He came from the south, muscles warm beneath the wooliness of his rapidly growing winter coat, breath steaming in the air. The paths of the Threshold had become more familiar to him in this last season than ever before, and he moved along the well-worn, meandering trails with ease, but never failing to remain cautious. Not only did the weary-footed traveler wander here, but the vagabonds and outcasts, wickeder beings ousted from their former herds. Ricochet was confident in his ability to fight off any ragged villains who might crawl in like vermin, but there was no point in being downright reckless.

The daylight was weak and cold, filtering in through the russet and gold leaves of birch and aspen and poplar. Ricochet did not mind the chill; autumn was a good season. The days were going shorter, yes, and the grass tasted bitter as the dying. On the other hoof, the twittering birds flocked away, the stallions were less likely to pick fights, and those entering the Threshold were more desperate for the safety of a family, knowing that winter was scarcely more than a few months’ away, and always creeping closer.

Guns led the way.
Ricochet followed.

It soon became clear whoever they were following had little interest in covering her- or his- trail. Twigs shattered, branches snapped off trees, leaves crunched and crackled. A set of hoofprints was left in drying mud- massive feet, this horse had, pressed deep into the soaked black soil. Not cleft either. Still, he didn’t dare get his hopes up. Pegasi could have solid hooves, or even unicorns. It wasn’t particularly rare.

The collie was silent as a mouse, drawing one paw after another carefully, brown eyes focused on something up ahead. With a twinge of apprehension, the Incendiary lengthened his step, teal eyes narrowing. There! Swinging black hindquarters, wide ebon hips that were feminine despite the bulk. Feathers, clotted with dust and dirt, swung about flowing fetlocks. She- for those voluptuous curves screamed she- was at least three hands taller than Ricochet. And her color… black on black on black. Thick black mane. Lush black tail. Gleaming black coat.

By now, she must’ve heard him, noticed him. The buttermilk boy halts, scuffing up dust with his forehooves, audits flicking forward curiously. It wasn’t every day he met a giant giantess. There was Archibald, the great fat lump, or the dragon-horse he had seen long ago when he invaded the Edge, full of rage and passion that he had expended on a cause he didn’t care for.

“Mare,” he rumbles, his voice a gritty growl not unlike his dog. “I am Ricochet the Incendiary. This is my dog, Guns. Who are you?”

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