Whatever subtle conflict is playing out between unicorn and pegasus, Kipling remains blithely oblivious. Maybe if they started actively trying to kill one another he would notice something had gone amiss… Maybe. As it is, the muted and unspoken barbs being thrown about reach their intended targets without ensnaring the cheerful unicorn in any crossfire. He takes no side because he does not realize that lines – more meaningful lines than those in the snow – are being drawn. They are having fun! This is delightful, utterly delightful. Why had he ever left? Everything feels so much more gratifying when it can be shared; when he can rope others into his silly little worlds and enjoy this pristine omnipotence, at least for a while.

Like everything today, their interpretations of his work please Kipling immensely. Unable to widen his already face-splitting grin any more, he instead prances his front hooves in place, apparently so thrilled he cannot physically restrain himself. “I love turtles and wind! What beautiful answers! Did you meet the turtle in the sky? He gave everyone presents. He’s probably my favorite turtle.” Kipling is about to launch into a diatribe about the many turtles and winds he has observed in his five years, but Imonada and Rikyn are spared. As they finish their introductions and settle into their drawings, his broad smile gradually begins to fade and he falls oddly still, the happy energy no longer vibrating off of him. He has remembered his initial task and all the unpleasantness it entails. Suddenly faced with the reality of others who actually exist and who he must now convince of his worth, he feels trapped, ashamed. They are unfamiliar feelings to the sunshiney Kipling, and he is immediately struck by the urge to run. Admitting desertion and begging reacceptance seems anathema even to him, and the knotted sensation in the pit of his stomach distresses him.

He stares at the markings they are drawing in the snow, searching for an answer in the cryptic designs. For once silently, he begs his hooves to remain planted and not take off for the mountains. He does not realize what he is doing when he blurts out, “I just had to leave, okay? I had to…” They are not privy to his thoughts and his history, but Kipling does not realize this. Offering no further explanation, he bulldozes on, “I want to live in Helovia again. I really want to. Am I in Helovia? I didn’t mean to leave, but I had to…”

This garbled half-confession does not make Kipling feel better. Now he is scared to exhale, as if the expulsion of breath will propel him away again, perhaps forever this time. He has to stay; he knows he has to stay. He has forcibly put himself and his potential future in Helovia at the mercy of this pair. It is likely this is far more responsibility than either one sought when they tracked down his happy laughter on the steppe, but Kipling has made his decision, and what anyone else might want rarely factors into his decisions. Now he waits, distraught, bronze eyes flickering nervously between Imonada and Rikyn, entirely convinced he will explode if one of them does not speak soon.