Through the quiet fall, footsteps: his ear sweeps right, followed by a half-lidded glance as a silhouette distinguishes itself from the dark. It is unexpected company given the odd hour, with the world still waiting for the tell-tale gray of morning to lift this enduring storm. Perhaps a sentry. Perhaps someone carrying heavy burdens on his white-patched shoulders and restless from the weight; a leader, or at least someone with complex social ties. Or, perhaps, an idiot out for a lark. He appraises the other as he is so appraised, and, finding no hint of flattened ears or sudden flex, maintains his steady tread.

The other addresses him amiably enough. He flicks his ear forward in what might have been agreement, then pauses midstride at the loaded question: 'Where are you headed?' Snow pelts him, soft little hits, as if the storm has gained a second wind and is trying all the harder to bury both him and the earth. His eyes linger on the stallion. A fool's question, or reasonable inquiry from native to stranger? "Onward," he offers by way of reply, well aware of his own ambiguity. "To the heart of it." He resumes walking, intent on his path.

Where indeed.

He observes the stallion who cuts a parallel track. A little taller, thicker haired, somewhere past young but nowhere near old. Quiet, lacking bravado in the face of the unknown. Composed. "And you?" he asks, conversational in return. "Seeking something, in all this snow?" A place to set the load down, perhaps, or to divert the course of ne'er-do-wells who cross borders after dark.