The meeting between the three Pegasus, the storm-cloud grey, the ebony and the mottled was nearing its end- if repeating history and the routine of such recruiting ceremonies was anything to guess by. The Threshold was a place where the lost souls fallen into Helovia were swooped upon by the hoards laying in waiting for their chance to please the elders of their herds, or expand rebel bands which lurked perhaps, bound in secret preparing for the chance to storm a herd land. A herd was weak and futile without numbers, and it was widely known that this timeless forest was the cesspool of opportunity.

Africa’s intention was not so diplomatic, nor was her manner in anyway overly business-like. She spent much of her time scouting the Threshold for flowers, new specimens that perhaps might offer some insight into the world of healing or other curious magic. When she stumbled upon those who lingered through the trees- whatever purpose compelled them, it was more a civil courtesy that lulled her into conversation. Often there were injured folk to be helped, horses who portrayed in some way weakness or despair; and these captured her heart; the very essence of her life. Selflessly the one-winged Oracle sought to rescue those vulnerable from the jaws of ravenous predators, the cruel, macabre; the wrong hands.

Windwalker’s face swung between the waiting mares, Africa too let her pale gaze wander between him and Storm, the gentle peacefulness of her heart flooding tender creamy pools. She could see the process of thoughts circling the depths of his mind; the waver of calculating ears, the fleeting quiver of a lip withholding reason or doubt. The young grey did not persist with her offer, she was not about winning hearts and scoring alliances. Her bed already existed, her reputation forged, and though possibly another addition to the Throat’s numbers would be seen favourably, that was far from her intent- she wanted only the safest destination for the struggling path of this stallion to fall himself upon.

He turned in good time, towards the darker grey, Storm whose quirky personality was too unbalanced for the simple minded Oracle. She watched patiently, and listened with forward leaning ears as the stallion addressed her considerately and offered an explanation of sorts, and a gentle, grateful decline. The other mare said nothing, and so Windwalker turned his attention to Africa and without the need for words she nodded quietly, offering a parting gesture to she who would leave the woods alone. It would be a long journey home- but the raven-hued stallion showed little real desire to alight and delve south via the atmosphere. The dappled mare had little desire to probe the reasoning for his behaviour, she figured he would share that which his heart wished to disclose and left it at that.

With a thoughtful smile ushered, Africa led her new friend; her herd-brother, down towards the Meadow which would begin the leg home.