Faolain smiled knowingly, remembering the recklessness of her younger days and the way fearless confidence had grown with her into a more calculating boldness. She was not afraid of much, but Shararat was right; if she were to climb the cliffs as a filly, she would only think about how quickly she could make it up to the top. If she climbed them now, the fall would be ever present in her mind, even if she felt confident in her steps and in the path she chose.

At the mention of Ailill, Faolain’s dark ears pricked forward, and her smile widened. ”Yes, that’s very true,” she said with a chuckle. ”It’s very easy to forget any wrongs in the world when Ailill is around.” The Arabian’s mention of the Ridge’s previous second stallion made her wonder just how long the pleasant-tempered champagne had lived her. Had he been born in the Ridge, and stayed through the rise and fall of its kings? Or did he just prefer Atlantis, and return here when the other isles were not to his satisfaction? Thinking about it, Faolain could not imagine the golden stallion in any other terrain than the dense verdant mountainside. She had not known him long, and had spent little time with him so far in the Ridge, but based on their interactions so far she had come to the conclusion that she liked him. She would not be opposed to spending more time in his company in the future, for again, Shararat was right: he made it hard to believe there were dangers in the world.

”Salem,” Faolain repeated when the black Arabian spoke the desert island’s name. ”I’ve never been, though I was born in the sands on the mainland. Who would have thought I would end up in a place like this?” She laughed brightly, her muzzle tilting upward as she looked at the dense canopy above them. In the cracks between leaves, the night sky was splashed with celestial paint and dusted with stars. Such a sky in her homeland would have enveloped Faolain during the night, no trees to bear the weight of the heavens above. The horizon was a clean line around anyone who traveled the sands, the atmosphere unbroken by vegetation or jagged land. It made the night sky heavy and overbearing, and the openness of the land was not for the faint of heart. Faolain knew of the dangers of the desert, but it was less the physical dangers than the view that had often made her skin crawl. The breath would be sucked out of her if the sky was clear at night and she looked up, and though it was not an uncomfortable sensation all by itself, Faolain did not seek it out. It was easily overwhelming.

The differences between the lands of her birth and those of her home now were staggering. Faolain had not visited the sands in a long time, and she wondered now if she would still feel the same weight of the sky on her back if she returned after all of the changes she had experienced recently. She was not the same filly that had traveled the desert alone, and she decided she would visit Salem sometime soon for nostalgia’s sake.

Shararat’s intense gaze brought Faolain back to the present, and she nodded humbly. ”Yes. And yes, he is. It is difficult to envision him outside of the jungle, if I am honest,” she said with a chuckle. ”Though, I must admit I’ve only met with him twice. He… well, he taught me how to dance.” She laughed in full this time, recalling the lesson and her difficulties picking up such an abstract activity. Faolain’s mind was more receptive to linear information, and had trouble wrapping around anything without an obvious purpose or pattern. Still, she had enjoyed the exercise, and respected Ailill for his unique talent. ”I am grateful for his presence here. He has made the transition much easier, considering I have never lead before.”