Home. He had finally made it back to the lonely hills that had elected the young stallion as their king and then hung him out to dry. Talk about a fair system of democracy.

The kingdom-less tyrant waded through the stomach high grass, each blade of dried out and yellow barley bowing in his wake. His short, fire-damaged locks of obsidian stood up against the relentless wind like a banner; scorched and torn to pieces, but still defiantly waving its colors. The soldier that carried said banner was just as burnt and ruined, but still he journeyed onwards. The toned and rippling muscles underneath his scarred hide moved in a controlled fluidity that kept in time with his easy jog. His naves expanded and contracted in an even rhythm, and his pale cream neck bulged in a handsome arch. If anything, the scars that now branded his handsome face only made the brute that much more determined, and his memories only hardened his resolve to rid this world of all of its impurities. He had bent to the will of too many insolent beings in the past, and now it was their time to succumb to his wrath.

You had better be prepared, Jackal. Something as inconsequential as bloodlines will not keep me from my throne. You are the enemy as much as every horned and feathered mistake that has dared come into existence.

Ricochet's intent eyes focused their blue gaze on the approaching foothills, his forelegs stretching out ahead and his hinds kicking him into a gallop in frenzied excitement. The summer heat was taking its toll on the charging beast, and his buckskin coat was soon covered in a sheen of sweat. It was a miracle that his long-furred companion had not yet collapsed from the heat himself, but he was a hardy mutt. He would survive, Ricochet was sure.

Each stride sent the stallion deeper and deeper into his tumultuous fervor, and his eyes soon rolled back to reveal their whites with ecstasy. Many moons had passed since the quarter horse had run over these windswept hills, and he was feverish with the exhilaration of coming back to them. How could the witch and her devilish companions have ever dared to banish him from this place? How could he have let himself be run off of these moors, especially in the era of his own reign?

It was ludicrous to even imagine removing a lord from his manor, and yet here he was today; running back to the equines that had taken it from him in the first place.

{OOC: Ricochet has no idea that the Foothills have been overrun, so feel free to just go all crazy on him.}
"Talk."