The dun stallion moves forward proudly, trying to channel the generals and warriors and kings of his blood; he hopes they are proud of their grey-eyed son, previously so cowardly and stupid. He desperately wants to be brave, he wants to save this beautiful piece of land before the dead or the living or the divine dare to steal it away from him, like they have with so many other of his dearest possessions. Some part of him is ashamed for driving the dark-winged mare away; the look in her eyes when she came to the realization of her loss haunts him - but why had it been so easy to walk away - why had there been this buoyant feeling in his chest, a lightness in his heart when the victory had dawned on him? Why had seizing her place been so effortless, so laughably easy? Will the Foothills hate him for dethroning their pale queen? His mind is dizzy with questions, but blunt hooves, hardened by travel and running sorrows away, advance upon the budding grass with the confidence of youth, muscles rippling easily underneath a spotted rosy skin.

Today is lovely and bright; birds babble and sing in budding trees, and pretty flowers dot the lush, tender baby grasses of the Foothill's sprawling acreage. The callow stallion is half-tempted to race madly through it, to feel the wind running its wild fingers through the russet cascade of his mane and the frenzy of springtime in his veins, but he collects himself. Not today, the dun reminds himself, mercury eyes wide and alert - he is not the careless vagabond he was for so many years; he has married this land through the defeat of the chaser of storms, and has required himself to meet with his comrades, who seem to have neglected it for all the time of his absence.

Pausing underneath a lone willow, Jackal waits for his hunting dragon; the bronze will give him the courage he lacks, even if the cilia of their bond are ominously silent. "Dei!", he calls, the undulating tendrils of his tail giving an idle swish. Within seconds, a great metallic thing swoops from the endless clear arms of the sky, trilling cordially to his bonded whilst he lands on the broad striped back. The appaloosa twists the thick muscles of his neck to face the dragon and gives him an affectionate nudge - their bond may be mute, but the fibers of love still connect him.

After a moment of peace, Jackal's head swings forward; he faces a creek, tumbling and wild and swollen with winter's melted snow. With a soft sigh, he hails the other members of the triumvirate: "Archibald, Evers," says the pleasant tenor voice, carried over the Foothills by a playful birdsong breeze. He wants to know what has happened during his bout of wanderlust, and what he can do to remedy it.

Jackal, son of traitors and beggars and thieves, waits, half-hidden beneath the fronds of a willow, for his comrades, and ultimately wondering what the hell he has gotten himself into.