Wilibald had been reluctant and decidedly uncurious about the Hidden Falls. Now that he was here, some of that curiosity had revived in him – but what was this place? Were there more of these mutated horses wandering around? Midas was a nice enough fellow, Wilibald rather liked the way he talked, and if he closed his eyes he could easily enough pretend that it was someone normal-sized and without fantastical colours and appendages. What was next, magic?

He couldn’t deny that he did feel a little more at home here than he had in that dreary forest or even in the meadow. Yes, the land itself was quite perfect – he had to admit. Plenty of fresh water, trees to nap under, a meadow that would be filled with lush grass in the spring. Oh he could stay here, he was sure of that. Maybe find a nice quiet spot away from all the strange big horses blundering about making a ridiculous amount of noise.

Speaking of which. He had been minding his own business, exploring this new land, when all these screeches and hollers and panicked voices quite interrupted his thoughts. There was never a need for such racket! And if there was, well, it was whoever-it-was’s fault for getting in the mess in the first place, wasn’t it? No need to drag everyone else into it with them. How dreadful.

What in tarnation had this gaggle of mares gotten themselves into? Wilibald rather made up his mind that he was going to waddle over there and scold the lot of them, that was until he got a good look at the trio. “Holy crickets you’ve got to be kidding me.” He mumbled to himself - was there no end in this place? Horns of all strange matter and brightly coloured wings that near gave him a heart attack. And there was all those fiddly bits on the face of the one that seemed to be in some deal of pain. Very strange, very strange. He was wary about approaching them and did so slowly, eyeing them all carefully. He was only one small, chubby pony after all. But still, there was something that need to be said. Odd creatures or not. “If I may, don’t think getting dirt in the wounds is particularly helpful, miss.”

Not that it really mattered, of course. She was clearly going to die and it was no one’s fault but her own. Wilibald wasn’t quite sure how to break the news to the others – or even to her, though she seemed rather resigned to it. No one could survive wounds like that. Whenever one of his brethren had become injured they'd make themselves a neat little dying nest and just wait out the injury. Either it would heal by itself or they would die. Maybe he should start finding some materials to help this mare build hers.