks with such force. The power, the anger and the forceful nature cannot help but remind The Poet of those that made the cities of Azza their home. Very few on her beloved island of Kusheth spoken with such unfriendly tones, even if someone did trespass. The Poet cannot help but feel out of her comfort zone as a soft snort pushes past her nose to relieve the anxiety building up within her chest. "No disrespect meant, El Aran. I am not from here and found myself lost. I've already been through that island." The Poet pointed her muzzle towards Luthien, a place full of herds, just like this island that she will come to learn is named Salem. "And I don't know how long this goes on for."

S i l e n c e falls between the three horses as Poet ends her answer towards El Aran. While waiting for something, anything, from either of the two horses, The Poet thinks about her time spent back on her beloved island of Kusheth, where the rolling hills of lush green grasses tickled her legs as she walked through Meronil, merely enjoying the breeze and bright skylight. It makes this situation so much different, something she has never had to face for the longest time until now. Though Poet is a strong mare in her own right, she is more so a diplomat, she was the type to offer advice when asked. Though it is quite clear that this mare does not need advice, she is quite sharp and definitely proves she can be quite the fighter. Though, perhaps, if these two could see eye to eye, a powerful herd could be created, but The Poet knows all to well that she must prove her worth first and foremost, and even she does not know what could be used as proof for this seemingly bitter mare. "She looks as if she's gone through a lot, her resentment does not come without reason..." Poet's thoughts swirl like a calm storm within her mind as she analyzes what she can of the mare, as the stallion has very little that is out of the ordinary. Prying seems like the worst possible thing to do towards this mare, however, so for now she will remain in silence.

CALLED the poet
BORN A mare
BLOOD OF mixed
COLORED bay tovero, Ee Aa nT nO
STANDING 15.2 hands
AGED 8 years
KEPT IN no place
CREATED no foals
WRITTEN BY salem