Winter was gone and spring came anew, the same as it did every year. There were mares foaling in the Prairie, some were his children and some were not, but after dark days it always put a smile on Zevulun’s face to watch over the children. He could put away the complicated tangle of thoughts that troubled him when it came to the various islands, their leaders, and the mix of politics that seemed to be tugging the islands this way and that. He could turn off the spiraling, anxiety-riddled thoughts of his family and of the fact he’d yet to return to Tinuvel and see Mariael and Maziel like he’d promised he would. Everything could be hushed in the background as he looked out for the children, answering their questions and feeling young again through watching them learn about the world.

Today, however, wasn’t a day for the cream stallion to stand by and watch over the foals. He had increased the walks along his borderline, uncertain of Bacardi’s stance - assuming it must remain the same - and deciding to keep an eye just in case. Vera was long gone, Zevulun could not remember the last time he saw the sweet, sad little mare, so he doubted they had any new issues to come between them. Still, the behavior he’d witnessed from the Salem horses showed him quite plainly that he did not think the same as most herd leaders, and if he wanted to keep the peace over the Prairie and all who lived here, he would need to remain a vigilant protector.

It was during this walk that he heard the call - Rafe!? - and came to a stop so quickly that he stumbled a little in place before he caught himself. His head shot up, pale ears twitching. Does anyone know of Rafe?

What the hell was this about?

Zevulun narrowed his eyes somewhat suspiciously. Though he and Rafe had their alliance, he knew the silver-tongued stallion was one of the greatest politic-players out there. Perhaps it was paranoia after watching one of Rafe’s allies turn her back so quickly on him that had Zevulun apprehensive, but he’d rather be safe than sorry. The Prairie lead gathered his pale legs underneath him and started off at a high-kneed trot toward the direction of the mare’s voice, his white tail flagged high behind him.

He quickly came upon a mare with a young colt beside her, pulling up his gait and snorting harshly as he came to a stop. She only smelled of Luthien, as far as he could tell, so his worries at this being some trick played by a Salem horse slipped quickly away. But what would a Luthien mare want of Rafe?

“I know Rafe,” he said by way of greeting, since that’s who she’d been crying out for. “He doesn’t live here, though. I am Zevulun, I lead the Prairie here on Luthien.” He glanced briefly at the colt beside her, looking for similarities to Rafe before he looked at the mother again. “Why are you looking for him?”