Winter clung to the air with such tenacity that the old redwoods creaked and groaned impatiently against the cool breath of wind; flecked with biting frost and without any trace of Birdsong’s sweet taste, as it swept in relentless bursts from the white capped peaks to the north. Many had not weathered the violence of cruel blizzards this year and while still they swayed on to the rhythm of the harsh season, no energy streamed through their dormant, straggly limbs- no buds lay waiting to throw forth the myriad colour storm that would mark the end of Frostfall.

The forest lay eerily quiet; neither the merry song of birdlife nor the frenzy of their fluttering wings broke through the empty atmosphere. Not even the wind alive howled its morose drone through the naked skeletons of those trees stripped bare by its harrowing drag. Africa stepped carefully between the gnarled roots of a rogue oak which had bedded between greedy clumps of pines; all once vying vigorously for nourishment and stability against those neighbouring- this tree had been successful, growing nearly as tall as those spindly peaks spearing the bright clear blue sky above. Each hoof fell against old snow; fetlocks tingled as the icy wet collected against the warmth of her skin. She was not fond of cold- not, because the Basin seemed to thrive in an endlessly winter environment and she despised those dwelling there; not, because the sun’s warmth was weakened throughout, the hours of daylight cut critically short; and because in a general sense, there was little comfort gained by ambitious travellers beneath the weight of gale like winds, and the thick drifts of snow driven before them. Winter was a bitter contrast to everything the desert, the God of the Sun and her loyalties represented.

There was a distinct rustle above; upset feathers and the bat of wings and Africa’s pastel gaze lifted to greet the arrival of her bonded who had been searching the baron Threshold for any growth which might offer them both the chance of a meal. The shrubs and spined thickets which lay scattered through the region had shrivelled beneath the wrath of Frostfall, and any opportunity which might have been available to them previously, seemed to have vanished. The bird fluffed his feathers, frustrated with the fruitlessness of his venture, but the mare minded little- they had been wandering the forest for a couple of days now, and tonight they would turn south and make their way back to the Throat.

Back to a task that sent shivers of despair through a feeble mind; no more confident about leading a herd into glory, than launching from crumbling cliffs with only the one wing.

An icicle, frighteningly similar to the horn of a Unicorn, became too much for its host branch to bear. The spike plunged from the grim, leafless canopy above and shattered across the snaking roots of a leaning pine nearby. Africa jumped with surprise, turning with flared nostrils to find that which had shattered the heavy, blanketing silence so piercingly. Long stormy-grey ears reached towards the shards remaining; broken, pieces spilt like the remnants of an explosion, and she sighed guardedly to the low tune of her bonded’s rumbling voice.

Then another noise, a call- a horse, singing through the bleakness of the day, and the one-winged mare lifted her chin high to scent the wind. Indeed the stranger’s taste was carried forward and Africa learned that the other was female, and alone. Only after a second test did she return the cry, her own voice a reflection of the humble grace stringing her soul together. Curiously she waited; skin prickling as the weak sunlight shed mild warmth between the riblike shadows of the trees, ears dancing with anticipation.

Africa