Beautiful cold mountains! Far better than the glaring orange of the south and the Nightshade had eagerly stepped his hooves in the soft snows of the Frosteppe Breathe as even in Frostfall’s retreat and Birdsongs rise did the cold still reign in the far north. Stubborn land, d’Artagnan was becoming rather fond of it. Perhaps the mists of the west were still dear to him, but the anger of losing that land was numb, there were more important things on his mind now. Like Kou and his sons. He trekked hard across the Steppe, his body warmed through and nostrils expanding by the time he reached the familiar narrow path that lead into the Basin, cloven hooves carefully picking his way down the rocky slope before finally he reached hard floor of his home and dropped to a halt. For a few moments he gazed, noting the odd outline of unicorns here and there, scents of those whom he stood side by side with. Aramis bounded forwards, yapping whilst his pointed tail flashed rapidly back and forth, his hell born partner seemed quite joyous to be home. Yet, claws skidded against the solid surface of the ground, claws that were nestled in tense paws. A simmering anger that was well concealed, d’Artagnan understood the way in which his bonded’s legs trembled, a task unfinished that required the fatal seal of blood.

Purposely, he set off at a walk again, expression set into a grim outline as eyes brooding and dark, perhaps only the tense way his body seemed to move suggesting an internal anger. The Time Mender and his hound guard marched forwards, past trees and toadstools, past the early blossoming fireflies who danced colours and prepared themselves for summer. It was then he heard a voice, a vaguely familiar female one and he altered his path to follow the sound, eventually finding Illynx stood inches from the lakes embrace. The Mender stopped, hellhound dropping to his haunches beside his forelegs, and tilted his head in strained amusement. "Old men?" He asked wryly of the newly promoted leader, who he didn’t really know all that well and spoke to her like he’d speak to any other horse. d’Artagnan was never really fond of authority figures, even if he was being a hypocrite.

Sneaks, scholars. That’s who this meeting was for, the Nightshade was both and neither, a Time Mender meant to heal injuries. Though most of the time he preferred inflicting them. An expert in poison, none of this frilly star gazing scholars liked to do and questioning their very own existence. The fact was d’Artagnan wasn’t really sure he wanted to be in this company, but he had a problem, a problem that needed to be solved. The pickpockets and dreamers might have the answer.

He waited to see who else would show up, before saying anything more.

_{and now I die slow}