The dawn was promising a beautiful day. In shades of gaudy gold and primrose pink, the sun ascended above the dark line of horizon, washing the night-black sky with watercolor fingers, kissing the ebon velvet softly until it blushed crimson and scarlet, aureate and gentle yellow. Sunlight glinted off the frost clinging to black tree and yellowed grass, and most strangely of all, something tall and endless and clear as glass.

The stranger to the World's Edge lingered outside the border, his head tipped inquisitively as he gazed at the near-invisible barrier. He wanted to creep forward, press his hooves against it, exhale on it, but he had learned never to stick his muzzle into the unknown (even if he had rarely listened as a colt.) Minutes trickled by as the sun continued it's journey, and still the buttermilk boy stood quiet, marveling at the invisible structure; he could only imagine what damage it might do to the invading army, who couldn't see it and would trip over themselves in their haste to reach the enemy- they would be knocked out with ease. It was a clever defense. If Desperado hadn't warned him of the wall, maybe Ricochet would have walked right into it. Well, no, not truly. He was not that rude (or stupid) as to trespass.

Nobody came.

Ricochet wandered closer to the near-invisible barrier, a slight tremor running down his spine, teal eyes narrowing in suspicion. The grass whispered beneath his hooves, and he left a trail of damp yellow hoofprints behind him, stark against the uniform white the frost had left behind. There were no pawprints today. Guns was off hunting through the trees.

The stallion inhaled, the frigid air burning in his lungs, and exhaled. Clouds of vapor curled from his nostrils, and to the boy's amazement, they clung to the glass, steamy white against the pale. Cautiously, the quarter horse reached out, bumping his face against the cool glass. He pressed his cheek to it, a baritone hum rumbling in his chest. It was cold against his golden face.

Ricochet scowled.
Rotating around his forelegs, he shoved his barrel against the barrier. Against the thickness of his winter fur, he did not feel the chill- but that was besides the point. With one ear cocked, he hummed again, louder, and felt it tremble through the glass.

Hastily, he backed away, muttering beneath his breath. "What the hell is this?"