As the afternoon grew old, powdery grey meshed together to wrinkle the tired blue sky, shading the fickle activity in the vast Threshold forest beneath. The shadowy forms of perhaps five ibis flew in beautiful unison before the pale clouds; their formation effortless and exquisite; a spectacle should those primitive ground-dwellers beneath spare the heavens a seconds glance. Few would, they found little interest in a world beyond their reach, their ability and their understanding, it was a select few whose bloodlines had been blended by the Gods in the first and foremost pages of history; with birds, bats and the delicate essence of frail insects. The world now held few of the latter two. Helovia’s intricate Pegasus population had been overwhelmed by feather variations and for the time being it seemed as though their rarer cousins had been overshadowed. Mostly they congregated together, finding comfort by one another’s side and forging their abilities and aptitude into one formidable force- a desert realm, almost untouchable by the horned, cloven hooves of their northern foes; and most anybody else who meant to tarnish their humble, tranquil way of life.

Africa’s pale body slipped aside from the weather beaten track whose parched, cracked surface was scattered with the passing of countless horses before her. She had become somewhat withdrawn in recent weeks, recoiling from the perils which recruiting and general socialisation presented. Many occasions littered her mind with foul, distasteful experiences and unlike the foolish child which had come fresh faced and blissfully ignorant to this wilderness long ago, the dappled creature did not make the same mistakes again and again.
Shrewd pale gold eyes roamed the tree line about her, aware at all times of even the slightest movement- the Twix hoarding a stash of fodder for the winter months; a thrush flitting through the canopy in search of helpless spiders suspended in nest-worthy silk; and even the slithering rustle of a serpent coiling herself beneath the mottled shades of fallen autumn leaves, waiting with cunning patience for the unsuspecting approach of a rodent.

She was in tune with the world around her, vulnerability forcing her evasive skills to mature and flourish although defend she could not. Africa was a gentle mare. Her heart throbbed pure compassion and the art of violence, of war and its conduct did not stir readily beneath the flinch of her apprehensive hide. Like a lamb she walked helplessly, and the shining pink scar glossing the wingless socket of her shoulder was a stark betrayal, announcing to any wily predator that she presented an easy target. The Oracle was not utterly hopeless, she walked so tentatively beneath the constant glare of her mate; her bonded companion, Silas. The Zephyr was not so meekly forged and his virtuous nature saw him dedicate both his heart and his mind to the protection of the one-winged Pegasus. He was her guardian- and their relationship had remained much the same through the many months shared. He swept wraithlike, raven-black and flecked with stars, from limb to limb; bough to bough, above her; always watching the road ahead for sign that his beloved should shrink away into the familiar forest.

Keen ears picked the clattering stumble of solid hoof against fallen, rotten timber, and both the avian’s black beady stare and that pale tender cream of the mare’s, sought immediately the nearby source of the racket in the thicket nearby. Silas went first, his young heart untroubled by that which would be unlikely to reach him, harm him or bother him in any fashion. He found a stallion quickly, sprawled across the forest floor- right where the log had caught him. There seemed nothing ominous about the ebony beast; his wings were open, glossy black feathers much like his own reaching helplessly to find some balance to late, the mass of thick tangled hair burying his bulk- the Pegasus looked rather like a corpse. Alighting in a tree above, the Zephyr cawed gently as his softening gaze studied the unusual scene.

Africa came soon afterwards, though her approach was measured, with timid steps and waning, shallow breath. Immediately she could see that the other horse had tumbled and while her kindly heart lurched to help, her legs froze a safe space away. Rattling nostrils tested the air while cautious ears danced uncertainly through the unruly snarls of oily grey mane dressing her poll. “Hello there?” Her face was tilted towards the stallion while her well built though lithe frame clenched- should the need to flee with haste arise. “Are you alright?” Her voice was soft and sweet, her tone clean and without malice. Should he be another built with broiling blood and a foul spirit, the young grey would dissolve quickly, right the way she had come.

