It seems that no matter how hard one might try, finding yourself alone in the threshold is simply an impossibility; he has not revisited these borderlands since his first arrival to Helovia and now he realizes, annoyed, what a terrible and overcrowded place it is. The irritation lingers, he lifts his head and whips his thin tail against his hocks: fluid but somehow exaggerated movement. A fluent display of dissatisfaction. As the pale unicorn (has he ever been this close to one of those wretched things? He wonders at the question for a moment and then reminds himself of the glass-horned Seele, the antlered Argona) slips from the velveteen cloak of perpetual darkness (much too close for him) and announces her coming by chastising him, he does not instantly reply. In fact, he takes a long moment before even considering her, unwilling to look at anything else at this nocturnal flower, petaled with something he will soon discover and identify as stupidity. All the better: Skywalker has never really liked mares who insist on thinking for themselves.

Slowly, he turns his head towards Artemis; staring coolly at their newfangled, unwelcome company. He has not seen her before but is careful to make a mental note of her, to remember that spiraling horn and the quaint, bloodlike marking in her face. You see; constantly plagued by his ostentatiousness, the black stallion has some minor difficulties with being chastised by those he does not consider his superiors. Couple that with a ferocious vindictiveness driving him steadily towards the cusps of insanity and it is evident that he is unlikely to let such liberties go by unpunished. What she is predisposed to think of him, and for what reasons, he is unmindful of – it bears little relevance in the dark, self-indulgent corners of his mind. The simple fact that she dares address him in a chiding manner, however, is a fact that he simply cannot suffer. He registers the mass and probable power that simpers in her shoulders, makes a quick evaluation of the situation and finally decides that the mare, however audacious the slight might be, will have to wait. He is – after all – here on the behalf of the Asylum. “And why exactly is that,” he asks, careful to maintain a certain levelness in his voice, not lacing it with the threat another situation might have called for.

His attention is soon to return to Hemlock as she interrupts and the sharpness of her voice serves to dull the ardor of his own exasperation. An ear flicks in her direction and he remains as unmoved by her poisonous glares as her remark on his appearance. Ask him and he is likely to name his greatest strength to be the innate and complete disregard for anyone but himself. He wants to remedy himself, shake the nightmares and the constant humming of ambition out of his head; too much time spent with the loonies, he thinks and knows that the best way to make amends are probably the simple urges of intimacy. Thus far, his black sister is the best thing he has come across – he glances at the monolithic wraith, warrior-like and statuesque. Skywalker is curious at her answer because he truly does not understand why he should treat these mares any different than he would anyone else; surely, she must understand that in a world of horns and wings and magic, gender is one of the least relevant issues to concern oneself with.

And then, another interruption: of course. Skywalker shifts his weight and cooks a hoof, he is as visibly annoyed as Hemlock, by now, and the state of irritation only intensifies when he recognizes the last part of their quartet. Harmony. There is something about her – this realization is a sullen and cantankerous one – that leaves a bad taste in his mouth and a blazing fever on his forehead. Can’t stand her, isn’t the right term but it is the first thing to come to his mind. He purses his lips, the smile gone, and he faintly remembers her skin under his lips. Disgusting. “Harmony,” he repeats mechanically, unsure if it is even worth to acknowledge the mare.

“She keeps my introductions, it seems,” he glances back at Hemlock and gestures, unceremoniously, towards the straggler, “now, since you’ve travelled for some time, don’t think of me as anything else than someone who is going to take you from this godforsaken place and offer you a home.”

S K Y W A L K E R.