Meadow

Something like that.

The words are simple, but the tone of his voice betrays him - there are layers to the painted stallion's exodus from the bachelor herd, ones he is clearly keeping close to his chest. Curiosity sparks within her: what changed? What made him choose a life of solitude over the presumed safety and security of a herd? She wants to know, wants to learn for herself what was the deciding factor. But she has secrets of her own, ones she'd rather die than admit to anyone, and she knows what it is like to keep company with scoundrels, to be surrounded by menace and violence and evil and try to keep it all from poisoning you, too.

Titania hadn't been so lucky.

He shifts away from her, careful not to block her in, and the thread of tension that had been building along her spine unspools, allowing her to cock one striped hind hoof on its tip. Of course, the next thing he says ramps her right back up, and her ears flick against her poll. He didn't own the Crossing; she had as much of a right to be here as he did, and she was opening her mouth to remind him of that fact when he spoke again, her words dying in her throat. At the mention of Faline, she scoffs. Her tail snaps against her hips. "No," she lies, refusing to admit her own failure. "Not tonight."

Fuck it. The space-clad mare fixes Rehoboam with a look, eyes aglow with glorious purpose, and lets one secret roll right off her tongue, volleying the words like an arrow straight to his ravaged heart.

"I'm looking for our son," she says, the words hanging over them like the thunderheads high above, and braces for the onslaught she knows is soon to come.