#elsewhere

MEANWHILE...

Art and Thistle stand near the fence, watching as young riders take turns trying to tame the mustangs. THey hadn't intended to come to the corral, perhaps, but the crowd carried them along after wearing themselves out on souvenirs and sight seeing.

The untamed horses are raw power—hooves churning up dust, eyes flashing with defiance as they test their riders. One particularly feisty mustang sends a boy tumbling into the dirt, and the crowd reacts with a mix of cheers and laughter. The boy rises, brushing himself off with a grin, while another steps forward to take his place.

Nearby, a teenage girl vaults up onto on her horse, her expression set with fierce determination. The mustang beneath her shifts restlessly, nostrils flaring, but she keeps her seat, guiding it with practiced ease. The moment stretches, rider and horse locked in a silent contest of will. Suddenly, the mustang explodes into motion, powerful muscles bunching as it bucks and twists, trying to throw her. The crowd lets out a mix of cheers and gasps, watching as the girl moves with the animal, her body shifting instinctively to counter each wild lurch. Dust kicks up around them, the stallion’s movements fierce and unrelenting, but she holds fast, her grip sure, her determination unwavering!

Then, just as abruptly as it began, the struggle ends. The mustang slows, sides heaving, spent. The girl slides smoothly from his back, landing lightly on her feet. For a brief moment, she presses her forehead to the stallion’s, sharing something silent and unspoken. Then, with a firm slap to his flank, she sends him racing off across the open field, a free thing once more.

Art glances toward Thistle, then back at the riders. "I wonder if they’d let you try?"

They are, of course, holding hands.

"I am NOT riding a mustang!"

"Dee, maybe."

"She's nuts."

"Dee certainly would. It is a shame she's not here to see the spectacle." He says, as the obvious joke flies over his head.

He grins, showing that he was jesting. "I'm not good on a horse either." He admits to Thistle. "They make me a bit nervous."

"You and me. That's why I'll make us a ship to travel the dreaming, not a steed."

He leans against her. "Nice, solid ship!"

"And pretty. It should be pretty."

Chime! Citrine agrees, preening.

Art laughs quietly. "You vain thing." Softly, fondly.

A soft snort of laughter

The display has gone on to a display of mounted archery! A rider thunders past, bow in hand, the string already drawn as they align their shot. The mustang moves beneath them grace, hooves drumming against the earth. Just as he passes the target, the arrow flies—striking true. A ripple of approval moves through the gathered onlookers.

Another competitor follows, his horse kicking up dust as he twists in the saddle, loosing an arrow at a second target positioned behind them. The shaft sinks into the mark, and the crowd murmurs in admiration.

The next rider is younger, and his mustang full of restless energy. He struggles to steady his aim while keeping pace, and the first arrow sails wide. Undeterred, he adjusts his grip, drawing a second shot as this mount surges forward. This time, the arrow finds its mark, and a triumphant whoop rings out as the rider gallops past the finish.

Art watches, impressed! "I know that Lord Aiden is skilled with a bow and a huntsman of repute, but I do not know if he could match such a display." He says softly, as if afraid that even states away, the Baron might overhear such treacherous slander.

"They're impressive as hell."

"Do you think they would part with any of these horses?"

"We could ask?"

A high-pitched whinny, and a shout as a lad is bucked off his bronco! A pair of quick witted friends dart in and manage to drag the smaller boy free just before flailing hooves come crashing down, and others hurry in to rope the fierce horse and pull him into a stall.

Art has blanched a bit. "Er, perhaps not."

Wince!

Thudding continues for a while as those powerful hooves pound on the stall walls. "Lucky fellow. Sounds like that would have been... rough going if he'd been hit."

The final event of the exhibition begins as a first horse steps forward, its coat adorned with carefully painted symbols—handprints, circles, and lightning streaks. Feathers woven into its mane and tail flutter with each movement.

One by one, horses are led or ridden into the clearing, each bearing distinct markings. Some display the sunburst or medicine wheel, others bear bold stripes or handprints pressed onto their flanks. The riders sit tall, guiding their mounts with ease, their regalia echoing the adornments of their steeds.

