The Threshold had become somewhat of an oasis; an off-centre island, where sickness and regret could not reach, did not touch the minds of those wandering its breadth. Though the arms of mighty trees were sunken beneath the staleness tarnishing the bitter breath of Frostfall, burdened by the weight of snowy drifts lain upon their reach, the atmosphere had not grown sallow; those innocent native creatures thriving throughout still scrambled obliviously to the silent rhythm of their instincts. They and their world were not cast in Helovia’s darkest hour.

The first snowfall of the season had ceased; its residual lay as powdery carpet across the forest floor and light, sodden troughs betrayed the passage of many before her. Africa’s nose lowered as her trudging paused before yet another and fluttering nostrils tested the scent carefully. The scent had become too familiar; its owner seemed to waft through every landscape she sought refuge upon (like the wretched humidity of summer), and the young grey’s ears hastened backwards as her skull was lifted quickly again. Pale eyes surveyed the area- the direction offered by the churned slush, and those parts which had been flung by a hastened stride.

Africa and Silas had spent the night north of the cave because it seemed the fresh air (well fresher than the disease riddled wind which curdled their stomachs everywhere else), seemed to offer some respite from the woes of the life which deteriorated around her. Her coat had not thickened like it might have should she have been still exposed to the elements, though it was not so sleek and clean with the care she had once tended it with. Such matters seemed trivial nowadays, and though the bite of the coldest season’s arrival was an unpleasant feeling, the cloak which contained her offered relief enough.

With Silas riding and watching vigilantly upon the switch of her pointed withers, Africa began to trail the mare, Abisha, who she could not apparently avoid.

Though it seemed grimly that the herds had been lost- their numbers combined and lives intertwined, the Oracle still felt the pang of responsibility- the coercing pull to find those souls seeking refuge; a home. It seemed the brown and white girl had a knack for seeking them out, and Africa who had little energy to draw from seized the opportunity laid before her. It was the hum of conversation which forced her limbs to still. Stormy-grey eyes shifted forward, stiffening in place, to listen. Indeed it was Abisha, rambling she thought blandly, and the one-winged Pegasus continued forward to meet them with a thoughtful nod offered to each present.

The stranger was marked curiously, a paw as golden as that which Midas wielded covered the shine of one glimmering eye; and at once Africa’s own creamy gaze was drawn to examine it. With her face tilted quietly the pensive creature offered a cool smile, and offered her name quietly. "Africa; I come on behalf of the Dragon’s Throat herd."

Africa