He fled from Luthien with his heart pounding, his blood racing, and his mind a confused hive of thoughts that didn’t connect to one another in ways he felt they should. As his legs struck at the choppy ocean waters and he swam the channel from the forest island and back to Crossing Isle, Peyote found himself wanting something he’d never wanted. His father. The absence of the dun paint was felt by his son for the first time as Peyote climbed ashore and skirted as far away from the Peak as he could, making quick work down the shoreline and toward the other side of the island. Everything Peyote had learned in his life had come from Psychedelic’s mouth. His father had raised him purposefully, but Peyote had never realized (and still did not) that he had been raised for a purpose.

Peyote had been raised to be Psychedelic’s retribution on the islands long after his death; a means to preserve the evil their bloodline continued to infect the islands with. Now, some few odd months after his sire disappeared from the Lagoon, new lessons were beginning to be brought to Peyote that didn’t align with what he’d been taught. He was confused and frustrated, heated and somewhat overwhelmed by the time he stomped across the invisible line from the Commons to the Lagoon.

Shortly after, Peyote stormed his way directly into the small clearing the Lagoon boss grazed. Almost immediately he came to a halt and snorted, hard, flicking his dark tail out behind him in a few irritated snaps. His eyes, narrowed somewhat with both irritation and suspicion, glanced over the boss and took note of his injuries. He blinked and his gaze went for the boss’s face once more. When he spoke, he only said two words, but he said them firmly, accusatory. “The Forest.” The questions were in his eyes, but they were accompanied by suspicion. Confusion didn’t settle right with Peyote, and all the questions he was beginning to have were leading back to the stallion standing before him now, which was beginning to make him look somewhat like a target.