He was tired, the sand crusting on his salt-sprayed coat, grit on his tongue and dust between his teeth.

Tired of walking. Tired of futile efforts. Tired of all the things that his father had warned him about being true. Too reckless. Too stupid. He was not a lucky stallion. Ricochet's attempts were crushed casually, his dreams perpetually beaten back, just like the waves crashing down on the shore. They pulled at the land, but the land did not yield. But the waves beat on, foaming white with blue rage, just as he would. He would not give up, not something that was not so much a belief as the reason he lived.

Guns trotted ahead of Ricochet, paws leaving deep imprints into the damp shore where the salt waters had receded this morning. It was the stench that bothered the Incendiary; the aroma of rotten seaweed and kelp, dead animals decaying and crumbling, skin sloughing off bone, the rich tang of salt, the stink of the wet white droppings the seagulls left behind them, a sticky mess that congealed in the shallows. Even the sounds quick became a source of frustration more than inner peace- the harsh caw of gulls, the roar of the waves crashing down, the wind whispering empty promises into dark ears. And the sights were worse. All blue ocean and dry gold sand, too reminiscent of the Tides.

The wind whistled and keened in Ricochet's ears as he moved dutifully forwards, with no purpose to guide where he walked. Here he was a small fragmentary piece, a pawn rather than king, a man out to walk his dog.

He was nothing here, without his rage and curling sneers, nobody to snap at and only his collie to shout at.

And he hated it.

R I C O C H E T - -
blam, you're dead

Ricochet heard the crack and crunch of brittle seaweed breaking under the paws of his companion, and he turns his scarred skull, teal eyes bitter as the tang of salt. For a moment, the breeze shoves the stench of decay away, stirring the Incendiary’s matted mane, coaxing his tail to become a flapping thing, carrying the scents of sap and cracked wood down from the woods- and something else, a scent of smoke and mist. His nostrils flare, scrupulously testing the air for another clue to that elusive familiar smell, but he detects nothing. With a firm shake of his head, he knocks the thoughts away. The beach appears to be abandoned except for him and Guns, and with the way it curves lazily, he should be able to see anyone coming from far off.

A branch knocks against his fetlocks- a thick, gnarled stick, covered with drool and bitemarks from the jaws of a certain dog. His teal eyes cut towards the collie reproachfully, and with a huff, he moves away, leaving Guns to snack on woodchips.

As he wanders down the beach, the tide just lapping at the edges of his hooves, the faint scent he noted dutifully earlier becomes stronger. It does smell familiar, even if only vaguely, but he cannot recall quite when he first met the perpetrator. Or who it is either, but it appears the instigator will soon be revealed. There is a gray figure on the horizon, one with a mane as white as seafoam, a cobweb dancing on it’s forehead.

The Incendiary’s head tilts just slightly in curiosity, even as Guns comes trotting, lugging the driftwood branch along in his mouth. “I don’t suppose you recognize him, do you?” He asks the dog in his deep baritones. No answer is forthwithcoming, as expected.

Soon enough the stranger is close enough to attack (Ricochet often measures distances in this way) and the Incendiary’s brow furrows. Yes, he’s definitely seen this stallion before, but he is uncertain of when. During the invasion of the Edge maybe? Maybe… as the gray stallion goes to pass him by, Ricochet steps pointedly in front of him, snarled tail whipping across his buttermilk flanks. His ears twist back, not pinning but neither perked forward, and his muscles are soft and limber, not flexed with rage.

“Good day,” The boy says pleasantly enough, though his eyes are narrowed in a skeptical way, as if this horse was at fault. “We’ve met before, haven’t we? Ricochet the Incendiary…” He trails off, a note of uncertainty lifting the pitch of his statement. “But didn’t you have a dragon?” Yes, this grullo most certainly had one. A little white one, the color of a thousand sparkling white diamonds. Dragons. Ever since Smoke had challenged him, he had forgotten how much he had once wanted one. The burnt side of his face twitches in memory of the fire blistering around his eye, melting flesh, eating at his face, and Ricochet represses the urge to shudder.

He coughs, shifting his head away, a dribble of snot coming over his lip. Sand grits in all his places, no matter how private.
Guns shakes out his damp coat, coming up at a lazy pace to sit beside Ricochet attentively.

R I C O C H E T - -
blam, you're dead