The whistling call comes to Fell from the shore. It is not a challenge, so his strides through the woods to confront the visitor are not emboldened by fury, but he is still swift to reach them. No sense in leaving an outsider to their own devices within his borders, even if they mean no immediate harm.

He slows to a trot as the trees open and the pine-needled and fern-carpeted soil drops into damp, cold gray sand. His hooked ears are forward, the stump of the torn one peeking up through his mane. Fell’s eyes shift boldly over the painted stallion who stands at his borders, but he does not feel threatened — the other male hasn’t even entirely left the water, and the quiet waves slide up over his hooves and retreat. Fell halts where the salt-line lies in the sand, littered with seaweed and little shells and the bones of small fish.

He offers the other stallion a rattling exhalation by way of greeting. He is unfamiliar, but Fell catches the scent of Lagoon off the painted male’s hide, masked beneath the heavy brine scent of the sea. His eyes narrow — the Lagoon has burned him, or attempted to burn him, in the past — but he withholds the instinct to drive him off. The Lagoon has also helped him in the past, and this stranger is obviously not here to cause trouble.

After a few seconds of consideration, Fell decisively cocks a hind hoof and assumes a posture of relaxation. His neck lowers and he flicks his ears lazily. His whiskered chin gives a nod toward the stranger, who has clearly come for some purpose, and Fell is curious to know what it is.