R i c o c h e t,

Eventually he left the white-sand shore of the Endless Blue as the autumn winds came creeping from the west, recognizing his brief respite from the monumental problems of the Equine Empire was finished. It was time to throw himself recklessly back into the infinite world, to find those who needed his guidance, to find soldiers, to become both a savior and leader of a nation, as he was raised to do. The time of the equines was to come again, he was certain of it; he just needed to find those he could, and teach them of their strength, their fortitude, their natural ability and supremacy.

So he went to the Threshold, where the leaves turned red, gold, yellow and fluttered hastily in the breeze, uncertain and fearful of winter’s breath. Among the trees he moved, the butter of his creamy coat melting into the milk of the aspen trees’, with only his tangled black mane and tail contrasting.

There was something melancholy about the gateway to Helovia during the crisp times of autumn; maybe it was the leaves, whispering their grieving songs, or the creak of trees as they danced in the Orangemoon storms, the wind bowing and pressing against them, splintering frosted bark and rattling bony branches. Even the strangers who entered during this season, which was full of dread for the coming snowfalls, seemed more tired, their faces heavily lined, bodies worn thin by hard travel, bones frail beneath sparse winter coats. It was pitiful.

Ricochet jogged along at a languid pace, not so fast as to tire himself out nor so slow as to grow chilled. There was the smooth rhythm of his hooves thudding against the leaf mold, the pump of his heart cycling blood around his body, a cozy warmth that spread from muzzle to frogs as he trotted. His ears pricked mildly in half-hearted interest as he inhaled and exhaled, steam curling from his dark nostrils in the nippy air. Just ahead of him, Guns loped steadily, occasionally veering from the familiar paths to chase after a pigeon here or there. Ever since Histe had first attacked the mutt here, he found it difficult to trust his stupid dog to go off by himself- but he certainly wasn’t going to follow the collie around while he hunted, so trust his damn dog Ricochet did.

Eventually, Guns honed in on a scent, and the Incendiary followed, knowing the dog would lead him to a newcomer of equine breed.
Soon enough, between the slender trees he could glimpse a horse, frost and cream and ebon. There was another, a willow-thin wraith, snow-white with a hint of frozen blue, and one more again, this time unadorned with a horn. Ricochet tipped his head in mild curiosity as he approached, weaving through the trees confidently. All of them put together were still more quiet than the sleeping dead.

Something twinged in his chest as he approached the mare with her head cast down. In his eyes, one could see a shine of blue concern, care that hardened as he saw the pale unicorn watching on.

“What’s your name?” Ricochet asked, turning his head to the grullo woman. Something wasn’t right here. “You, girl.” He added, his rough voice softening.