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The weeks spent in the shelter of the Basin’s secluded refuge have done well for the cobalt colored mare. The malnourished, rangy and weakened figure that had been retrieved from the woodlands of the Threshold had been replaced, reconfigured and refurbished into something vastly different. Gone were the vestiges of exhaustion, erased from her figure any evidence of frailty and in their places a creature had been reconstructed, composed and compiled of the wilderness around her. Strength, it radiated like an undeniable light of alluring iridescence from her being, and she stalked through the nighttime undaunted by the shadows, an unfaltering, unwavering wraith painted in shades of the deepest midnight sapphire and obsidian. She had spent many nights such as this, lingering in the darkness, pondering life’s predicaments from the safety of the shadows that shrouded her, a silent battle constantly waging on the battlefield of her waking thoughts. It seemed with each day that passed, the more difficult it was to rid herself of the petulant, persistent images that twirl and whirl and spin through the confines of her head. Guilt, disappointment, blame, regret; these are things that drove her, defined her, and created the festering, gaping hole that rested in the hollow of her chest- possibly where her heart should have been.
Larkspur spied the crowd from a distance, gathered together in one of the Basin’s many clearings, and the cerulean mare came to an ambling stop, lingering at the edges of the many trees that scatter the Basin floor. Gilded eyes a light with a curiosity that breaks through the typical melancholy that generally followed her, the subdued sadness that often lingered in her wake, and instead of remaining safely at a distance she choose to do the opposite. With slow, steady strides she snuck from the obscure stronghold of the shadows that she adored, her movements catlike and fluid as she floated across the ground, black tasseled tail trailing in the dew kissed grass behind her. Aureate eyes, like glowing embers in the night, rest steadily on the bodies before her; the blood red bay stallion, the sun-gold child, and the ashen and crimson lady who took her leave just as Larkspur arrived. Lastly her attention came to rest on a familiar figure, and as she stopped within distance – not amongst them, but close – she recognized the shadowed stranger and the destruction that follows in his wake. The cordial exchange between the stallion that had spirited her out of the woods and into the mountains, and the blood red Healer whom she had heard of but not formally met, barely reached her ears. The scent of seared flesh and singed hairs reached her nostrils on the cool evening air, and she watched in childlike fascination as the Basin’s mender went about his work, and the heinous marks left by the kiss of the fire seemed to evaporate and eradicate themselves from the skin of the harbinger of death.
It was in that moment that Larkspur recalled she still did not know his name.
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