Bacardi’s golden eyes were closed, his hind hoof cocked as he napped in the dappled sun peeking through the thick, twisted limbs above him. Although the Forest was still dense, the leaves had all but left completely as winter was settling in. The stallion was glad the snow had seemed to come late, the colder temperatures staving off for later in the season. Though the crispness in the air gave him dreams of Tinuvel. Of his time spent in the Bay, and the part of him that remembered his happiness there, while trying to forget the bad.


The call that cut through the quiet jolted the stallion awake, though he didn’t quite believe it was real. Thinking it was just part of his Tinuvel dream, until it came again. Bacardi instantly recognized the voice of Lakota. She had not spent much time with him after he had showed her around the Forest. He didn’t think she had spent any time with any of the herd members either. So, when her scent had disappeared from the trees and earth, Bacardi had assumed she had moved on for good. The urgency in her call made him doubt every thought he’d had before, that she had went of her own accord to find happiness, and that something bad had happened instead.


Letting out a call in return to alert the grey mare he had heard her, Bacardi broke from his resting position that had turned rigid, into a long strided trot until he was able to come to a worn path to speed up into a canter. The painted stallion was glad not to be a large beast like what prowled the Lagoon and other territories in moments like this. It allowed him to weave through the trees with his smaller frame and agility.


When Bacardi finally came up to the still dripping Lakota, he pulled to a halt as his wide golden eyes tried to take everything in all at once. Was she hurt? Was she bleeding? What was the cause for her wild eyes and the sound of her voice? When his flared black nose didn’t drag in the coppery tang of blood to suggest she was wounded, Bacardi tried to calm himself. “Lakota…” he greeted, extending his nose out to her, though there was still tension in his body. Ready for any sort of danger that might be following her. “What’s wrong?”

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

"...speech"