Bacardi paused, glancing back at Lakota as she confessed to her heritage. It wasn’t a name he was unfamiliar with, but it had been a very long time since he had heard Warsaw’s name. Even when he had, it had been in passing, and with unkind words. The painted stallion knew there were rights, and there were wrongs on both sides of the war. There always was. But he couldn’t say which side was right, only the side that his mother fought, which was against Warsaw and his allies.


“I wasn’t even fully weaned when the war happened.” he replied. “The only thing that sticks to memory, is that it took my mother (a peak mare) from me. But who’s ever side your family come from doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago, and it will not affect my judgement. As long as it will not affect yours.”


The painted stallion knew he could hold onto that hate. The venom; the poison soaked deep into this land. His mother had not been the only one to die that day. But it was long since passed, and most of those that took part weren’t even around anymore. “I would never expect you to forsake your family.” He only wished he still had his.


Turning away, Bacardi stepped close to the water’s edge, lowering his head to get a drink. His ebony lips causing the first ripples across the otherwise mirror like surface.

mutt. bay tobiano. fourteen three hands. of the forest.

"...speech"