“Thanks Rasta...” the Starry-Eyed passed a glance by the vacant, milky glare of her friend, perhaps the closest she had beside Midas – and certainly the one who she felt she could confide in the most.

A little less than a week had passed since the breakup (it had been a bigger blow than anticipated), and though the grief wrought through her jaded expression had yet to weaken, the painful bruise her heart had suffered was numbing slowly and the colour of guilt was beginning to fade from her thoughts. Even though it had been Midas who had helped to quell the initial sting, to cushion the fall, it had been the pale palomino that Africa had turned to afterwards; both friend and sister of old, a shoulder she had learned to trust entirely. Selflessly the new mother (the yolk had barely dried behind sweet Ettore’s feathered ears), had offered sympathy and the sorrowful grey had barely strayed from her side.

The world had grown dull as depression threatened her ability to rationalise – but she was conscious, enough that the sparse regrowth thatched across her wing had been left alone. Their path curled into the great old southern pine forest, the Threshold, even before Africa had noticed just how far they had travelled. She had been so caught up, relaying the traumas of that day again, working through anguish, that the time had escaped her awareness entirely and only when the stench of the wooded region overwhelmed the sweet hue of their beloved waterfalls, did her mind clear suddenly. “We've walked too far... This is the Threshold.” Long, sooty ears swivelled nervously as she wondered whose eyes were upon them – the murderer still running loose, or Satanic Silk (who she had no desire at all to cross paths with again).

Light-golden eyes searched the trees where they thickened around the winding, worn path ahead; gnarled shadows writhing as the wind stirred the thin canopy overhead. There was something though, lurking – watching perhaps and the one-winged mare’s skin began to crawl visibly with apprehension. Silas, she whispered through their bond – as though the creature ahead might be drawn by the sound of a brazen words born upon the wind’s breast; surely the taste of two wandering mare’s had already passed downwind to entice interest. A shadow passed across them, disjointed as it slipped between spindly treetops, but a comforting presence none the less.

Stallion. Alone.

...and the Starry-Eyed turned quickly to press fondly against her softly-golden sister. “There's a stallion ahead, can you feel him?” She paused, waiting with almost baited breath for a tremor, any rumble rising through splayed knees, that might suggest Rasta’s unique understanding of the world around them.