A welcome shift in season brought a steady cool to the midlands of Helovia. Weaving a gently moaning passage through the corridor of old trees, a rush of wind swept and upon its moist breath was the longed-for taste of unsteady weather- perhaps not an autumn squall given that the plumes of mild white and grey above seemed to bare no animosity to the world mulling below. The same draught encased the young dappled mare where she stood waiting with almost baited breath; long luxurious tendrils of oily grey shades quivering at the placid stroke, flapping against the warmth of her thick dark neck whenever it drew fuller. Likewise too was the idle length of her full tail fingered, and she flicked it gently from one knobbly hock to the opposite.

Soft honey yellow eyes roved from one point of the breathing mass where he lay still, noting patiently (with little else to achieve for the moment), various points of interest about him- the gentle ringlets of a lavish black mane, and tail to match, the sleek muscular ridges and slopes of a well-appointed, potentially limber frame, and even more curiously still, the stark white blotch of snow-white feathers breaking the weight of ebony on his large left wing. Over all, and without the gift of a face to face meeting thus far, Africa thought him to be rather lovely to look at- a fine specimen of their grand culture. He moved though, naturally unwilling to invite danger to feast upon his fallen body, tucking snuggly his wingspan after lifting his refine skull to greet her without the transparentness she offered to him through unpretentious eye contact.

The young Oracle shifted quietly in place, readying herself; haunches clenched and upper forelimbs gritting with intent. She did note though that his demeanour had softened when he had acknowledged her, and that offered small comfort to her weary form; softening its ridged lines just enough. She was not fearful, nor passive or ill-mannered. Much heartache had spoilt the modest creatures trust, and these days she was none too careful to avoid those wishing conflict. Africa could not have known that his body; his gift and his birth right had been stolen like her own.

At last he spoke, and the surprise note of his harsh voice drew the attention of the little black Zephyr who still perched just above them. A croak slipped from between cold hard shells of beak and Africa smiled mildly at the overly cautious outlook of her friend. Before she replied to the unfamiliar Pegasus she glanced towards the avian and spoke into the sharp fissures of his mind- “Don’t be so fast to judge.” she returned her easy gaze to the stallion, and the stewing return of her confidence- the conviction she felt to aid the apparently troubled soul before her, compelled a kindly smile to pull the corners of her mouth upwards.

Fluttering nostrils drew deeply the scent of him when he apologised, and as she expelled the breath- the sweet hint of a light-hearted chuckle, Africa began to reply reassuringly, “No hard feelings brethren, I…” She was interrupted though, clever ears finding the trek of another nearby, even before they had merged into view and widening eyes were sent upon the pale lifted face to scavenge through the cluttered forest. Not far from the duo, the shadowy slink of a darker grey mare slipped into the open and Africa found her effortlessly, turning instinctively with pricked ears and complete focus to regard the newcomer. She seemed vaguely familiar, unsettlingly so, though the hesitant Oracle could find no trace of a name to hold her by.

She came close, brazenly and without the curse of suspicion and her mood was upbeat as she addressed Africa by name. Her stomach pitched awkwardly and for the briefest of moments the one-winged mare felt the pang of guilt. Too much had happened in recent times and she chose not to dwell on the vagueness of her flailing memory. There would have been little time so return the verbal salutation regardless, the new mare’s eyes swimming quickly forward to grasp the unfortunate male who was still lurking behind the veil of his thick forelock. Africa followed suit naturally and politely, ignoring the suddenness of the barefaced interruption while turning simply towards him as he became the centre of the other mare’s attention.

Africa’s eyes peeled from the glossy grey that seemed for the moment amiable enough. Unfortunately though, her reception had been not so favoured by he who still lay by the half-rotten log; his heavily curtained face, obscure as it was, hurled upwards and so too did his lithe masculine body follow. The floundering gush of movement startled the quiet mare, and she danced aside with the fluid grace of one who was well practiced in the arts of escape. Without the luxury of glorious flight, her legs had been primed and well taught to endure the most wearisome of journeys; fleetness and nimbleness (which also was attributed to the refinement of such quality bloodlines). About her own pale complexion swept the mass of lightly crimped forelock, wild tangles of beige tipped grey mane flailing overhead with the suddenness of her manoeuvre.

