The morning is humid, but pleasantly cool still. The sun has not quite risen beyond the horizon, and the sky is but a dark smear of purple and peach; as far as the eye can see, the desert is drenched and dripping from the previous night's rainfall. Encantador stands on a sandy hillock overlooking his domain, facing inland as his cream-colored fur slowly dries in the air. Crevices in the earth have been worn into narrow trenches and are filled with murky brown water. Like tiny oases, these spots dapple the land as remnants: momentos of the storm. Thankfully, there hadn't been a flood as severe as Canta had feared, and already the desert seems to be bursting into life, spurred into celebrating the good times while they last.

Still he is troubled. Dynamics in the herd are not as they should be. Sova and Daenerys have been aloof as of late, which is particularly worrying given that the latter carries his foal. He has had little luck in securing a beta as well - it seems few are interested in living in such a bleak land, which he supposes he can't blame them for. And of course, there is El Aran. Encantador is worried about her. She has always been a strong-willed individual, with ways that have remained strange and mysterious to him. But lately she has not been herself. Tilting his head, he gazes back to where she stands in the distance, alone as ever. He watches her for a time before emitting a soft call of summons. She'll have no trouble seeing him, stationed as he is upon his dune, but part of him doubts she'll come at all.