Returning to the Prairie without Claret had been a second strike to his pride and deep in his gut that had turned Zevulun far more somber than he normally was. When he’d come back home, Miriella had been gone and Leliel had told him she took off to Atlantis and wouldn’t listen to reason. He had been too wounded to travel to Atlantis and sent Raziel, who went begrudgingly, but did not return with her. Miriella had returned of her own accord just a day or two later and Zevulun hadn’t been sure exactly how to deal with her. He had been angry, of course, though that anger had only come from worry. The reality of watching his daughters become grown mares off to experience life on their own was hitting him hard and fast.

Nursing the wounds from his fight and then the way he’d pushed himself to swim quickly to Salem and then back again, Zevulun stuck to the Prairie to keep an eye on his herd and regain his strength. He needed Ramiel back and was uncertain why his son hadn’t returned - Ramiel had requested he be allowed to fight for himself to regain his freedom and Zevulun had respected that… but he was growing worried with Ramiel’s continued absence.

Then, of course, there were his daughters that were approaching adulthood. Just a few seasons shy of maturity, he couldn’t help but watch them with worry, thinking he didn’t know many safe herds they could go to once they were older. Was this why herd leaders had made alliances and traded their daughters? Zevulun had thought it was such a barbaric practice, firmly standing by the thought that everyone should have their own choice in where they lived and why and how, but even he couldn’t deny the relief it might give him if he knew the stallion his daughter would go to live with, and that she would be safe and well looked after.

These thoughts were put aside as soon as he heard the call that split the cold, wintery Prairie air. His muscles tensed and his neck shot up, back into his shoulders. Zevulun snorted and stomped the ground, his breath pouring from his nostrils in a semi-translucent plume. The call was insistent and clear - whoever it was wanted him specifically.

Zevulun moved quickly through the Prairie and though he didn’t recognize the young figure ahead, a soft chilly breeze brought the salt-water smell, just lightly woven with the sun-baked sands of Salem’s desert. Zevulun pulled his gait and flicked his ears back briefly, glacial blues eyeing the stallion with heavy suspicion. Why would a Salem horse he didn’t recognize stand at his shores and beckon him? Did this have something to do with Claret? Was she alright?

Worry for his daughter overcame any hesitation. Zevulun moved the rest of the way between them, though he kept his head proudly high and his expression somewhat guarded. “Speak quickly,” he said, and whatever warmth was normally in his tone was all but gone. This was a very different stallion than the one who greeted most wayward souls who crossed the Prairie borderlines. Zevulun’s tail flicked at his hind with a brief snap. “I’m not entirely trustworthy of Salem horses at the moment, nor do I like the idea of entertaining them in my home.” Unless, of course, they were Rafe - though that was strictly because of Riesling and little else.