The stallion who was still without a name stood now poised pure and simply like one who was frightened; like the greatest of his rivals was throwing down the challenge which would seal upon him the most untimely, foulest of fates- Africa had been through that terror, and her skin prickled with concerned compassion. As words, pleading and frail, pooled across the leaf littered floor at his hooves Africa found herself searching the other horse, the Pegasus mare who had provoked such crumbling of a soul in tatters. He was so unbalanced there across that precipice, and her obliviously forward opening had been just plenty to cast his wearied heart into the sea of swollen emotion and churning, painful memories. The one-winged Oracle found her lungs robbed of air in the moment his voice dissipated into the gentle pull of wind; her heart lurching forward in a vain attempt to rescue his as it plummeted.

Nothing remotely sensitive slipped from the lips of other mare; the words merged with the tension lacking remorse or consideration (the Oracle thought) for one so vulnerable. Disgruntled, a soft and barely noticeable snort rattled the dappled mare’s nostrils, her own lonely wing drawing ajar defensively. It was during those seconds that a scene replayed through her mind- a group, here in the Threshold; and among them stood both Africa and Storm. It had been a brief encounter, but she remembered easily the insincerity and crude manner, of one who perhaps knew not the meaning of respect. Narrowing eyes cast a careful glance across the grey who continued light-heartedly; without pause to reconsider her approach and Silas purred resentfully above them as discomfort flooded the core of his beloved.

The careless mare’s tone switched and swapped with the shed of words and proposals, and Africa though shrewd and well practiced with a great many personalities, found her focused ears floundering to keep up. Only when Storm had finished, and her voice mellowed into nothingness did she speak again to the raven-hued stallion and her manner was as naturally soft as it was sweet. “A reason?” She asked unassumingly, both curious and considerate of the meaning intended. “There is a herd to the south; primarily our kind and we offer to the frail and meek a haven to rest their stricken hearts upon. I offer you foundations to rebuild yourself, your life at my side; surrounded and secure, by those who are family.” She drew a breath, pale gaze slipping back to the other briefly and diplomatically. “Storm offers to you companionship also. Whichever path you choose, surely will grant the reason you wish for.”

Africa nodded with only the civility in her nature holding the distaste clear from her expression. There were few who left such sour impressions on her faithful mind; few who she found dislikeable. Regardless though, she strove to keep such sentiments clear of her social engagements. The Oracle’s tender face lowered, seeking without penetrating his comfort zone to comfort the terror in his stance. Sympathetically she whispered, “friend, you have nothing to fear anymore.”

At last both the stallion so distraught, and the mare whose snide tongue stung the peaceable nature of the prudent Oracle, began to mellow (about-face even), and it compelled a rather relived sigh to pass through the steady return of Africa’s warm smile. She held little animosity for the storm grey mare, Storm aside from the blunt principals which obviously caused her overly confident informality- there was little wrong with such, she knew, but she was neither prepared for someone so guileless, nor used to such ways. Her own method had become more intimate and quiet through recent months, and born from the shade of guilt and disappointment lurking so deep within her bravely optimistic demeanour, Africa was far more guarded and distrusting than ever she had been before. So did follow the consequences of her vulnerability and horrific disfigurement.

They spoke, Windwalker firstly with a noble dip of his glossy black façade and the reiteration of the apology he had before offered to Africa while they had stood alone. Then Storm with the sudden introduction of far milder tones then the one-winged mare could have believed possible. Empathy which had been so scarce mere seconds before began to ooze understanding and sympathy through each of her shining blue eyes, and she stepped closer to the raven stallion while she spoke. In silence Africa watched the proceedings, her mind wandering between the information divulged by the stallion- his lack of social contact for years; and the mare whose attempt to refocus her conduct in to something more enticing, had not quite levelled as legitimate. Many she had encountered through her wilderness wanderings that were of ill-mind, suffering and unbalanced to interact with, but Storm’s approach seemed to bend with the rolling waves of the situation- a mannerism which seemed to the perceptive dappled creature to be rather inconsistent.

