Somehow almost an entire year had passed since August had crawled half-alive onto the shores of the Prairie. It had been an unremarkable year, too: exactly what he'd hoped for. He'd spent it with his head down, playing the part of a good herd member — unthreatening to anyone — engaging in little more than perfunctory conversation, and doing the odd small job to stay in Lir's favor. To the best of his ability he had taken little interest in the comings and goings of the herd, telling himself it was none of his business. These individuals were nothing to him, after all: nothing more than a safety net.

But, watchful as he was, August had nonetheless come to learn certain things about the Prairie herd: or, at least, to suspect certain things. While the Prairie herd was somewhat small, quiet and nondescript, he had witnessed several tense encounters from afar that left him grinding his teeth and thinking long into the night. Lir did not strike him as the troublemaking sort, but any hostile attention turned the Prairie's way could be nothing but bad news for August.

But he was nothing if not a hypocrite.

His muscles twitching with unburned tension, August ventured beyond the Prairie's borders one baking hot day and did not return till he was bruised and salty with sweat. Blood bloomed from a scrape along his jaw line, and his old limp, which had taken almost an entire year to heal, had seized him once again. He made for the shelter of a copse of trees which he knew housed the silver sliver of a brook too small to be much frequented by the herd. His intention was to cool down in the shade and wait for his cut to scab over. A too-fresh injury, he knew, was likely to attract unwanted attention.

Alas, today his luck had run out in more ways than one. Striding his way from the opposite direction along the Prairie border was none other than the white-marked silhouette of Lir. August could not slip away into the trees without their paths crossing directly. He stopped and considered, blowing softly through his nostrils. Should he walk past as though nothing were amiss, and hope Lir did not notice his injuries? Should he turn away and flee in the opposite direction? No, that would be too obvious. What would old August have done? Perhaps he should do the exact opposite of that.

He settled into a more relaxed gait and made straight for Lir.

"Afternoon," he said with a tilt of his chin, as though nothing at all in the world was wrong.