Bacardi was alone as he traveled along the western border of the Forest. It was a rare instance he left behind his herd, but the duties of a lead demanded it, and he couldn’t neglect them as he had been. The painted stallion had not yet crossed that invisible line into the Thicket, but he had stopped several times to contemplate it. He needed to speak with its lead. To see where he stood in the opinion that Bacardi had discussed with Zevulun for all of Luthien.


It was just as the painted stallion had taken another pause, a half-hearted step towards the Thicket and away from his home, that a call reached his black-rimmed ears. The sound made his heart stutter; the weakness and pain all wrapped up in a single noise. Head whipping around, nostrils flaring, Bacardi picked up a faint trace of copper. How had he not noticed the scent of blood before? Too wrapped up in his thoughts to be paying attention, obviously. Internally furious with himself, he would have to address his carelessness another time. Instead, the stallion let out a returning call before he picked up a fast trot through the dense trees. Making a straight line through the Forest until he could reach whoever had called out to him.


Syrah.


After bringing Syrah here, she had disappeared, as if she were only a figment of his imagination. As if the day he had offered her a home from the Commons hadn’t existed. Bacardi could only assume she hadn’t liked it, or him, enough to call it home and had continued to carve out her way in a different direction than his. Or, like other mares, had become such a recluse (and was extremely good at it) that he couldn’t find any trace of her despite her still residing here. Either way, it was her choice, and Bacardi wasn’t going to force it to be different. But now, looking at her prone form, he wondered if he should have.


“Syrah?” the painted stallion nickered to her softly, his golden lupine eyes filled with concerned as he stopped at her withers. Bacardi didn’t bother to ask if she was okay, it was quite clear she wasn’t. The reek of blood was strong now, and although Bacardi did well to keep predators away, he didn’t know how long they could stay away from this smell. “Can you stand?” he asked, dropping his head to inspect her wounds a little more closely. If he could get her to a safer place, get her cleaned up, that would at least be half the battle won.

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

"...speech"