"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."

For a while she thought about Dexter often. Not in a fearful way -- he was never overtly cruel to her. But she worried about his return after every long and haphazard departure. They were stuck -- seemingly wandering for no real reason at all. He was never the type to have a plan, or foster any kind of hearth. Not like Dogun, who worked tirelessly to create something of worth for the mares he'd collected in the Inlet. The two stallions couldn't be more drastically different from one another. Quinn, too, had inherited his father's lackidasical nature. It made Macabre wonder if Shiraz would have been like them as well.

When she thought about Dexter, she thought about the holes in his personality. She wondered why he was interested in her at all. She brought no worth to his life. She was merely another responsibility, someone to drag around for whatever reason. The two hadn't found the time to grow close, well, as close as Macabre got to anyone. Dogun, at least, had made a vested interest to be apart of her life and her son's. He did not bat an eye when she washed up on shore, in labor with a child that came from another man. He welcomed Shiraz into this herd as if he was one of his own.

When Dogun speaks, the mare's lobes flick back against her poll momentarily. He was always apologizing, always trying to make up for something. She huffs a heavy exhale and takes a step closer to him, her slender neck arching as she edges her nose to touch him lightly at the shoulder as if to stop his words before they even start. She is reminded of a moment they shared after Shiraz was born. The stallion had opened up about his upbringing and shared the memories of his parents with her. He had been overwhelmingly positive about Macabre's irrational fear of the ocean. He was sorrowful about her son's condition. "A bright Pony King once told me that 'we are to cherish each minute that we have been given,'" Macabre says with a weak smile across her lips. "I cherish the moments I was able to spend with you. And Shiraz." Despite some nervousness, the mare allowed her nose to linger near his chest, her hot exhales pressing firmly against the fur that lined his muscular form.

She pulled away after some time, her marbled eyes finding his own for a second before she scans the distance. The Inlet seemed quiet, almost too quiet. Little did she know of the storm that was about to come. "And how are the others? Freya? Sigrun? Silver?"