Cinnamon was unaware of the politics of the Bay, just that Liland was the one he answered to while he lived here, so when the call rang out in a voice he didn’t recognize, the red dappled stallion followed it with mild confusion. He didn’t know if the call was meant for him, or someone specific, but it never hurt to check. He had been grazing in the shelter of the trees where the snow was thin and easy to push aside with his lips, but now he picked up a lazy trot. His ears pushed forward, the red stallion picked through the dense trees, his hooves kicking up snow behind him. Tinuvel was still gripped in the jaws of a stubborn winter, but the forest here was green year-round, and Cinnamon found the scents of pine and snow to be pleasant and enjoyable. He didn’t even mind the cold; his coat had grown thick, almost shaggy in his time here, though he groomed himself regularly so it stayed fairly soft.

He followed the paths of the territory that had been worn down by generations of herds who had ruled, peacefully or otherwise, on this island. The source of the call was not far, and Cinnamon’s long legs brought him to the new stallion in a very short time. Liland appeared to have arrived just before he did, and he nodded pleasantly at the shorter stallion in greeting, then turned to Goose, whom he had not met before. A few others had followed Liland, but Cinnamon did not recognize them, and his relatively short attention span was already taking in the painted, feathered stallion before them all. He had never seen someone with such thick feathering around their hooves, or so much volume in their mane and tail. He thought the newcomer was appropriately dressed for Tinuvel weather. He gave Goose a nod of greeting as well, but didn’t say anything. It looked like the feathered stallion had gathered them here for an audience, and he waited to hear what he had to say.

she marks her fingerprints
in my skin
i breathe her perfume in
and it burns like heroin
now she's in me
and i can't let her go