Shrill squeals wake Faolain from fitful sleep at the top of the Ridge’s spine. She had been dreaming of snow, great peaks of it rising like waves during an ocean storm, though Atlantis never saw a single flake. It was not a pleasant dream, but neither was it particularly unpleasant, and Faolain is momentarily disoriented at the sharp sounds that pull her from the muted silence of the snow. Her ears swivel about in alarm and her head raises abruptly from where her muzzle rested on the damp earth. Pale light filters through the canopy above, but it is not very warm; clouds obscure the sun, and the sky is pregnant with rain. As Faolain staggers to her feet, gentle thunder ripples through the sky, and she shakes away the shroud of sleep. Had she imagined the squeals?

No, she is sure she has not. Her mind never makes such things up; she has little in the way of imagination. The paths her mind travels along exist on a grid: predictable, logical, organized. She rids herself of her confusing dreams with another shake of her inky mane, for they serve no purpose, and sets off down the mountainside, slipping through the trees like an inky river rolling downhill. Her small hooves have no trouble finding purchase along the tangled ground. She is at home here, despite her mental disarray.

Beneath the mournful sky, Faolain spills out onto the grey sand. Before her stand a spotted stallion and a bay mare, and she watches as the mare drives the stallion a short distance away. It all happens quickly, but the inky mare is able to see the bay’s fury and the grullo’s fear in the way they stand in the shallows, but she does not immediately realize that the mare is blind.

With brisk strides, Faolain closes the distance between herself and the pair. She lets out a confident call as she approaches; the waves and the thunder alike hide the sounds of her hoofbeats in the sand, and the two look startled enough as it is. ”This is not a place for fighting,” she announces, her voice firm but not unkind. ”If you need help, I am happy to provide it.” With the experiences of a mare, Faolain is inclined to believe that the stallion is the offender in this situation, but her voice addresses both of them; now that she is closer, she can more easily read the fear and hurt in the spotted grulla. Her eyes slide between them, studying them equally, waiting for them to acknowledge her, and she softens a bit as she realizes that both of these newcomers are deeply troubled. Whether they enlighten her to their situation, shared or individual, is their choice, but curiosity unfurls within her as she observes them.