[Ina, please be patient ^^ it hasn't been long at all since your replies. If you truly want to post more with this particular character why not make her an outcast for now and join other threads?]

Hooves move with a casual grace over the snow laden ground. It's the slow, leisurely step of one well acquainted with this area, as he had become of late. The Threshold seemed more his herd land than the Foothills. At least here he could find the company he sought, the faces he loved.

Perhaps if he had spent more time in his true herd he would have recognized the individual hovering over the fallen girl. He would have known him to be the boy of his foalhood passions and naivete, would have known him to be spawned from the loin's of the unicorn that seemed better fit to capture her heart than he.

As it was Ricochet only saw two equines. Two lovely, perfect, equines.

His pace retained its strolling effect as he drew upon them. There was no need to hurry even if his blood had risen to an excited roar in his ears as his pulse quickened in the fervent joy to behold and possibly have this pair. He could not appear too eager, such a demonstration would equally tell of how he was lacking. They must believe in him and to succeed in that he would need to be strong, capable, nonchalant. Luckily Ricochet has never been in want of confidence.

He pulled alongside the young stallion as if they were old friends. Anyone without the ugly horn stabbing through their skull or the bird's legs splitting from their shoulders was an immediate and long lasting friend to the dunskin. Ears twitched forward, catching the tail end of the boy's words and the mumbling chaos of the girl's language. Curious, at first appraisal Ricochet had thought them travel companions but now it seems he'd stepped up only moments too late to witness their initial encounter. Perhaps this would make it easier to cajole them then - they would not be dependent on each other for safety or decision making.

Ricochet exhaled steam. "Only the weak and the dying sit in cold's teeth for so long mare," Ricochet's voice is an impassive drawl, as if he were commenting on weather and not the inevitable plague winter would grace the peculiar girl with. Her question went unanswered for the mean time, he knew she directed it not at him originally. "I don't think you are weak and dying," he tilted his head, as if to give his teal eyes a better look at her, "or are you?" If she was injured he saw it no better than Cyrus, but wounds of the mind and heart are never easy to see, not at first. They bleed into every action and scab over every word instead, and it is not for a time that you realize the red walk and the mottled talk are not normal, but infections come from hurt and despair.

Gaze drifted to the boy at his left side, curious as to what he would prove to be, but the matter at hoof was the mare and she soon begged his focus back upon her. "With two of us we could lift her," Ricochet murmured to Cyrus, though his gaze stared down at her. "Or dig her a grave."

He shrugged his shoulders.

Truthfully he hoped his constant talk of demise would rouse her to prove him wrong. Mares were often willful creatures that did not appreciate being told about themselves, much less incorrectly, and least of all from a stallion.

R I C O C H E T - -
blam, you're dead