Rille’s intuition is affirmed twofold. It is the bay mare who responds, and he dips his nose down in agreement of the sentiment behind her words. “The world is full of distractions,” he replies amiably. Energy rolls off the bay mare as she paces forward on limber hooves to greet Rille. He extends his muzzle to her, sharing sweet breaths, before he gives the gray mare the same courtesy. He is unperturbed by the peace she keeps and, in fact, feels her presence all the more strongly for it. His dark eyes linger on the gray mare’s blue gaze as he flicks one ear toward her bay companion.
“Yet,” Rille agrees as his attention is drawn then to movement beyond the pair of mares, focusing on the falls where he is certain a horse’s face was only a moment ago as he continues, “Three are stronger than one.” There will be more, he is sure, and he looks forward to meeting each and everyone of them. The Thicket will be filled with light and warmth from the horses within despite the dense canopy’s attempt to reject, continuously, the sun— and there, emerging from behind the veil of water frothing over the cliffs, comes another.
She is a dichotomy of night and day, bearing the golden glow of mid-afternoon in her dappled pelt and the silver of shimmering moonlight in her mane and tail, her legs and underbelly coated the same as if she has splashed her way through a lunar puddle to join them. She greets the mares as if they are her sisters, warm and familiar, and when she nears to place her still-wet nose on him Rille turns his head to respond in kind, whuffling softly down the arch of her neck as he mirrors her own caress. When she withdraws, taking the heat of her breath with her, the stallion is reminded of a cloud passing over the sun and replacing warmth with cool shade.
Much like a cloud, however, the sensation of lost heat is brief as the palomino adds herself to their circle. Like the gray mare crowned with cirrus she, too, is silent among the group, but he feels her just the same as the others. His mahogany gaze sweeps over the three mares. “I am Rille,” he introduces himself over the constant roar of the falls. “Of the Thicket, a land of plenty on Luthien. It would greatly behoove the woods to welcome all of you beneath its canopy. I, for one, would welcome the light and life of each of you among the trees.” For here, he feels, is the beginning of what the wood needs: a spark, a breath, a bloom—