Older, but certainly not wiser, Psychedelic saw himself to the Lagoon.

More scars littered his body when last he was here (though some of those very scars were earned on behalf of this place) and he looked good. He looked as a wild stallion should look, particularly a formidable, strong one. He was in his prime and did not walk as if dejected as he entered the familiar muck and mire of this place. In deep he breathed, sucking in a large breath of the stale, muddy smell and exhaling slowly, smiling as the last bit of air left his lips.

We’re home.

Immediately his attention was drawn toward the nearest body, which happened to be a stallion he didn’t recognize. Big surprise, Psychedelic had been gone from the Lagoon for a few years now, long enough (he suspected) for Kasabian to be a distant memory. He glanced around the lone figure and saw no others, which again did not shock him. The Lagoon had always gone through periods of emptiness in the past eight years on and off since Psychedelic had resided here. He doubted any familiar faces remained.

Moving toward him without rush, Psychedelic studied the way the gold and white stallion held himself, assessing him as he approached. By the time he was close enough to talk he still hadn’t gathered any thoughts about the man, but knew they’d come the more they spoke.

“Hey,” Psychedelic nodded his head and if he’d had an eyebrow, he might have raised it. Instead he settled for a slow glance around them before his gaze returned. “Pretty packed in here, huh?”