Soft grey eyes, pale and sad underneath this overcast sky, find respite against the ominous dark forest, lingering along each tree, avoiding the blackness which lingers between them. He is here, on the border between his newfound home and this strange misty land, on a duty that had long been neglected. The dun had departed from the lovely green land on a low eastern sun, creeping through the lolling morning shadows like a forbidden lover gone to seek comfort. Spring was still cool, and frost had licked the lush young grass, causing his tender heels to recoil with cold as he shuffles through it. His breath purls into the brisk dawn air, unfurling smoky wings with each breath.

He stands idly where the soft rolling valleys of the Foothills end and the great sentinel pines of the Edge begin, gold-tipped tail flicking placidly and a broad hind hoof cocked with ease. Jackal hopes to be spotted or heard or smelt by the Edge patrol and ushered within their borders; it would be terribly rude to intrude without permission, that much is certain. Somewhere overhead, his mute dragon makes lazy rounds in the nebulous sky like a hawk searching for prey. The appaloosa begins to stir uneasily, joints creaking and complaining from their lack of use. He hopes the clouds will part, and the sun will shine; the cold is beginning to bite into his bones.

[derp, this is short, it's very late D:]

She comes, like darkness personified; every facet of her is the night. For a moment, he studies her before something of a smile begins to tweak at his lips, and he dips his head lightly with respect. She does not demand know his purposes, or his name - she simply is, and greets him with a gentle good morning. Thick mist envelops them, rolling sluggishly over the frostbitten grass like an injured animal. "And a lovely one, at that," he muses lightly, wishing Dei would come down from the grey sky. "I am Jackal, a chief of the Foothills," he says after a moment of deliberation, mercury eyes suddenly serious with the task at hand. Overhead, the dragon swoops down, bronze wings gliding effortlessly over brisk morning air. He chirps cordially to the dark mare before settling on the thick crest of his bonded, jade eyes - a perfect foil to his appaloosa's silver, regarding her curiously. There is a wordless exchange between them, and the stallion nods vaguely.

"Where is the DragonHeart?" he inquires gently, nostrils flaring lightly as he searches her face. Mirage the DragonHeart is well-loved, he knows, with as much lore and mystery about her as the mist-shrouded cliffs of her home. "I wish to speak to her on matters of our herds," a frown plays on his lips - unsure. Why had Evers and Archibald not done this in the moons of their reigns? Allies are very useful things to be had, and tensions sizzle between herds like dry summer grass underneath a thunderhead. He shifts uncomfortably on burgundy forelegs, tail flicking soundlessly as a cold northern wind dances between them.

Black eyes regard him from underneath a curtain of white, swimming with mild curiosity. Unsure of what to make of this moon-touched mare and her question, lips curl into an odd, lopsided smile. His story is nothing but one wonder after another, a small victory against a tide of defeat and cowardice - will he be able to turn his fortune for good? "I defeated Svetlana the Stormchaser," he says, tired, tone devoid of pride. In truth, she had yielded before him, like an apostle kneeling before a terrible red god with cruel silver eyes.
Dei coos softly toward the older mare, flattered by her attention, his jade eyes shining with draconic pride.

Another arrives - a strange inky stallion, no older than himself. His entire being seems cast of ink, tail heavy and dripping with the substance. Jackal offers him a kindly smile and attempts to hide the inquiry in his eyes, instead noticing the fondness between the two swarthy beings. The mare answers his question, and she offers to take the DragonHeart's burden. "Oh?" he says absently, curiosity dancing through his eyes, flat grey beneath a colorless sky. He is quiet for a while, gazing at the black duo placidly. "Evers and Archibald turned a blind eye to alliances," Jackal begins after a moment of hesiation, a hint of bitterness in his tone, "but I intend to strengthen them. I pray that the other leaders have done nothing to revoke it?" the corners of his lips curl upward in amusement, devoid of their former abhorrence. As far as he knew, the brothers had done nothing since their anointing as leaders. His gaze alternates between Rishima and the handsome ink-stained youth.

[derp, sorry this is so short ;__;]