She did not move forward with the same eager confidence as her distant kin; Africa was not so confident, not so bold as to penetrate the zone which bound both with security. Long weighted ears leaned forward with curious intent to soak the spill of words as they continued to stroke at Windwalker’s frail ego. Africa was not in competition with Storm; she sought not to win the heart of the male, to whisk him away under false pretences and promises of hope. What she had presented to him was a reality, an opportunity to rewrite the pages of his life upon; to mean something and become someone. A thoughtful sigh fluttered through her nostrils as she waited patiently for the exclusiveness of Storm’s presentation to end. When it did, the one-winged mare again spoke. “It matters only that you are safe with whom you choose to follow today. Far worse creatures lurk through this grave of the lost and wandering, and I will feel comfortable knowing that you will in the company of your kin.” She paused, thinking about the rootless mare who she could find no trace of the World’s Edge mist upon, nor the lush seeded grasses of the rebuilding Foothills- both were well thought of by the Throat, and if either clan should be where Windwalker retired to, all would be well.

If certainty and practicality were his priority- he would choose to follow Africa home in the end. For now though, she would wait to hear his thoughts on all that had been said so far.

The meeting between the three Pegasus, the storm-cloud grey, the ebony and the mottled was nearing its end- if repeating history and the routine of such recruiting ceremonies was anything to guess by. The Threshold was a place where the lost souls fallen into Helovia were swooped upon by the hoards laying in waiting for their chance to please the elders of their herds, or expand rebel bands which lurked perhaps, bound in secret preparing for the chance to storm a herd land. A herd was weak and futile without numbers, and it was widely known that this timeless forest was the cesspool of opportunity.

Africa’s intention was not so diplomatic, nor was her manner in anyway overly business-like. She spent much of her time scouting the Threshold for flowers, new specimens that perhaps might offer some insight into the world of healing or other curious magic. When she stumbled upon those who lingered through the trees- whatever purpose compelled them, it was more a civil courtesy that lulled her into conversation. Often there were injured folk to be helped, horses who portrayed in some way weakness or despair; and these captured her heart; the very essence of her life. Selflessly the one-winged Oracle sought to rescue those vulnerable from the jaws of ravenous predators, the cruel, macabre; the wrong hands.

Windwalker’s face swung between the waiting mares, Africa too let her pale gaze wander between him and Storm, the gentle peacefulness of her heart flooding tender creamy pools. She could see the process of thoughts circling the depths of his mind; the waver of calculating ears, the fleeting quiver of a lip withholding reason or doubt. The young grey did not persist with her offer, she was not about winning hearts and scoring alliances. Her bed already existed, her reputation forged, and though possibly another addition to the Throat’s numbers would be seen favourably, that was far from her intent- she wanted only the safest destination for the struggling path of this stallion to fall himself upon.

He turned in good time, towards the darker grey, Storm whose quirky personality was too unbalanced for the simple minded Oracle. She watched patiently, and listened with forward leaning ears as the stallion addressed her considerately and offered an explanation of sorts, and a gentle, grateful decline. The other mare said nothing, and so Windwalker turned his attention to Africa and without the need for words she nodded quietly, offering a parting gesture to she who would leave the woods alone. It would be a long journey home- but the raven-hued stallion showed little real desire to alight and delve south via the atmosphere. The dappled mare had little desire to probe the reasoning for his behaviour, she figured he would share that which his heart wished to disclose and left it at that.

With a thoughtful smile ushered, Africa led her new friend; her herd-brother, down towards the Meadow which would begin the leg home.