There’s a chill in the air that heralds the end of Autumn, and Rafe shivers against the breeze. His coat has thinned from living on Salem, and he is lean due to the scarcity of food found in the Badlands. There’s no reason to bulk up for the winter when winter never really comes. He regrets it now, though, wandering the edges of this browning meadow.
There isn’t really a reason for him to be wandering on the Crossing isle - his herd is full now, and he has a number of foals on the way. But he’d picked up Sabriel’s scent leaving the Badlands, and was concerned - she’s always so sad. He hadn’t been able to actually find her, but her departure is the excuse he was clinging to. Part of him knows that she can take care of herself, but he aches at the thought of Sabriel being alone, of not finding the peace he’d vowed was present in the sandy sprawl of his home. He still doesn’t know what haunts her, but it must be massive, whatever ghosts she carries.
He’s distracted by his thoughts of the somber, silver-marked mare and almost misses the small path that veers off to the side, hoofprints fresh in the moist, loamy soil. Rafe tilts his head peering down the shaded, hidden trail and finally lets out a soft snort, heading down it. It isn’t as if he has any actual plans here, today. No one to see, nothing to accomplish. Why not wander? Perhaps whoever it is hiding down this way, secreted away from the rest of the Meadow, will be a worthy distraction from his missing solemn, somber companion.