Worry plagues the buckskin mare’s mind. Earlier, she had silently made her routine journey to the small clearing by the stream to work out her discomfort in private when the pain had become too much to hide from her peers. Much like many occasions prior, she had once again given in to her urge to roll, only this time something changed. It had felt like a dramatic switch had been flipped inside her abdomen and when she rose to her feet she finally felt better. Pleased, she’d happily grazed on a patch of nearby grass which she was surprised, and glad, to find no longer made her feel ill. Did that mean the birth was growing closer and the foal was getting ready to make its appearance, or had Azazel’s little speech to her unborn had the desired effect? For a while, she didn’t care and just basked in her new pain free state, and then she realised the foal still hadn’t moved. Perhaps the end of her pain had signified the death of her foal as well. Fearing the worst, she’d said nothing, burrowing into her own thoughts and merely burrowed into Lyden’s side to sleep – or at least she tried to sleep.

Dark thoughts swim around her head, so much so that she barely notices with the black mare slips away – not that she’d have followed, every herd member is entitled to their privacy. Distantly she hears the hoof beats turn from a walk to a gallop and other steps further towards the border, Fantazer maybe? The possibility of it being a stranger does not hit for what seems like an age, but eventually she returns to her senses. Her blue eyes scan the area, checking for who was here and who was not and sensitive ears hone in on the sound of hoof beats. It was not a gait she recognised, they sounded bigger – Jabberwocky? No, she’d come to recognise how he walked; his signature. This is someone else – someone new and possibly uninvited. Her head drops to a more efficient level, and she stalks as quickly a pregnant woman is capable of.

Azazel found the newcomer first, though Jörmungandr was not far behind. Some protective instinct gripped her, more so when her gaze feel upon the tall mare and how tiny Azazel looked in comparison. The buckskin stepped forwards, angling her body ever so slightly in front of the black mare – not enough to block her in conversation but enough to intercept if the draft mutt planned to attack. ”Who are you?” she demands in a slight nordic accent. "Have you been invited?". She steps forwards as she speaks, muzzle outstretched to exchange breaths and size up whether she is friend or foe. If Lyden or Jabberwocky’s scents had been on the mare, it had long been washed off by the ocean.