Runar is pulled from his dark, distant reverie by the sound of scattering pebbles below him. At first it’s faint, and he gives the sound hardly a twitch of his ear, putting it down to the small rabbit-like rodents he’s seen scurrying among the boulders. But then there’s the unmistakable clat of hoof on stone, and his head whips around, ears pricked and dark eyes wide. He is half-expecting it to be his mother returning from her excursion, but the memory of the strange curly-eared filly he’d met here before is still vivid in his mind. What he sees, however, is another filly entirely: a mahogany-brown girl about his age, somewhat heavy in stature, with legs so feathered they would put Errant’s to shame.

She stares at him for a moment, and he right back at her, a little frown sitting between his scrutinizing eyes. Oh, she says, I didn’t think anyone would be here. Runar says nothing to that, but continues to watch her as she gives her head a dismissive toss and climbs the last few strides to the crest of the hill. Once she’s on level ground with him, their difference in height and build is all the more pronounced, and Runar prickles a little with resentment. He’s accepted the fact that most other stallions on the Islands are giants in compared to his mother and him, but it doesn’t sit quite right to see such a young girl already dwarfing him.

His coal-tipped ears twist back at her question, which is posed as casual but, to him, feels somewhat accusative. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he retorts, lashing his tail against his mousy hindquarters, “but I’m waiting for someone. I’ll be gone soon enough. What are you you doing?” His gaze slides up and down her body, taking in the features which, to him, seem so wrong and alien for a female, before glancing back down the hill the way the filly had come. There’s no sign of Ylva, however, so he pivots his hindquarters to give the filly his full attention.