"If Love himself weep, shall not lovers weep,
learning from what sad cause he pours his tears?
Love hears his ladies crying their distress,
showing forth bitter sorrow through their eyes
because villainous Death has worked its cruel
destructive art upon a gentle heart,
and laid waste all that earth can find to praise
in a gracious lady, save her chastity."

A chill whips through the open sparce of land, its gust ruffling the unkempt strands of Macabre's blonde mane and forcing the tresses to dance about her topline. The strong, salty gust off the ocean whipped through the Peak's canyon-like walls, and the wind howled as it passed through the porous cliffs. The thin mare shudders in the breeze, and a chill runs down the length of her spine. She had never been one for cold-weathered places. That said, she had spent a good deal of time in Tinuvel with Dogun and not once did she complain of the island's frigid temperatures. It was as if Macabre associated the cold with being alone.

When the stranger looks at her, Macabre does not move. She's not afraid of her, surprising to even to herself. She instead studies the stranger for a moment, weighing the decision to return the call. Eventually the mare does, parting her whiskered lips and etching out a pitiful and hoarse whinny, weak from misuse, though intended as a welcomed response.

Her heart flutters in her chest. Macabre must admit, she's curious about this place. Secretly she hopes the mare in the distance approaches and wants to talk to her. It's a strange desire for Macabre, one that she's not sure she'd ready to admit just yet. But weeks - hell, months of solitude have made others do crazier things.