Dei lounges lazily on a back stroked by wine, a languid sun caressing his metallic scales while the dun stallion underneath him grazes peacefully. The grass is tender and sweet, and its chlorophyll stains his velvet lips like bloodstains on a warrior's hide. There is peace, but for a moment; in the frenzy of his leadership, he has forgotten how to find sanctum within the world - he has forgotten how to pick up the scattered pieces of himself. But today, with springtime warming his back and saccharine forage on his tongue, he is at one with this charmed world.

Jackal raises his head slowly, allowing a balmy spring breeze to thread its fingers through his mane; it is warm, and it feels like summer on his rosy spotted skin. The wind brings tidings of something else, though, and the King of Thieves tilts an ear back warily. The scent is dusty and masculine, and it dances through his nasal passages like rancid water. He shoves his dark nose forward, soft nostrils flaring. Is it another invader, wanting to avenge that idiot mare Svetlana? Dei's wings unfurl as the dun eases into a brisk trot - leather beats against air, and the bronze soars upwards on a fast current, tracing the foreign smell with his keen nose.

Slender, feathered limbs amble over gently sloping terrain, until the treeline begins to thicken with pines, and the smell of strangers is everywhere. In the distance, he finds a dark form reclining against a tree; when he speaks, his voice is low and gentle, as if it had weathered the beginning of time. Jackal's face softens into something that resembles inquiry, swirling quicksilver eyes apprehensive. There is something familiar about him; he carries himself like a warrior, proud and tall despite his years. "Stranger," the appaloosa calls toward the oddly colored dun, strides lengthening. The pale mane and tail and the crimson eyes recall a childhood friend, a starry night in a forbidden place. Ktulu; he has fond memories of that girl and her ruby eyes. He wonders where she is - would she believe that he, the colt who dealt with his grievances by running, could assume the position of usurper?

As the black becomes closer, Jackal slows, a cautious expression fixed on those liquid mercury eyes. "I am Jackal, third leader of the triumvirate," he says slowly, drawing the words out like a winning deck. "What is your business at our border? Do you wish for a home?" He pauses, the question hanging between them like stale air.