R i c o c h e t,

Eventually he left the white-sand shore of the Endless Blue as the autumn winds came creeping from the west, recognizing his brief respite from the monumental problems of the Equine Empire was finished. It was time to throw himself recklessly back into the infinite world, to find those who needed his guidance, to find soldiers, to become both a savior and leader of a nation, as he was raised to do. The time of the equines was to come again, he was certain of it; he just needed to find those he could, and teach them of their strength, their fortitude, their natural ability and supremacy.

So he went to the Threshold, where the leaves turned red, gold, yellow and fluttered hastily in the breeze, uncertain and fearful of winter’s breath. Among the trees he moved, the butter of his creamy coat melting into the milk of the aspen trees’, with only his tangled black mane and tail contrasting.

There was something melancholy about the gateway to Helovia during the crisp times of autumn; maybe it was the leaves, whispering their grieving songs, or the creak of trees as they danced in the Orangemoon storms, the wind bowing and pressing against them, splintering frosted bark and rattling bony branches. Even the strangers who entered during this season, which was full of dread for the coming snowfalls, seemed more tired, their faces heavily lined, bodies worn thin by hard travel, bones frail beneath sparse winter coats. It was pitiful.

Ricochet jogged along at a languid pace, not so fast as to tire himself out nor so slow as to grow chilled. There was the smooth rhythm of his hooves thudding against the leaf mold, the pump of his heart cycling blood around his body, a cozy warmth that spread from muzzle to frogs as he trotted. His ears pricked mildly in half-hearted interest as he inhaled and exhaled, steam curling from his dark nostrils in the nippy air. Just ahead of him, Guns loped steadily, occasionally veering from the familiar paths to chase after a pigeon here or there. Ever since Histe had first attacked the mutt here, he found it difficult to trust his stupid dog to go off by himself- but he certainly wasn’t going to follow the collie around while he hunted, so trust his damn dog Ricochet did.

Eventually, Guns honed in on a scent, and the Incendiary followed, knowing the dog would lead him to a newcomer of equine breed.
Soon enough, between the slender trees he could glimpse a horse, frost and cream and ebon. There was another, a willow-thin wraith, snow-white with a hint of frozen blue, and one more again, this time unadorned with a horn. Ricochet tipped his head in mild curiosity as he approached, weaving through the trees confidently. All of them put together were still more quiet than the sleeping dead.

Something twinged in his chest as he approached the mare with her head cast down. In his eyes, one could see a shine of blue concern, care that hardened as he saw the pale unicorn watching on.

“What’s your name?” Ricochet asked, turning his head to the grullo woman. Something wasn’t right here. “You, girl.” He added, his rough voice softening.

R i c o c h e t,

The mare kneels, on her knees before the unicorns, dust on her joints. Ricochet’s eyes flick upwards, away from the mousey mare towards Cinnoru’s followers, with their frozen faces: but the stickheaded stallion is small and insignificant beside the statuesque mare, who is pale as dry bones with a face cut of heartless moonlight. Miniscule plumes of dust puff up beneath her cleft hooves as she turns to stare at him with her bitter blue eyes, mocking eyes. The dunskin glances back towards the grullo girl, her golden band glistening.

His mouth tastes of ash and dust, like something’s bedded down and died on his tongue, nestled between his yellow teeth.

A drawl, lazy and drawn out, addresses him with the casual disdain, and the buttermilk boy’s ears slant back. She doesn’t have the right to speak to him with her apathetic scorn when she is nothing but skin and bones, a slender pale water nymph so easily extinguished by an angry exhale of scorching flame. The skin about his hard teal eyes tighten, subtle warning, and his lips contort into malignant sneer; doesn’t she realize that the burns and the scars are prizes of his victories, while she with her pretty white coat can boast of none? He, of course, doesn’t know she defeated a narwhal king. Neither would he care, for that matter. Ricochet is blistering fire and volatile gunpowder, whereas she is a white ghost.

It was endlessly bothersome. Helovians always thought they were equal- the world was not made that way. There were Nieque’s followers, and there was everyone else at their solid, uncloven hooves.
“I don’t see you offering up your name, girl.” Ricochet answers, condescending and heated, with all the grace of a blundering axe. “And I’m not the idiot who gives his name to any stick-headed bitch who comes along.” The dunskin arches his neck, one of his forehooves scratching at the earth almost idly, testing it. Yes, it was dusty enough if their conversation came to it… which it seemed to be. His teal eyes, sharp as knives, cut up towards the mare’s pale face. Can she feel his glare, shattering her horns, gouging her cheeks, slicing her soft pasty skin, hacking away at her snowy hide? The Incendiary steps forward, engaging his hindquarters beneath him, ears coming, slowly but surely, closer towards his tangled black mane. He wonders if she likes all that ugly moving towards her.

Her voice is broken glass, slicing at his ears, and there is a wetness on his dark lips. Tension runs electric beneath his creamy coat. It’s not adrenaline- once he had felt such nervous energy, but too many times he had fought, too many times had he been inflicted pain, whether by himself or his father or by his enemy, for him to care about being injured. The dust shifts beneath his hooves, a comforting presence, and Guns creeps forward, paws scuffing the dirt, lips drawn back in soundless snarl. Ricochet’s tail swishes, stinging over his haunches.

“Don’t move.” His voice is deadly soft; he directs the command towards the bowing girl, though he never turns to look at her; even as the white nereid turns away, calling out in her diamond voice to the grullo. Does the unicorn truly think she’ll rid herself of him so easily?

There was fire pumping through his veins. It was always surged just below the surface of his scars, flickering heat that warmed him on cold winter nights, kept him going through the darkness where Nieque did not rule. Now, it was hotter, bubbling. It scorched him black on the inside, and it glowed in the depths of his hard teal eyes. He was itching, as if he were outgrowing his skin. Dirt popped around his hooves, turning to red embers, miniscule explosions that snapped their warnings.

The dunskin watched her retreating ass. Coward, he thought to himself. She was something crusty he found on the side of his boot, and now it was time to scrape it off.

“That’s right, just fuck off!” Ricochet calls after her, contempt written on his burnt face. If it were someone else, his words might sound shy and soft, a mutter of dissent. Yet it isn’t someone else. The Incendiary shouts it loud, a challenge ringing through the Threshold. “But you aren’t allowed to take that girl with you anywhere, hornhead whore!”