He’s lost so much over the years – his father, his mother, his siblings and friends, his birth home, his herd, his beloved and their unborn child, his mares – that the dull feeling of emptiness in the pit of his stomach is something he’s used to. It’s finding things again that he still cannot get the hang of. Since returning to the islands after his long vacation spent alone on the continent, where he had moped over everyone and everything that had deserted him and he them, he’s only been reunited with one sibling, one he hadn’t even remembered. His father had sired many children, of course; he knows that much of his family will always remain strangers to him.

Once upon a time, he and his father had followed the sounds and smells of someone in agony through a raging storm on the beach, and had stumbled upon his mother giving birth to his first and only full-blooded brother in a secluded cove. A young, pale mare barely out of fillyhood had already been there, comforting the weak and exhausted Writhe. Her name had been Crissah, and she had been his half-sister.

Encantador cannot remember this, however. Thus, when he stumbles across the two women, one the color of milk, the other of honey, he has the vague idea that he might be related to them, but he isn’t entirely certain. The stallion approaches the duo quietly from across the sands, his brown eyes watching them with curiosity and uncertainty. The day is cool and calm – though ‘cool’ is a relative term, of course, this being the desert – and so he is in a fair mood for once. He offers them a smile once he has reached them, and takes note of the fact that they are still wet from their swim. They are obviously not from around here.

“Encantador at your service. How may I help you ladies?”