Clack, clack.

Striped heels clatter against stone, dragging the dun fitfully, ever upward. Willow's eucalyptus poultice has healed his injured limb considerably, although the leg is still prone to stumbling and weakness. A ghost of a smile traces his lips as he thinks of the tree-mare. She is learned and skillful to her trade; it was a wise decision to choose her, and her knowledge will prove useful within the coming days. He limps on, aching muscles straining forward. The Dauntless had no doubt put up a fight for his empty throne, but a victor is chosen far before the battle, and the universe drove him to triumph. His breath comes heavy and labored as the trail steepens and narrows. The last time he had traced this trail was to drive off Svetlana the Stormchaser, the goddess that bowed and had come again like a common housefly, here to gather the sheep that never came. Auburn tail flicks with contempt; where ever she is now, he hopes the very insects she emulates feast on her flesh. She was no worthy leader, and neither was the Dauntless, and he drove them out all the same, giants or goddesses or not.

As he crests the mountain path, the thunder of the cascade increases. He sees the stout Haflinger at once, standing as if she had something to be proud with. Warily, he tilts an ear backwards, apprehensive of her boldness. What drives her to be so loyal to worthless leaders? He has fought for them, he has fought for her, and she repays him with doubt? A pale cub reclines on her back, and vaguely, Jackal wonders where his own dragon is. Hunting, most probably, searching for marmots and weasels in the high, ice-peaked mountains. The dun pauses before her, face set in a neutral expression. "You have a lovely friend," he says softly, giving the tiger a gentle glance. Mercury eyes study her for a moment, before flicking toward the mare beneath her. "You do not trust me," the stallion says bluntly, no kindness or disdain in his voice; it is as honest as the blade of a steel sword whistling through the air. "I understand your qualms," he murmurs quietly, gaze unwavering from her blue eyes. "The triumvirate was chosen by the blood in your veins," the King of Thieves begins gently, "Not how deftly you lead your people, nor how devoted you were to them. Forgive me if I offend you, but Svetlana ran, and Archibald fell, and they were chosen by the same system. I am no power-hungry colt - I only saw a badly managed herd." Lips fall into a serious line, he wonders vaguely if she'll run away from the truth. "But my opinion does not matter in such things," his voice has gained a weariness it has not had before; "Tell me, what do you think?"