Reginleif stood on her usual perch on the upper ledge of the peak, dark eyes peering down through the billowing tangles of her white mane. The fierce wind pushed and pulled at her but she stood firm like a statue, unyielding to the battering of the elements. Her mind whirred above the scream of the wind. The peak was dying, crippled by absentee leadership and uncommitted followers, not to mention a lack of purpose and drive. They had had a reputation once. They had been a force that could strike admiration or fear at the mere mention of their names. Now they were silent recluses. Their presence was just a whisper, a dying echo of a decimated tribe.

Reginleif had come to the mountain through no will of her own but what it stood for had been promising. She could get behind the idea and even flourish but the rest of the Vulcans did not seem to share her drive. Their famed codebreaker, Black Heart Machine had returned, only to disappear into nothingness once more. For a period, it had seemed that their prime minister had gone the same way but Reginleif had caught her scent once more in recent weeks. Reginleif remembered Impazienza from her days in the forest as a child, the half blind filly who had been scared but willing to face the grey filly’s father. Reginleif was not sure what to make of the mare that filly had become now, mostly because that mare had not sought her out yet.

Movement on the lower reaches of the mountainside caught the warrior woman’s attention; a lone figure ascending the peak. From a distance, the horse could pass for her uncle if not for the lack of dark stripes over its body - the build and base colour were strikingly similar though. With a sharp snort, the red-freckled warrior turns from her post and begins her descent. Loose rocks and pebbles clatter down the stony side of the mountain face in her wake. She has no need to be discreet so she does not try to be - the higher ledges are precarious enough without concentrating on more than just her footing.

As the steep slopes gave way to sturdy, flat ground, a call echoed over the mountain. They grey’s ears flicked back and then leaned curiously towards the call as her long strides brought her across the distance that separated her from the stranger. As she rounded the rocky corner - where the jagged stone rose sharply to her left - her gaze fell on the mare. Dark eyes trailed over the lines on the woman’s hide. Like Reginleif she looked like a fighter. She had scars similar to those that clawed over Reginleif’s peak and blood-sister, Áshildr’s hide. Like Áshildr, they marked her as a survivor but not necessarily a fighter. The proof that she was no stranger to battle came from the scars she bore that were similar to Reginleif’s own – the scars that came from their fellow equine’s hooves and teeth.

Reginleif did not greet the mare as she might one of the more pitiful creatures to ascend the mountain; no, she wondered if this might be a mare who would rise to her challenge. She trotted over, head tucked to her breast and ears pinned though she did not show outright aggression – she was posturing not attacking. When she reached her fellow warrior she extended her muzzle to her, exchanging breaths and moving her muzzle along the woman’s cheek, taking in her scent. Then, with a harsh snort, she pulled back abruptly, stamping her hoof forcefully into the rock.