The chasms echo from the deep. They escort the sounds of the jungle down to dance across the coast. In their whispers the vines jingle happily from their lofty perch amongst the trees. The monkeys call restlessly to one another in the darkness, and somewhere the drums of a waterfall can be heard. As if to protect its secrets, the foreground drowns out the echoes with the crash of merciless waves against its stark, steep slopes.

This is the ridge – this is the king’s fortress.

A wartime king must have battlements. A peaceful king can have the luxury of a glorious kingdom. Golden orbs have already gazed from the Ridge’s high peaks down to his neighbor. He studies the land; he studies the painted neighbor. He must be ready. He must be prepared. One thing is clear; paradise is nothing like the ridge. The rocks hold many secrets, countless places to hide. It a formidable land. One wrong step and a body will go crashing to the sea. And that’s if its not skewered by rocky points on the way down. "Watch your step.” Chocolate maw opens to call to his companion. Legs lift high over the jagged rocks protecting the small, gray beach beyond. The sudden movement causes the sea to foam and splatter. Small scraps of water protest the disturbance by slapping against legs and belly. Ears swivel back to listen for the nameless one. The king’s visage remains on what lies ahead. From sea level, the territory rises quickly into the sky and towards the jungle, which rests after acres of dark rock and nestles against the mountainside. Ears swivel back to listen for the nameless one. The lord does not press her for a name - he can be patient, he can wait.

Her pelt is chocolate – much like his muzzle and the fuzzies that jut out from his ears. Her legs are strong and her appearance is wild. To have the gift of wildness is to have a chance at surviving in this harsh world. Shaking off the excess water, the golden one’s coat remains stained, a dirty palomino hue. Eyes steam excitedly as he sneaks a glance back at the chocolate palomino. He looks to her face for a first impression. Would she see wonder, or fear, as she sets eyes on new home for the first time? Deep gulps of breath send fresh air straight to his lungs. He loves this smell: home. Sea, salt, flowers, rock it is a unique cacophony only found in the ridge. It already lingers on his skin; it will leave its mark on her as well. It is not the dusty scent of the shore, or even the palm tree allure of the harbor, but it is still Atlantis, and it is still wonderful. With a nudge to her shoulder he urges her forward. "Care to take a look around?”. Soft whiskers feel their way to her barrel – thinking about the treasure that most likely lurks inside. It tickles his maw to feel her skin, as his mouth almost tastes the salt from the journey over. Indulgently, nostrils flare to drink in her scent. He can briefly feel the heat from her bones though the water keeps them both slightly cool in the humid air. Soon Apollo will dry them – and winter’s devilish bite will be just a distant memory.

This mare is already a trinket of the ridge – and already proving her worth. A vixen, she might be, but a vixen is just what Midas needs. Yellow crown turns from her and calls to a ravine nearby. It echoes back as it carries the sound into the hillside. A call to Sylvia. The perlino will know he is home but he will not go to her, not now, there are more pressing issues at hand.