Her words fall on deaf ears; he runs and runs until she escapes as he had intended. Haunches pull downward and his forelegs dig into the sod - he slides to a stop where she had jumped moments before. Don't forget me, she calls, like a child, and he snorts in disdain, righting his posture. Dark warriors, vaguely familiar, draw behind him, bellowing their rage. "You are a coward - the only things you chase are foolish dreams," the King of Thieves roars, forehand ascending and trashing over the yawning abyss of the cliff. The waterfall thunders behind him, affirming the rage of the black brothers and the dun. Hooves clatter noisily as they return to the limestone and grass, ribcage heaving as he draws the thin air in, fast and hard. "Leave; I'm tired of seeing you. Return, and you won't be as fortunate," he calls, affirming the words with a defiant jerk of the head, white rimming his silver eyes like the hate the froths at his heart; he will rip off her wings with his teeth and throw her off the cliff himself.

Everything said and done, the young king swivels towards the brothers, suddenly tired. His muscles ache and sting with exertion of racing up the mountain - they complain as he moves towards them, head bent with gratitude. "She is nothing but a craven, too proud to admit her defeat," he says, panting, offering them a hurt grimace, disguised as an infirm smile. "She merits what she has earned - she will rot and fade away in the wilderness," the dun concludes, limbs trembling as he turns toward the waterfall, hoping to soothe his body with the coolness of its kiss. He plunges into the shallow pool, turning an eye toward the brothers - they are tall and able-bodied, with fortitude that sang as they dashed after him to scare the pigeon-hearted Svetlana away. In a herd of weaklings and alarmists, they are the fabled warriors from the tales of his youth.

Cool mountain water clings to the waves of his long red mane; it washes his ire and its ilk away, its fingers brush the pain from every fibre of his lanky frame. When he clambers from the deafening basin, he is clean and cold, and the water trails behind him in thralls. He does not shake it off, but lets it drip onto the grass. The dun turns toward the swarthy duo, praise in those eyes. "Thank you, brothers. Your tenacity is commendable," he says softly, "she will not come again," what a futile hope.

[IMPROMPTU BATHING SESSION FTW]