Meadow

Faolain’s relationship with her emotions was tricky. Most of the time the ebony mare felt nothing, but thought certain feelings, and could choose to act on them based on a carefully composed system of moral codes she had come up with over the years of observing other horses’ behavior. Her empathy was by far the strangest of her emotions, and it seemed to operate both as a conscious thought as well as having something of an on-off switch. Faolain did not fully control the switch, and when it was decided that she was going to feel empathy for another horse, she felt strongly. While the waters of her mind were usually so still, if one could see into her one might mistake them for a mirror, stepping into the emotions of another horse turned those waters into a raging ocean. It was often disorienting, and she struggled to remain herself when it was so easy to slip into the image of whomever she was mirroring. She was struggling with this complication in her actions regarding Iscariot. Would she ever go to such lengths to help another if she had not felt his pain nearly as hers?

Did it matter?

At this point in her pursuit, it did not. She had found Rivaini—her deep mahogany eyes, so dark they might have been black, were resting on a silver bay mare directly in front of her—and debating her moral alignment with herself at this time was useless. The russet mare was watching Faolain and Faolain was watching the russet mare. Faolain did not stop, despite the ears being pulled back steadily with each slinking step the black mare took toward her, until she was standing a few feet away, her own ears pointed at Rivaini, her nostrils flared to confirm that this individual was the source of the scent Iscariot had lead her to on the beach.

It was her, and Faolain did not bother to ask. She leapt right to the point.

"Iscariot is looking for you," she said. "I’ve come to find you for him." She knew the words sounded blunt, as though she were being sent to collect a naughty foal who had run off on an adventure, but she didn’t care to sugar coat them. "He’s alright," she decided to add after a second, realizing it might sound like an emergency. It sort of was, but to her knowledge Iscariot wasn’t dying, and she didn’t want to worry Rivaini needlessly. "His legs seem to be hurting him and he was very tired when I left him. I told him to rest. I hope he has done so." Faolain had no illusions about telling people what to do, and never expected anyone to listen to her. She was not interested in controlling anyone, but it never hurt to make one’s expectations known. Communication was an often underused tool.

FAOLAIN