Massive wings, cup the cooling air—though hot thermals still swirl up between his long, outstretched feathers; their multi-colored barbs whistling in appreciation of such an excellent day for flying. The giant, heavy vulture (despite his great wingspan) often had to wait until later in the day to find enough thermals to support him here in Helovia. There had usually always been ample lift on the Plateaus of home.

The vulture found it surprising (relieving, really) that thoughts of Dorobo barely entered his thoughts, now. He had been gone for so long, and so many new faces (new mares) entered his life here, in Helovia. There was little time to spend on old thoughts and memories. Though they still plagued him in the vulnerable moments before sleep. Especially now that Orithia had vanished and no longer wagged her barbed tongue at him in those tenuously tender moments they shared in her sleep quarters.

His pale ears, already tilted back against the cold rush of air, pinned further into his snarled, darkly mixed mane. It was this surprisingly acute ache that had pushed him first towards the Secret Grove (where a lovely grey lady had eased his mind) and then towards the Threshold. Each visit to the threshold, while not always fruitful in recruitment, did always seem to provide some sort of beautiful woman for his ever-ready gaze to behold.

But his raptor’s stare shuttered in astonishment, pupils constricting to pinpoints amid a sea of yellow and red, as his soaring wings faltered, causing a sudden plunge of his heavily haired body. Was that the Senzaok siblings?

Great wings flap once, twice, three times—their size causing a noisy righting of his shocked, unplanned descent. Starkly white ears raise out of his mess of mane, a particularly snarled knot caught over the tip of his right ear, as he catches the last grumble of the infamously petulant Sunjata. Prized son of the Senzoak. How easily mares slipped beneath his barrel.

The vulture’s landing was loud, for he was heavy, but surprisingly not graceless for how haphazardly he had dropped. While he had studied the surly bluebird and black behemoth from the air, the moment his feathered hooves hit the ground his raptor’s gaze had eyes only for Saartjie. ““Hello,” was his gruff, brusque hello to the two stallions, but his gaze and steps were directed towards the colorful beauty.

“I did not think I’d have the pleasure of seeing you again, soet kleur,” he purposefully used the pet name he had given her for the sweet color that so rose in her cheeks during passionate intimacies. An ear tilted towards Jata, then he answered the question he posed to Saar. Though he did so in the common tongue (one could say he did it for the dark man’s benefit, but truly he did it to divide himself further from the bluebird), “No, he did not cut off his horn for you. There are un-horned ones in Helovia. Like the Debwani—but large, and un-striped.” His gruff voice was laced with annoyance—only the pretentious blue man would think such things. He should keep his thoughts to combat, for that was what he was good at (and the vulture nearly said such thoughts aloud; but instead refocused on Saar).

“Why are you in Helovia?” His head reached out slightly (though not entirely close enough to touch her—he had grown up amongst the fierce Korofi women), pale muzzle nearing the juncture of her throat and cheek.

G R A A S V O E L