The trees press in obnoxious, close. He slips through like a wraith, long silver lines contorting around trunks and branches, spilling like water through shadows and light. This land breeds claustrophobia, all of it – trees and mountains, walls and distances closed – roped off. Even the sky soars high and above, sun rotting in its depths, throwing off sticky yellow light. When his lungs heave in they fill with air half water, thick and humid. But he breathes on anyway, and walks on anyway, accustomed to the heat if not the press of green shadows. He glimmers silver in the daylight, his figure more doe than stallion, though his height gives out the lie. Cloven hooves press down the ferns and undergrowth with care, as if he expects to find a mine hidden beneath them, but he ventures on – determined. To merely wait in the north, allowing all the sinew in his legs to atrophy – it grinds at his very nature.

        And this place is full of things to see.

        Eventually, his ears prick to the sound of something – someone – speaking to the forest. It dances childish and out of range against his ears, no more than music. With a jerk, his ears lift up to catch it anyway. A girl. The noise calls him forward and he turns to follow, drawn by curiosity if nothing else, drawn to the call of others even if he knows better than to bother them. He slips out from between the trees with his head up, all narrow angles pulled tall, but inquisitive and hardly threatening. The filly in the path before him wears a crown of twisted bone, hard black. He blinks and blinks again; his tail stirs once against the fragile sculptures of his hocks.

        There is a mare, as well: this grey like the storm clouds gathering above. Caneo stands with muscle drawn up wire-taut under his silver hide as something sharp, electric, gathers in the air. The girl, the mare, the clouds – all promise something. He knows the scent before a storm but not these creatures, and smiling vaguely, he bows his his head, long neck curving in a graceful arc. “Hello.” He has not heard the mare speak, but he sees a similar color between herself and the girl. He leaps to the nearest answer, and stepping back warily, adds, with a short bob of the head. “Is this your little one?” His eyes gleam keen, part fear, part curiosity; he knows better than to step between a mare and foal but wonders anyway, wishing only to hear their voices. He smiles at the girl. “Those are quite some horns you have, aren’t they?”