As the procession continues, a final rider enters, their horse stepping with deliberate grace. The animal’s white coat is streaked with red ochre, a single eagle feather tied at the base of its bridle. The rider raises a hand in salute before urging the horse into a bounding trot that carries them past the gathered onlookers.

The sound of hooves fills the air, steady and rhythmic. Some of the elders in the crowd nod as the decorated horses pass, their expressions thoughtful. The riders begin to circle back, their mounts moving in unison, the feathers and paint catching the fading sunlight as they ride.

Citrine buzzes up a bit, watching the feathers dancing in the wind covetously.

Thistle perks.

This feels like ritual. Like magic.

Even if it isn't - it's beautiful. And for Thistle, beauty is an end unto itself.

As the procession moves in steady rhythm, feathers fluttering with each step, Citrine flits back and forth, her eyes locked on one particularly enticing plume. The wind catches it just so, making it dance, taunting her. Finally, she darts forward, tiny clockwork fingers reaching!

The moment she brushes against the feather, the mustang beneath it snorts sharply, ears flicking back. Its head tosses, muscles tensing as if shaking off an unseen fly. The rider instinctively tightens their grip, murmuring something low and steady to calm the beast.

A few horses ahead, another animal shifts uneasily, stamping a hoof. The disturbance ripples subtly through the line, a shift in rhythm, barely noticeable but there. Some of the riders glance around, sensing something just off—a flicker of movement at the edge of their perception, a strange tug on the air.

Before Citrine can try for the feather again, she is suddenly intercepted by a large, tanned hand that closes around her. The man is tall and striking, his skin a deep, sun-browned hue, and his long hair flows like dark silk down his back, held in place by intricate beads and feathers. The most striking part of his appearance, however, is his lower half—hidden from mortal eyes, his legs are those of a powerful horse, with hooves that tap softly on the earth with each step. The horses seem to naturally flow around him sensing somehow where he stands as they would a member of their own herd.

Thistle hisses.

Under her breath "&^&^%^^&^@!! idjit!!"

The centaur trots along the side of the fence that separates the onlookers from the performers, and no one much looks his way, as the fancy dress horses proceed onward in their display. He seems to be scanning the crowd.

The Nocker is watching him like a hawk.

As one mustang starts to split from the parade, he steps forward and guides it back into line with a gentle touch before looking out over the crowd once more. Then, his eyes land on Thistle, and he lifts his chin, tilting his head - inquiry?

A siiigh.

She nods.

He’s dressed in a mixture of traditional Native American attire—beads, feathers, and furs. He lifts his hand to his face, and she can see his mouth move, speaking softly. Then, in a motion that looks in tune with the rest of the dance, he lifts both hands to the sky - though SHE can see that he also releases Citrine, who zips back to Thistle's side.

Art, who was - dear lord, halfway over the fence, drops back down with a relieved sigh.

She closes her eyes briefly, then makes a simple gesture - fingers touching her lips and then dropping, 'thank you' in ASL.

A hint of a smile, seen more in crinkling eyes than in the mouth, and he turns back to help lead the horses away at the end of the presentation. The crowd is starting to disperse.

Art looks down at Citrine, and asks, "What were you thinking?"

..."Chime! Chime Chime Chime, chime."

He rolls his eyes.

"Thinkin'? She ain't. I think some other Never's got the brain cell right now."

"We should probably apologize on the idjits behalf."

She snags Citrine with one hand and Art with the other, to go searching for the centaur.

As Thistle goes one direction and Art another temporarily to seek out a centaur; the former sees Gwen coming approaching. Gwen is now craining her neck at the events here, and yes, the horses.

"Mustangs. Wild horses."

"I see that" Gwen says "Gorgeous, and I'm not even a horse person." a breath "I found an ally. How are you and Art doing?"

"Made progress, I think. Look at these maps we found..." Phone out, sharing photos.

She looks over them

"Oh geez, this.. sacred trails. This includes the Black hills?"

She looks very intrigued indeed "Good find by the way"

"Maybe?"

"They said they're spirit paths..."

"A wise elder told me '"Beyond the rolling black hills, where the river follows the stars - along the spirit road, the ghost road... there is a place they called the Valley of Whispering Blooms. It is said the wind carries the voices of those who walked before, guiding the worthy who seek healing."' She answers "So it sounds like our leads are in agreement"