The sleek ebon mare drifts to a halt, the arc of her neck sharp and dark against the cracked bark of the trees, legs turning over one another as she rolls on her haunches to face them. Ricochet sees her eyes, dark and bold, lush lashes sweeping over shadowy depths; the dust coating chipped hooves, the glisten of the sunlight on her travel-worn coat. There is silence between them as she wanders deliberately toward him, striding lazily closer, and he lets it sit, heavy and grim in the air.

The black mare’s eyes remind the Incendiary of raven eyes, clever and sharp and missing nothing, studying him with a single-minded intensity that has him stiffen, turning soft contours into taut lines. In their quiet, he returns her gaze, with wolf eyes, all teal hardness, a smile carving wrinkles on his muzzle.

Guns drifts from Ricochet’s feet, lying at the gnarled roots of a gnarled tree, watching them with his bright eyes. From his outsider’s view, he studies them with a wordless intensity. The buttermilk boy leans forward ever so slightly, a subtle attempt of authority, though he never moves. He’s a commanding presence, all rippling muscle beneath his silken coat, and the border collie remembers the child he once was. There is not so much of that volatile colt anymore. A new side of Ricochet sparkles in the right light.
Guns wasn’t sure if this side was a good one.

Their face-off is interrupted by her languid voice, turning each word into an individual saying. Her voice is deep and rich and heavy; he has heard stallions with higher-pitched voices than hers. For a moment the dunskin considers her weighty words, spoken as if each has a higher meaning. Is she teasing him? At least she does not mock him with his scars and burns. He had always considered them a mark of his warrior status, a memento of his victories and defeats, the lessons he had learned with gore dripping from his wounds and blood sizzling in his blisters- since he had begun his forays in the Threshold, he had been met by plenty of mares who wrinkled their brow and scorned his greetings.

“Might be that he’s little, but that doesn’t mean he’s useless,” Ricochet answers with a grin, an unpracticed sort of smile but a nice enough one nonetheless; perfect for lightening the grim mood, like a sun coming out from behind bruised gray clouds. Over the seasons, he had tried several different approaches to greeting travelers: seductive, gruff, outgoing, helpful. It was best to try and be natural, he had found, treating them as potential friend rather than future enemy. Eventually, the shadows showed through the paint he had over their eyes, but he never let his temper get better of him the way it once had.

A laugh tears free from his chest like a bird fluttering from its cage, carrying freedom on it at Rhanna’s teasing. It’s good to let it fly. Too often his lungs press against his ribcage and his heart is heavy and his stomach is sunk.

“I wasn’t sneaking up on you- didn’t you notice me long ago?” The Incendiary says lightly, ears flicked forward attentively. The hardness in his teal eyes have melted away, replaced by a good-natured gleam, though Evangeline flashes across his mind. It was strange… since he had had his fucking with Colt’s mother, he had, for most part, put the chestnut out of his head, but occasionally something came up that just rang with the memories of her.

“I’m afraid I don’t have too much luck with the girls,” Ricochet snorts, “I like to set other things on fire. Unfortunately, I don’t offer that information up for free.” He offers her a smile to take the elitist sting out of his words.

“What I can tell you is that you’re in Helovia. There are a few herds I could take you to, if you plan on staying. The herds, for most part, believe that all species are equal. However, if you don’t wish to join a place like that, I lead an outcast band myself. Only those of the equine race may belong with us.”

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