Others come; a palomino mare, not so different than the colt standing beside the new healer, and a pale unicorn who seemed to be taken from folklore. They both seemed angry - for what? Svetlana, although engaging, was never there to lead, and Archibald was unworthy of such a position. Jackal's shoulder pulses with remembrance; he had felled the giant under a black sky - shouldn't that merit some sort of respect? He studies the two naysayers with the steel eyes that had won him this throne. Archibald boasted of his prowess on the battle, but he had run just the same when he was beaten, and the King of Thieves bore the scars to prove his victory. The red mare, with a white cub of some sort by her haunches, questions him, and the dun inclines his head to listen. She is not wrong to inquest her, as far as she is aware, untried, new leader. A humorless smile tugs at the corners of his lips - suddenly, he feels ancient, as if he has been saddled with a tremendous burden; he has.

A familiar voice answers her question far before he can. They are honest words, molded perhaps by years of inquisition and battle, and Jackal cannot help but admire the strength and wisdom behind them. Paladin turns the questions toward the dun, however, and he tilts his head lightly. "I understand your uncertainty," he begins, glancing at Romani. "But, forgive me, Paladin, the triumvirate was chosen by the blood in your veins, not your ability or drive to lead," voice is clear and unwavering, although a hurricane of uncertainties lay on his breast like a newborn babe. "Gossamer, although diplomatic, lacked vision - and you" he pauses, choosing his words wisely. As far as he knows, the Valiant had stepped down to make way for his triumvirate, the very same that he had vanquished with two strokes of his glittering blade. Mercury eyes turn to the tattered warrior, a vague smile on his lips. "You fought for, and relinquished your crown for the sake of the triumvirate, but you led the Moonlit Tides to greatness, and I have no doubt that you would have done the same with the Foothills," his tone is gentle, not chiding or sharp, and he flicks an ear toward a distant roar, the cascades. "I have been chosen by battle, and I intend to honor this privilege with my life." Like Willow, the Valiant's wisdom will come useful in times of turmoil, and peace. Jackal needs to surround himself with as many sage minds as he can, including the stout palomino, whose skepticism dares the dun to reach far more than his predecessors. She requests to meet him in private, and Jackal watches her for a moment before giving her a discrete smile. "Of course," he says, beckoning her forward with a faint toss of his head and whispering, "Meet me by the waterfalls after the meeting has culminated."

Returning his attention to the herd, he vaguely notices another in the midst, a marbled stallion, a warrior, he assumes, from the strength entwined in his muscles. "I am not a tyrant, nor some power hungry colt," he says honestly; the King of Thieves has a niggling thought that most of these veterans may perceive him as such, including the Able, but what has the blue stallion done, but follow his brother's examples and watch the world go by? Has he proven himself, beyond sitting on his throne for an inordinate amount of time? The dun is rather fond of the strange unicorn, and chooses to quiet his doubts about him. "I was simply tired of watching the Foothills decay under neglect. We were, are, sitting ducks, plump and ready for any fox's passing fancy. We need more warriors, more apprentices, more scholars to discover this world we stand on," his speech winds to a close; he wants to crawl off and rest from the rigors of battle, but he reminds himself of Romani. "Change is inevitable, and we are pass due," the King of Thieves concludes, "I do not wish to keep you longer than necessary. Paladin, Willow, Evers, stay with me, please."