The trip to the Crossing had been uneventful, and Faolain returned with much less tension on her shoulders than when she left. She had yet to find out if anyone would follow her to the Ridge, but she felt the journey had been successful in other regards. The Ridge had not crumbled or disappeared in Faolain’s absence, and no one seemed to resent her any more than they already did for leaving for a few days. Knowing little to nothing of leadership or what was really considered normal behavior for a territory leader, this was a relief. Even if no new faces came to liven up the empty Ridge today, at least she knew she was able to try again in the future.

Upon arriving home, Faolain did not immediately ascend the trail to the top of the island’s spine and the lake she had found with Rivaini. Instead, she took her time winding through the spiderweb of narrow trails through the jungle, not in any particular rush. She wanted to be familiar with the land and its pathways, even the low ground where the herd spent little time. She followed the borders of her territory, her strides calm and sure through the dense foliage, until she reached the edge of Rougaru’s Paradise. Here, she stopped, looking into her neighbor’s land from the invisible wall and not thinking anything in particular about the infamous silver bay. If the two of them spent their leaderships as strangers, neither friends nor enemies, Faolain would be satisfied. She knew that was impossible, however, and that one day she would have to speak with him. She had never been so hesitant to confront something or someone before, and it was frustrating enough that she turned from the border with an audible hiss of breath to express her displeasure.

As she turned, Faolain caught sight of a shape sliding through the trees, and Rougaru slipped her mind. There was someone unfamiliar in the jungle with her, and Faolain stepped back onto the path she had been following. She moved slowly through the shadows of the thick canopy above, and soon her path crossed with the stranger’s, just a few lengths ahead of where she followed it. Faolain halted. She gave out a friendly call to the other as she approached, and extended her muzzle in a polite exchange of breaths. There was a familiarity about the slenderness of the black Arabian mare, and Faolain was reminded of her birthplace in the desert and of the many other deserts she had traveled through in her time on the mainland.

"Welcome," she said, dipping her head to the slightly taller mare. She assumed the newcomer would have scented Faolain at the borders, so she didn’t bother to give her title in her introduction. In addition to the redundancy, she did not want to come across as cocky about the position, something she had been strangely worried about since claiming the Ridge. Faolain had pride, but in small doses; she had never liked to see narcissistic tendencies in others, so she avoided them in herself. "My name is Faolain. What brings you to the Ridge?"