A sharp call rang through the trees, yanking Faolain from sleep. She jumped a little, but was comforted by Rivaini’s presence at her side. She looked up at the sky; pale light filtered through the mountain trees, dappling the hard, stony ground. It was early morning.

The call had seemed friendly enough. At the very least, it wasn’t overtly aggressive. Curiosity and alarm worked in equal measures to push Faolain from the comfort of Rivaini’s side, and down the slope to investigate.

Where the trees gave way to sand stood a painted stallion, his gaze calculative and calm, his expression neutral. He was waiting patiently at the edge of her home, which Faolain appreciated, and it made her approach softer than it might have been considering she had been startled awake. Her small dark hooves pressed into the sand as she left the shelter of the trees, and stepped onto the beach.

“Good morning,” she said carefully. Her bright copper gaze swept over the black paint, and her thin nostrils flared to catch his scent. When he continued to show no signs of aggression, she closed the distance between them cautiously and offered her muzzle in greeting. Her own expression remained neutral, and betrayed no emotions — though at the moment, there was little to betray. Curiosity had won out over alarm, and Faolain’s attention was spent on little else but the stranger at her doorstep. “What can I do for you?”