The worst of the unseasonable, belated heatwave has passed, and yet still the land is suffering. Water is scarcer than ever, the oases and the river having been shrunk down to mere puddles and trickles, and the vast prairie of desert grass that he had discovered a season ago, at the edge of his territory in the valley beneath the mountains, is as dry as dust, the foliage yellow and completely lacking in nutrients. Every so often, Encantador comes across the dead, rotting body of a small, starved animal with an equally emaciated vulture feasting on it. In their weakness and desperation for food, the bald-headed birds have grown more tame, and no longer give him so much as a glance, even when he passes within a stride of them and their precious meals.

It is supposed to be the season of making merry, but currently the focus is too much on survival to even think about breeding. At least for Encantador. Who would want me, anyway?

It’s the cool autumn breeze that gives him hope and makes him forget, for a little while at least, how thirsty he is. With cracked, dry lips and skinny hips, the stallion is a sorry picture, but there is no remorse in his expression as he reclines beneath a gnarled, dying tree (the very one Razvan had passed away beneath years ago). He has lived in the desert a long time now. Its moods are as much a part of him as his own beating heart, and it’s only a matter of time before the land rebounds from its hibernation and celebrates the arrival of a much-needed rainstorm.

Though it's taking its sweet time.

Still, the sound of someone calling his name makes him cringe. Encantador is too tired to be spending useless energy: too famished to go wandering through his home with the sun at his back. So he stays quiet several moments, his eyes lingering on the blue-and-beige horizon, and simply listens. He cannot see the summoner from where he lay in his makeshift bed, but he knows, nonetheless, who it is. The thought of her returning fills him with mixed emotions. “Sova?” he finally calls out in response, not bothering to lift himself from the sands. For once, he will let her come to him.