Art clears the mind so effectively. Even these meager doodles have easily quieted Kipling’s disjointed thoughts, although their objective value as ‘art’ could certainly be debated. It doesn’t matter. This whole scene will melt into slush soon enough. Besides, his creations are not made for anyone else. He is enjoying himself, and that is enough. This hedonism, of course, is what got him into his present predicament (even if he will never have the self-awareness to acknowledge this fact). Indulging his every whim and shirking his responsibilities had led him to disappear to the most isolated recesses of Helovia, doing… something. Gods know.

The ruddy unicorn is so engrossed in his task that he completely misses the duo’s arrivals. The three of them might have stood there all day if the nearest unicorn had not spoken. Kipling snaps to attention, almost dazed from staring at the bright white snow for so long. Crystals of snow cling to his horn, occasionally melting and dripping down onto his face. He blinks, and the two dark figures materialize, stark against the wintery scene. Closest to him, the speaker is seen first. It is a tall unicorn bearing a coat like ebony wood accented in ornate gold, decidedly better built than himself. Confidence and proudly-worn wounds effectively mask his relative youth. Meanwhile, the diminutive pegasus does nothing to draw Kipling’s attention, but even this most obtuse stallion cannot avoid noticing the pitch black frame standing against the snow white terrain. Either the smallest pegasus or the biggest bird… No. Four legs. Pegasus.

Having taken stock of his surroundings, Kipling smiles broadly. "Hello!" He announces with far more volume than necessary. It's been a while since he has had to regulate his speech, and it's obvious, although his voice lacks the characteristic rust of disuse. In fact, he has been speaking to himself almost incessantly since his departure. He motions excitedly to the pegasus, eager to include her in the conversation, and cries pleadingly, "Come see."

Beaming, the unicorn steps back to allow a better look at his creation. "I don’t know what it is. What do you see? Do you want to draw things, too?" He asks, all genuine curiosity and simple pride. As an afterthought, he hurriedly adds, "Oh! I’m Kipling! What are your names?"

There is no self-consciousness in his scrambled speech; it is sincere in its child-like honesty. All the while, he smiles, unabashedly delighted for the company.