Rico.
He knew that tone. The Incendiary recognized the hushed voice, the usual authority vacant, replaced by apprehension and surprise. It had been many months ago, even years by now, since he had last seen her. Eva.

The buttermilk boy lifted his head reluctantly, teal eyes glacial.

He stared at her. Once, she had been young and beautiful, a sight for sore eyes with her coral coat and glistening green eyes. The mare he had once thought himself to be in love with was still gorgeous. Now she lacked those untouched curves, her bodacious shape altered by the carrying of her daughter- her unicorn daughter. Did she regret it? Did she ever think of her selfish stupidity, her betrayal to him? No. The Incendiary had loved her admired her when he was younger because of her utter confidence, the belief she held in herself, her damnable stubbornness.

“Evangeline,” he answered her, voice sharp as razors.
To be truthful, he wasn’t quite sure what to do, or even how to react. When he still walked by Gunslinger’s flank, he had met her, watched her stand up to his father without flinching. As they aged, it seemed their relationship had begun to grow into something deeper… and then he, acting the coward, fled from Isilme, pushing on into Helovia. They had been brought back again and again, and their meetings had soured. Their youth had long since faded from their eyes and their smiles.

The stallion swallowed, but he couldn’t get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth, and neither could he stand to meet her gaze any longer. Their last words had ended, well, shitty.

His attention was drawn from his old friend acquaintance by a more welcome voice, a lower cadence wrung with masculinity. Ricochet’s eyes move away from Tallis and the Pure, the frost in his eyes melting, the knot in his chest loosening. Since the incident with the spy and the interfering skyrat, he hadn’t seen his tri-colored companion, the first recruit he had made for the Equine Empire. As he runs his eyes over the stallion, the Incendiary allows himself to relax. There are no scars or cuts on the paint’s hide- no long-lasting damage has been left over from their fight.

“Brother,” he murmurs, offering Dragomir a faint smile. “How have you fared since our accident?” Ricochet doubted that his comrade would be fool enough to speak openly of their fight, but from his interactions with Eva, Dragomir might think her openly aware of the Incendiary’s beliefs. Which was, he supposed, true, but she didn’t need to hear all the gory details about it. He wasn’t sure how far her loyalty to him (if there was any) might extend, or if she would keep her mouth shut- besides, she was a mare and a diplomat.

Although she had fought when the shades overrun Isilme.
The Incendiary wonders briefly if it was a bad idea coming here. So far, he has only run into what is sure to be coming trouble.

“Her name’s Evangeline- she hails from Isilme as well.” Ricochet interrupts, before falling silent, realizing she would probably take his butting in as a form of control. Inwardly, the buttermilk boy shrugs. If she wanted to get angry about it, she could. He didn’t care. Really.