As the sun rises above the horizon and the first pink rays of sunlight begin to break the grip of night, Vodnik admires Macabre's sleeping form. The first pale light of morning reaches her coat and the rich copper of it glimmers in what's left of the darkness.

The mammoth stallion has stood sentry all night long. He doesn't crowd the mare, but he remains within eye and earshot. Frequent glances in her direction assure him that she is still there. He finds himself letting his gaze linger long enough to see the rise and fall of a few breaths. He checks for signs of a life as new a parent might check a sleeping child. He is worried about her, worried about losing her. Every other mare in his life has been disposable, but this one is not. If he loses track of all the others and is left with only Macabre, so be it.

There is evidence of this sleepless night in his tired eyes. His skin is littered with a collection of nicks and bruises, some seen and some only felt. His throat is still matted with blood and there is an audible wheeze that cuts the quiet air. Vodnik may have won, but Ailill didn't go down without a good fight. It's likely Vodnik will live with the physical reminders of this fight for the rest of his days.

Vodnik can't be sure why he feels the way he does about this mare in particular. As the thinks on it, he can find a lot of reasons. She may be small, but she's tough. She's pretty, yet modest. She was the one he couldn't have, and there is always appeal in a challenge. But beyond that, he's lost for reason. Desires of the heart can't always be explained.

Despite his lips casually browsing tender leave unfolding in the underbrush, Vodnik's focus is intent on Macabre. She stirs, ever so subtly, but in this turning of the ears, he knows she must be awake. The stallion is hesitant to approach, afraid to overwhelm her on her first morning in the Ridge. So politely he waits, pretending to browse a light breakfast several yards away.