As Faye looks down at her reflection, the gentle ripples from her lips distort it only slightly, but it is still clear enough to see the moon that hung so heavily above her and for the pale face that appears across from her to show brightly. At first, Faye only stares, lifting her head just enough that her lips no lower touch the surface. When he clears his throat, breaking the silence, Faye’s head jerks up to be lever with her withers, and she looks across the water now as he makes his way along the bank. He is young; clearly not the claiming stallion of this territory. And he smiles, rather than pinning his ears at her, or choosing to be violent. Still, the painted young mare takes a step back, clearly on the verge of running when he decides to speak.


“Yes…..” she answers, her voice soft and unsure. “And no.” Faye adds. She was from around the whole of Salem, but not in the way one might think. Only in comparison of the shifting sands, or the wind that pushed them, rather than a fixture like the herds that roamed each territory as if they were separate islands rather than connected.


Faye is still on the verge of fleeing, when the young stallion asks who she is. For a moment, she cannot recall. It had been seasons since anyone had said her name; or knew of her existence at all. The hesitation keeps Faye from fleeing, the darkness of realization causing her ebony rimmed ears to tip back slightly, and finally she finds the courage to speak. “Faye” she says softly. “My name is Faye.”