Dahlia moves beside him, drenched mane dripping, all dark chocolate and soaked ebony curves, and Ricochet cannot help but wonder why she aged so quickly, why there was a clever old vixen in the body of hardly more than a kit. Some souls are born wise- others, the majority of them, have to be taught. Which was she?

It doesn’t matter, the dunskin tells himself with a shrug that ripples down his creamy shoulders. This is a mare who is sharp as a knife with mischievous eyes, and most certainly an asset to him.

Not only an asset, but equal too, according to her. Forwards she moves, coming to walk beside him, and the corner of his lips quirk up into half a grin before he straightens his expression. It was a bold move of her, not that she was aware of it- mares should stand behind the shoulder, not take step-to-step, at least normally. Ricochet was sexist, to a degree, mainly in his belief that stallions should work in the battlefields and front lines, while the mares should keep to their diplomatic ways, soothing tensions between testosterone-filled bodes. Despite this conviction, that did not make him a total idiot. The Incendiary realized that a few wily mares were suited better for combat than even stallions; Histe, for example, with her acid rain and creeping cougar.
And maybe Dahlia too.

Her thick tail stings his buttermilk flanks, and Ricochet snorts in answer, snot spraying into the rain-misted air. Teal eyes dash towards her face. Is she teasing him? It’s difficult to tell, for the forest thickens and darkens around them, turning her into a black wraith. Cast into such treacherous shade, even his moonlight-bright flanks turn mottled gray and iron stone. Beneath his hooves, damp earth turns to decaying needles, cast off by the fir trees. The rain drips and drops down, finding narrow paths between monstrous pines, and the thud of his feet are muffled. Even the rain seems to quiet, as if the thunder cannot quite find an entryway through the interlocking canopy of the forest.

“I haven’t been able to find a god in Helovia,” he admits huskily, baritone voice crushed velvet. “I heard you could once go to an island, connected to the shore by a rocky spine. There the gods made their home… but since I’ve returned to this country, I’ve also heard the deities of this land abandoned their shrines, leaving the mortals to walk alone.” Ricochet’s mouth twitches into a miserable smile, but his eyes are far, far away. “Then again, if you were to find one wandering and caught its attention- who knows? They might blast you to bits, or you could find yourself with a bit of magic.” The buttermilk boy seems to waken from his momentary walk in memory lane, glancing away from Dahlia to the path ahead.

One of her eyes flutter shut in a wink, and the Incendiary finds his spirit lightened by the presence of such easy company. Guns moves ahead of them, wandering to disappear in the trees. “There’s also something else I should maybe mention, otherwise you might get kinda startled if you meet the right horse. Have you ever heard of dragons?”