It’s the loveliest of autumn of nights when Margot stretches herself beneath the canyon ledge she’s claimed as her home. She shakes out the fluff of her mane and blinks the sleep from her eyes. The bed of lichen shaken cleanly of all dust remains indented with the imprint of her body. Margot smiles at the little ways she decorates her spot: wilting jasmine flowers, colorful seaglass, tropical bird feathers.

But her little Pangean spot is not enough to keep her asleep tonight.

No, Margot is terribly restless. The spinning moons above her head twist this way and that, finding a new orbit every few minutes. She twitches, shaking her head in irritation at the slight gravitational pull. Perhaps that is why her mood sours so quickly. The little mare frowns at the way the dust cakes her hooves, the tepid smell in Pangea, the shadows that are somehow both too dark and not quite dark enough.

Margot follows the slight trickling of water to the bed of a nearly dry creek. It sputters just slightly to life as the whispers of fall breathe more water into the air; but still, the creek is measly until it draws closer to the ocean. There, with the distant shores washing just slightly in her ears, Margot finds a perfect stretch of pebbled water. Beneath a dark overhang slightly illuminated by the bright moon, Margot drops herself into the icy current.

She exhales, exhilarated, and waits.