Hooves worn down over rock and rubble moved over the land with assuredness, the path traveled a familiar one. The stallion (for that was what he was, though young, beginning fill out more and more as days crawled by) moved through the terrain, which, in early summer was dashes of brown, yellow, an earthy green and a few blooms of red. His coat, white (though dirtied) was assaulted by a spray of gold, his face mainly the color as well. In this world, with its myriad of muted colors, he nearly blended in. But his abundance of white gave him away, the cream tassels of his tail flagged behind his hindquarters. He snorted, nose low to the ground, nostrils taking in a peculiar scent, before he threw his head up and peeled his upper lip, taking the scent in to analyze it further.

It was nothing – just evidence a stag had crossed through – but it was a change from what had been there that morning. Nephilim patrolled the borders of the Bay at least twice a day, if he could manage it, when he remained in the territory rather than swimming offshore. At the moment that was what he was doing, trusting Amaranthe (and Fly, he supposed) would call if trouble arose where the herd grazed and would be more than capable of handling themselves while he made certain no unwelcome company had trespassed over their borders.

Then, he heard the sound of hooves over the frigid, cold ground. Nephilim froze, ears flicking, and turned his head in the direction it came from. With the wind on his side (though faint) he caught the scent of mares. Not only mares, but those he knew. Immediately he thought of the red and white fillies he’d seen when he was a yearling, he thought of their home of the Prairie, and his thoughts immediately soured. Not to them, of course, he was actually… excited that they were here. But how, and why? There was only one way for him to know.

Nephilim started forward in a trot, his gait bouncing, rocks skittering beneath his hooves. As he drew closer he rumbled a whicker, nostrils quivering, and came around the bend of the path ahead of them, stopping short. A myriad of emotions stormed through him to see them, his ears flicked and his tail swished at his hindquarters. “Hey.” He said, instead of anything that might sound cool and more in-charge of the place. Inwardly he cringed, gold eyes flashing from the mare he remembered as Firethorn and instead dashing to Foxglove. Nephilim tried to think quick how to recover, but his brain failed him and he instead stayed silent.