Rille wanders the woods in a path that, to any casual observer, must appear random and lacking cohesion. Since meeting Paisleydecain he has been much more careful as he hunts out the thorny brambles tucked low at the bases of trees and his seeking takes him all over the Thicket. Occasionally he runs into another member of the herd and leaves off his personal task to be present with them, for though he does not congregate with the herd he enjoys their company whenever they cross paths. Sweet Elain with her love for the flowers (and her Glenna); the quiet mare of sun-and-moonshine who speaks primarily through touch; the star-studded Titania— all as varied and numerous as the trees they walk among, and all as integral to sustaining the land. There are periods of time when he encounters no one, however, and spends long stretches in solitude occupied by his own pursuits.
On this brisk autumn afternoon Rille is maneuvering through a tight stand of poplars when Relke finds him. She is pale, her dark hair striped with white, an image of midnight and moonlight filtering through the trees. They have met like this before, suddenly on a quiet path under the canopy, and he recalls their time together fondly. She, like him, seems content with her own company, and as certain to emerge from her own solitude as the outgoing tide will return again to wash the shores with love before its next departure. “Relke,” he greets her, turning to touch his dark muzzle to her proffered nose. His ears angle forward in keen interest at her declaration.
Rille has not been especially forthcoming about his reasons for being here, not out of deceit but because there have been few times where it seems relevant to discuss. He does not know if Relke has spoken with Pilar or if the two mares have even met, but he would not put it past this creamy dream-mare to have come to understand what purpose he serves without even having been told. She seems to understand that life is carried within the trees, and from there it is only a matter of following the paths of the roots. A hesitant tendril of anticipation unfurls within Rille, and he reaches toward her again to lip lightly at her pale jaw. “Tell me your news.”