The winds of change affect all the islands, even the ones that seem the most fortified and secure. The alliance that Nyimara held with Rafe and Marceline over the years has been a strong one, but one that even the silver haired witch waits for its fall. Nothing is secure except ties of blood. Yet even that can be weakened as Fell had proved.

News travels fast, especially to those eager to listen. Though Nyimara was not sure exactly what had caused the rift between Rafe and Marceline, there was no hiding the sudden rise in patrols and strengthening scent borders along Salem. Something had happened and Nyimara was eager to learn more about it.

When Rafe’s stoic figure appears on the horizon, the Cheshire grin on her ashen labrums grow. Finally!

Though heavily pregnant now with Quinn’s unborn child, that does not stop the arabic mare from sautering towards the dark brindle stallion with dancing steps meant to tempt and taunt. Memories of their coupling refresh themselves in her mind as she draws nearer to him. ”Ah… Rafe…” she purrs, coming to a halt just in front of him. Long, mahogany neck arches as her ashen lips linger inches from his own, fearless in her own prowess and secure in the knowledge that even if Rafe did have some strange urge to step across the invisible barrier she kept in place (though there is never much of one really), Quinn would be short to follow and incite his own revenge for her security. He was faithful like that.

The cheshire grin spreads, changing into something more akin to a mischievous smile. A single fluted lobe tilts sideways as dark brows narrow in catty humor. “And here I was thinking you had forgotten all about me now that our son is grown.” she purrs, switching her long silver white tail slowly back and forth against her hips. ”What happen? Marceline lose her appeal now that she has found a new toy to play with?” she asks, her lips twitching as the impish giggle rumbles from her lungs. She draws back to gaze upon his handsome face fully now. Though he hides it well, the thin lines of tension twitch along his jawline. ”How is our son anyway? Has he wandered into the badlands lately?” she inquires. This time, her questions are sincere. Cato did not venture to the main island when she abandoned the Desert to the elements of Salem. He had been firm in his decision to strike out on his own and learn to thrive in the unforgiving wilderness that either made or broke a horse. Of course Nyimara was hopeful that because she had not come across his sun-bleached bones, he was somewhere healthy and safe, but that did not always ring true.