"If Love himself weep, shall not lovers weep,
learning from what sad cause he pours his tears?
Love hears his ladies crying their distress,
showing forth bitter sorrow through their eyes
because villainous Death has worked its cruel
destructive art upon a gentle heart,
and laid waste all that earth can find to praise
in a gracious lady, save her chastity."

Macabre's petite frame was tucked neatly together on the cold forest floor. Marbled eyes stared blankly out into the depths of the forest, one chocolate-colored lobe rotated forward and back with the occasional gentle scurry of a woodland mammal, or the far away call of a bird overhead. Near her side lay Quinn, the growing - and healthy - kin of Dexter. He was pressed gently against her barrel, his slender frame rising and falling comfortably with every inhale and exhale. She didn't mind having him so close, especially like this, when they didn't have to talk. The colt didn't say much to begin with, but Macabre was awkward around him. She struggled to be compassionate and motherly. The young boy needed a mother, of that there was no doubt, but the mare couldn't help but blame Quinn for digging up the wretched feelings about Shiraz. They barely looked alike, aside from some conformational features that they both inherited from their father. Their coat colorings were different, as were their personalities, Macabre figured. Quinn was strong and growing. A bit skinny and probably slightly malnourished, but he would dwarf Shiraz in size, despite Shiraz having been several months older.

Macabre couldn't say she enjoyed this moment - she didn't really enjoy anything anymore - but she was content, temporarily at ease, even, with the colt laying gently beside her. Quinn had given her some sense of temporary purpose. She assumed Dexter would be back, but until then, she was responsible for the colt. Quinn's father had up and abandoned them some time ago. When Macabre finally realized what had happened -- that in her foolish and grief-ridden daze, Dexter had taken her to an island she did not know and left her with his son, his only healthy son, she was furious. The mare was terrified of being alone, and left to not only fend for herself but her dead son's half-brother. It was clear from the scents that lingered in the breeze that Dexter had left them in a territory belonging to another. A herd was here somewhere. So Macabre kept them moving every few hours, hovering at the edge of the territory, the sound of the ocean's crashing waves always within reach.

Her calm was broken by the rachet sound of another equine. Its raspy tone startled her, and the colt by her side. She nudged him eagerly with her muzzle until he stood, and she quickly did the same. Macabre never said one word to the colt but moved with haste toward where she thought the sound had come from. Leaf litter and moist dirt still clung to her shaggy winter coat, burs and twigs stuck to the knotted strands of her unkempt mane and tail. Macabre didn't care how she looked, not for Dexter, Quinn, or hell, anyone else on this island. She emerged from the woodline, taking one last look back at Quinn tagging along behind her, just before she heard Dexter shriek her name.

The mare halted, startled by his appearance. He looked awful, his gait choppy and lame, his coat filthy and torn in places, and his exhausted, perhaps delirious eye. Macabre stayed there, frozen with shock, even after another equine came after him, the bullish mare coming at him without a moment's fear. Without thinking very much, Macabre turns to Quinn with her ears draped tightly against her poll, bearing her teeth in a silent effort to tell him to stay put. Then she trotted off quickly toward the mare that faced Dexter and without hesitation butted her way between them. She could feel the heat radiating off his tired frame as she pressed into his chest, the side her barrel weighing heavily against him as she tried to force him to back up. But her eyes were set on the territorial mare. Macabre, though much smaller in size, bared her teeth at her, chomping aggressively as the pair backed away from her. "He's hurt. And we have a child with us. It should be obvious we mean you no harm."