The day had been long, and Bacardi had spent much of it patrolling his parameters. Although Zevulun’s scent across the border towards the Prairie had grown strong again, a sure sign that he had once again seized control of the neighboring land, it did little to quell the worry that was instilled in the painted stallion. War was not thought about lightly, and ever since the pale stallion had uttered the words, it had not left Bacardi’s mind.


But, in the presence of the Forest’s lead mare, Bacardi could let go for just a little while and rest. Sprawled out on his side, the painted stallion had closed his lupine gold eyes to try and drift off into the darkness of sleep. The soft rustle of leaves over head from the wind, the sound of Twinge grazing on the green grasses around him, the scent of his home; like a balm to a wound, Bacardi felt himself relax. Sleep was within his grasp.


The sound of a call broke through the quiet lullaby around him, and Bacardi opened his eyes and rolled upright. Ears perked, he glanced to Twinge to make sure it hadn’t been a dream, before he heaved himself up onto his hooves. Duty called, no matter if the stallion had been napping or not. So, shaking away the grass still clinging to his patchwork pelt, he headed down the trail that would lead him to where Keating had called from.


As he neared and spotted the mare, Bacardi let out a deep rumbling nicker. Aside from being close to birth, she looked well, which quickly eased some of the stallions worry. “Are you okay, Keating?” he asked as he stopped before her, extending his nose to draw in her scent as his yellow eyes drifted over her robust form. It brought a warmness to him, knowing that soon a foal would be joining them here in the Forest.

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

"...speech"