"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."

Macabre's life in the Peak continued on much the same. Just like when she was with Dexter on the crossing, she ambled along the rocky ridges alone and without much purpose. The petite chestnut mare hoped to find Inka, the mare who told her about this place. It had been months and Macabre could honestly say she'd hardly met anyone else who lived here.

There were periods in her solitude that Macabre thought she was losing her mind. It seemed fitting, of course, that after so many years or torment that this was the way The Reaper would finally take her. He would make her suffocate from within the depths of her own mind until she went completely mad. The chestnut mare would wander through the trees, her dished cranium whipping back and forth at the sound of a twig breaking behind her or a leaves crunching underneath her feet. She was on edge, her eyes searching endlessly for company, but never finding it.

So when she heard the pounding hooves of another, Macabre didn't initially stir. You're just making it up. She told herself, while leaning one hip against the rough bark of a shady oak. But the hoof beats were followed by whinnies and snorts. One lobe flicked forward as she registers the sound, then the other. The rustling continues and her weight shifts to stand evenly over all four limbs. Her heat begins to race against the confines of her chest. A glimmer of hope sparks inside of her. Maybe this time, it would be real.

She tries not to move too anxiously, instead taking quick but choppy strides. When she reaches the ledge of a boulder, she spies the pair down below. Inka. She remembers the mare's heaving dark frame. Macabre watches intently as the filly ambles on in her wake. Quickly, the mare made her way down the mountain, eager to greet them. When she reaches level ground, another has already joined, another heavy-set mare, this one of an opposite color.

Flushed and unprepared, Macabre bobs her head as she approaches, nickering gently in greeting, but keeping her distance from the two much larger mares and child. "Hello everyone."