Listen.

Lochan's voice rang through the Clovenheart's mind, causing him to lift his head swiftly and peer out into the darkness of the woods.

Ashamin didn't hear anything. Not through the pounding of the rain against the bloody trees and not from so far away. What is it? He questioned, dark eyes slimmed beneath a furrowing brow. What was it that he was always missing, that Lochan could always catch? He didn't need to be envious of the little eye's senses because their bond allowed him to share in them, but he did find himself incredulously surprised at times.

As if to show that he too knew what was out there in the woods, Rakt stood swiftly and shook a combination of stardust and rain out from his thick coat. He, the blood, moved forward first. It only took a few short leaps forward for him to begin to camouflage and disappear into the woods; Ashamin and Lochan had no choice but to follow him or lose him in that sea of red.

Rakt was not yet able to communicate through any sort of mental speech but he did have his magic, and with it he summoned a pale, thinned out figure of a starry deer. It ran to Ashamin, granting him the enhanced speed he needed to catch up with his two companions as they ran ahead. He darted through trees like the two deer would, careful to duck and dive as he needed to to avoid branches. There was a brief moment, a hesitation, as he recalled his items and feared he'd not be able to find the way back to their camp, but Lochan flashed a painting of their camp and a trail to his bonded and assured him it would be fine. Remember, the cerndyr's thought bloomed. Yes, Lochan would remember the way.

So the Clovenheart followed the two cerndyr through the rain with confidence and wings on his hooves until he reached the one that they'd sensed: a stallion, so pure of a white that he practically glowed in this darkness. But so pure of one, too, that his coat seemed to soak up the sickly pallor of blood.

And whoever he was, he was not happy. Something seemed to trouble him—cause him to kick like a mule and rear like some lioness cornered. But all that distress fades away when Ashamin saw the troubled stag's eyes: the color of a rose but flooded with the insidiousness of white. Ashamin, bearing eyes that were uninterrupted black and so rarely broken by fear, knew the kind of horror that lead to such an expression.

"Stranger, it's alright!" The Clovenheart called out as he broke through the shadow of the trees and brought himself into the path of danger. This was a much larger and very upset stallion—not always a wise one to face. "It's alright, you're safe here!"

And though perhaps he was wrong, perhaps this stallion that Ashamin faced was not scared at all, he still needed to say the words—if only for himself.

""

ASHAMIN

The Clovenheart