When next Ricochet looked upon the mare her eyes had taken on a haunted look. The Incendiary knew better than to prod her so carelessly in such a state, so he let them walk on in silence, wondering what images flashed in the backs of her eyes. Were they horrible scenarios that gave her feet to flee in haste, uncaring where she stopped and only doing so when exhaustion stole her, or was it with a longing sensation of loss that filled her with equal parts joy and sorrow?

Ricochet had experienced both, of the same land, but now he thought little of his past. There was too many atrocities, sorrows, and loves in the present to keep him preoccupied. Whatever spare time he could manage he used to look into the future, rather than back to his previous life. There was nothing left for him to see there, he'd already tried that once.

When Insanity began to speak Ricochet shook his head, tossing away his own memories and turning an ear to hear of hers. He was surprised to learn mares did have a choice, but often willingly forfeited it. He couldn't imagine anyone doing that here. In many ways this land was his birth pace all over again, just different names, different settings, different horses. The familiarity of it perhaps gave his heart the ease of forgetting.

"Were there wars?" Ricochet asked after a moment of pause, his head turning to glance at her, steady eyes focusing on her expressions with a gentle interest. "Were there thieves and kings, fools and murderers?" He wondered much of the outside world, not having been too far past these borders. One day he hoped to march into the beyond places and claim them too, but for now he was busy enough with this spit of land.

"We had all of that where I come from, and here now too." He ducked his head as a tree branch that hung low cropped up in their path. The gentle needles on his skin prickled his hairs and reminded him of the shades and their cutting flesh. He shuddered. "It was overrun, my home, Isilme. The dead began to walk again, and though their faces were familiar, their eyes and actions were not. Their bodies were made of shadow and blood and they cut when they touched and chased you until you died." Ricochet spoke evenly, unperturbed by this information that he had long ago accepted. "If you fought, you died. If you ran, you died. We had only the hope of sealing them away by gathering some items, to make a spell or something... but we failed." He exhaled heavily, an unhappiness tainting that memory. The Tome Guardian that had set them on the missions had been an idiot and in the end he was powerless and killed too. He had promised them salvation but he did not deliver it and everyone had suffered.

"Everyone blames it on the wars that filled Isilme. It was said to be a greedy and racist nation, yet I wonder which is not? If the gods wish our hearts not to be filled of spite then I wonder why do they fill it thusly?" Ricochet laughed, bitter and disbelieving of gods and fates and peaceful gits. "It's interesting though that this all happened in a time of peace... I think we have to have war. Even those who fight for peace often do it with their hooves and teeth, such hypocrites." His tail lashed angrily at his flanks, the cold making it sing more than usually but the bite sharpened his wit. "I do not fear the dead or take thought from the past. What is done is done and failures are only ever that... I will not be caught in such a position again."

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