After the painted stallion had parted from Twinge, he had followed the same path Burn took, trailing his son’s scent until it led him to the border of the Prairie. It was only as he stopped at the thin strip of water, that his golden wolf eyes noticed the mud slicked across his son’s backend. A chuckle escapes Bacardi despite his usual restrain before he makes the jump and lands safely on the other side. He manages to stifle any further laughter, but his amusement still glitters in his yellow eyes.


“Go on. Call for him.” Bacardi urges then, although he suspects Zevulun (or one of his many sons) has already caught wind of them. Since Zevulun’s return, he had noticed the mingle scents of others upon the patrolled borders. Had the Prairie leader finally chosen an heir? Whatever the case, when the pale painted stallion had reclaimed his home, his presence had been stronger than he could recall it ever being before. As Bacardi stood, looking out across the expanse of the Prairie, he couldn’t blame Zevulun for the renewed urgency to drive away any threats. The expanse of grasslands was nearly as marvelous as the Forest. Though nothing would match the safety and strength of the woodlands in Bacardi’s eyes.

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

"...speech"