August fell into an easy stroll beside Lir. His semi-permanent limp, which seemed to return at the most inopportune times (not unlike Boone), had been mercifully absent as of late, and it was a pleasure to match the lead stallion's fluid pace, the grasses parting easily around their legs. August's dark eyes focused on the horizon, where the grass rolled away into sky and sea. The sun hung fat and orange like the yolk of an egg behind gold-rimmed clouds, and the breeze smelled of salt and dirt. All was well in the Prairie, but disquiet churned in August's gut. He let out a deep breath.

"Well, there's a stallion. Been lurkin' around, sneakin' up on me, causin' problems. You've probably smelt 'im."

No, that would not do; August could hear the hesitation, the lack of confidence in his own voice. If this was to work, he needed to make Boone sound like more than a particularly irksome fly. August chewed on his lip and tried again.

"I think he's insane, Lir. He keeps claimin' he knows me, sayin' I did all these terrible things, talkin' about some 'Good Lady of the Morn', which I guess is his goddess or somethin'. He says I'll pay for what I did, that I'll answer to his Good Lady." August let out a heavy sigh of resignation that he did not have to fake. "Now, I've handled my share of nutjobs, and I ain't scared of him. It ain't myself I'm worried about."

He looked askance at Lir, to gauge his reaction. "But I think he could cause real problems for you an' the herd. You with me?"