The stars above the desert sing. Their music twists and courses over his skin, not like the silver light of his birthplace but so similar. This chorus, Caneo thinks, rings fuller, resonates through his bones the longer he looks. Pale eyes, rendered colorless by night, pick out constellations he knows and those unfamiliar: the great bear, the rearing horse, the angels descending... If he closes his eyes, he almost hears their stories once more. What do they think of him, their wayward son, who pays allegiance to nothing on the earth? Would they approve of this bargain he strikes, or would they call him foolish?

        He isn't certain which he hopes for. The stars sing tragic songs, and he knows too well the taste of tragedy. With some effort, he removes his gaze from the sky. Now his efforts align with things much closer to the ground. He recalls the words of Ampere, and of Essetia, and his thoughts whisper, Ghost. He knows nothing of her but a name. Still, tonight Caneo's hooves move in search of her. His body answers to a rhythm established since infancy: sleep through the day, move through the night. So he does not consider he may find her sleeping, though he worries she will be elsewhere, tending to more important things than a wayward ghost with a disloyal heart.

        Still, he must try.

        He wanders to the edge of the great oasis. Water laps blackly at the shore, soft waves, a docile thing compared to the sea. With memory swimming in his thoughts, blurring the distance between past and present, Caneo regards his surroundings. The moon is an egg on the water; the stars gleam like jewels. Tonight is not a night for tragedy; this oasis harbors only allies. So Caneo paces along the shoreline, his tail waving behind him, and searches for other shapes in the dark. "Essetia?" he calls softly. He should not trust this mare he barely knows, but a kinship deeper than blood moves his heart when he thinks of her, so he calls her name now he is in need of help. He needs to find the sleuth.

        "Ghost," he murmurs with less certainty. He searches for a white mare, though he wonders if he may be wrong; why did he never ask? The newness of this place hangs on him like the scent of storm, warning and temptation all at once. He cannot know what he will be when the storm has passed.