It is night, and the desert herd is quiet.

Encantador himself stood with legs locked beneath a palm, his head hanging low near his knees as the moonlight filtered through the leaves of his shelter and illuminated the milkiness of his pelt. He was blind to the night's beauty, however, for he was fast asleep, and dreaming of a place far away, on another island - an island which no longer existed, though he was unaware of this - where a dark beauty, her skin marred with delicate white patches, approached him in the night and asked who he was looking for.

Before he can reply to the dream-vision, he hears another voice, a third, and he looks around, searching through the shadows to spot the intruder, but there is no one. He and this mare who looks so much like Dany are alone. He thinks then that the voice is that of God, for it seems to come from everywhere at once, and it sends his heart racing.

Then he wakes and groggily, slowly realizes that he had not imagined the voice. Lifting his head, he blinks and allows his vision to focus before spotting the black silhouette of El Aran perched nearby, on the other side of the oasis. He can tell instantly, by her body language, that she is not asleep. He watches her for a few quiet moments, her back to him, waiting for her to speak again, to whisper into the night, and hoping that he might catch her words this time. But there is nothing, only the silence of the desert.

He finally approaches her and slides up along one side of her barrel, not quite close enough to touch, yet he is relaxed enough in his sleepiness to rest his chin on her shoulder briefly, almost affectionately. When he pulls away, his skin is damp, and he notices that there is an extra, unwonted sheen to her dark pelt. She is sweating, and apparently troubled by something.

Brows creasing with concern, he extends his neck to look at her profile side-on and try to meet her eyes. "El Aran?" he asks simply, his voice low and rugged.