If there was one thing he liked about the Threshold, it was the dust that drifted in the air and gathered on his buttermilk skin.

Otherwise, it was little more than a cesspit of assorted individuals, many of which carried the staple of an alicorn on their head or wings on their shoulders, all flocking to the gateway of Helovia with the intention of stealing recruits for themselves, like so many squabbling seagulls over a piece of fish. Ricochet detested it. He hated having to persuade and choose and carefully decide who was best for the Empire and who was not. It required a patience that the Incendiary was lacking, and not only that but a careful thought process. Even his daughter would be better at recruiting then him, not that he would ever admit it... or Eva. Yet for all he knew, Evangeline had been destroyed by the shades that had overrun Isilme for so many years. If she had survived, she had betrayed their race by lying with a unicorn, and he could not abide by that.

There was no-horse who could do it for him yet. It was part and parcel with the tedious beginnings of the Empire, and he would deal with it with clenched teeth and pinned ears.

Dust settling in his lungs, Ricochet coughed, ears pinning to his skull and tangled dark mane. Ahead of him, Guns sneezed violently, spraying the earth with the contents of his leathery black nose, leaving delicate imprints of his paws in the silt. "Guns," the Incendiary called to his shadow, teal eyes squinting after the collie. "Here boy." Obediently the dog came trotting back, plume of a tail wagging back and forth lazily. Rust red stained his muzzle from when he had eaten early this morning, catching a pigeon in the Secret Grove.

Ahead of them in the dim forest he could make out a horse. The shadows and pale lighting flickered over a dark hide and scarred pelt, with a glint of silver scattered sparsely over his coat. Worse, there was a unicorn, the color of dry bones and blood.

Fucking unicorn, you won't steal this catch from me. He lengthens his step, approaching the duo with his cold teal eyes and his dog at his hooves. "I am Ricochet the Incendiary," he calls out, voice ringing through the forest brazen and declarative. "If you are looking for a herd of your own kind, Czernobog, then come with me. You shall be cared for and respected as family, for as long as you live."