Winter was a bitter season. It sacked the earth with its stone-cold fists of ice and snow. It screamed its fury in the form of a fierce gale. It killed the beauty that its sister seasons had worked so hard to nurture and protect during their reign over the earth. But, most of all, it was very much like the wandering king. Merciless. Fierce. Silent. His golden coat did not blend well with his surroundings, but it did not matter in the eternal darkness that had come.

The brute didn't know if he appreciated this sudden lack of light just yet; it hid his scarred face and retreating form, but it also hid his enemies inside the folds of its coal black cloak. The fact that the tyrant had no idea where he was didn't help, either, and his teeth gnashed in frustration. He wasn't normally a clumsy bloke -- his movements were controlled and precise -- but the lack of light was causing him to stumble in the deep snow and unfamiliar terrain. He had even managed to trip over Guns once, who had forgotten to keep out of the buckskin's way as he fumbled around in the dark. He didn't have the collie's excellent vision, after all.

A warning growl sounds in the darkness at the stallion's hip, and the Incendiary halts to peer into the blank expanse ahead of him. His naves work furiously to detect something, anything, in the space in front of them that they actually manage to let a few soft snorts out. A flash of anger flares up in the quarter horse, but he smoothly lets the moment pass. The damage is done.

Giving a low, commanding whistle, the dog at his heel lurches forwards and flings himself into the darkness, his paws making barely any sound as they pound against the snow. Unlike his master, his movements are wild. The black-and-white pelt that adorns his body shifts effortlessly over his shifting form as he climbs the steeply-sloped hill. His legs are a silent flurry of activity as they drag him closer to his prey. A dark nose takes in the scent of the intruder that his brown eyes had detected, and he confirms the creature to be the same species as his master. Perhaps now he won't be so bitter. His thoughts are as dark as the night that conceals him. A low growl presses against his black lips, and he presses his belly against the snow in a crouch.

At the sound of the gundog's voice, Ricochet urged his numbing legs into a lope, both to climb the hill faster and to warm himself up for any potential spar. He will not admit it to himself, but secretly that is what he hopes for; a good fight to take out all of his frustration. His past meeting with the new superiors of the Foothills had ultimately ended in his own embarassment, for he had been tossed out again by the very same group that had banished him in the past. The very thought of his horrible luck in not meeting with his nephew -- as he had planned -- causes the Incendiary's blood to boil. What right did they have to remove him from his home, anyway? It had been his to rule before, just as it will be his to rule again. Perhaps this darkness was indeed a blessing; who can see an army coming when it is hidden in shadow?

With sweat dotting his arched nape, Ricochet pulled himself to the crest of the hill and searched the apex of his climb with his dual pools of ice. He is shocked to find that it is not completely dark here, but he pushes the feeling to the back of his mind. Teal eyes had taken hold of the outline of a shadowed figure, and the stallion's innate instinct to challenge the force that opposed him replaced his surprise. The Incendiary's voice is deep and commanding when he bellows, "It's dangerous for ladies to be out so late, miss."

"Ricochet"