It was Guns who took to the scent first, black nose twitching wetly, the ears pricking forward uncertainly, amber eyes gleaming as the last of the sun was drained from the world like blood from a wound. Pale gold and crimson light filtered through the full, murmuring canopies of green leaves, silhouetting the collie in golden thread. Ricochet watched the hound silently, legs stirring impatiently beneath him as he waited, the brawny muscles of his haunches flexing.

And then, a black-and-white bullet shot from a gun, the hound takes off, the equine counterpart hot on his heels.

They move forward, overtaking the wind with each pounding step, Ricochet's heart thundering in his ears, lungs rattling in his chest, nostrils flaring wide. As he runs, time slows, until the only feeling is the pounding of his hooves on the earth, tremors crawling up his legs, the grass tearing and shredding beneath his hooves, Guns ripping ahead of him, amber eyes glinting. Soon enough the dog draws away from him, and slows from wild gallop to stiff-legged lope, Ricochet falling into step with the Tome Guardian's former pet, his for many seasons now. The run has invigorated the stallion, and at his forelegs the dog pants raggedly, tongue lolling lazily over yellowed canines.

Moving somewhat languidly, the stallion moves with more swagger in his step than he has in actual confidence, teal eyes narrowing to hard points as he takes in his daughter, named for his mother and the boy he had wanted her to be. Colt, the girl of the first mare he had ever put himself inside. What was the name of that mare, the woman he had fucked? Arya, a name vaguely reminiscent of Aërwen, the half-sister traitor.

He wouldn't let his daughter be traitor to his breed, not ever.

The hard light in his teal eyes did not soften as he near-glared at her, the muscles of his neck tensing unhappily. Ricochet was not close to Colt in any parental way, teaching her with the same hardness Gunslinger had dealt with him. So weak. She had been a fragile wisp of a girl, one he had attacked with all the ferocity and reckless fury of a stallion driving off a wolf.

He had fought her, beaten her, until she began to bite back.

"Colt," he says, a smirk curling at his arrogant lips. "Took you long enough. And needing to rest already?" Ricochet's eyes cut towards her shoulder leaning against the gnarled tree. "Hope you don't intend on taking breathers in a war."

At his feet Guns sits, amber eyes not leaving Colt's face, head cocking.