The snow here is deeper than in the Falls, and Texas has been eyeing it irritably from the shelter of the forest. He is thirsty, but the creek bank is at least fifteen feet from where he stands in the shallow drifts at the trees’ edge. It would infinitely easier to forge ahead and deal with the cold, but Texas has almost made up his mind to return home for a drink.

He’s even shifted his weight to turn away when he hears the sound of hooves crunching through the snow. Turning his head, he spots a mare making her way toward the creek.

Well.

He can’t not do something that a mare can, so he takes a single tentative step into the deeper snow, sighs, and then makes his chilly way toward the creek. He drinks from the space in the ice that the mare had chipped away, and when he is sated turns toward where she stands beneath the shelter of a low-hanging pine branch. With little else to do on this bright and cold winter day, the bay stallion walks in her tracks until he’s close enough to speak. “ S’ cold, huh?”

He’s articulate and elegant; the very definition of a gentleman.

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For a stallion that once claimed the northern Tudnra as his home, Texas is especially picky about the weather. He sometimes claims that old age has softened him (false) or that he’s sensitive (also false), but the truth is that the weather is simply something to complain about, and he is always searching for something to lament.

“Home gets boring sometimes,” he replies with a shrug of his brown shoulders. Perhaps such a statement is not the best PR for his small kingdom, but there is only so much socializing with the same lot of horses that the bay stallion can tolerate. They’re alright, he supposes, but he is easily distracted, and no place is better for offering novel distractions than the Meadow. “I’m from the Falls,” answers the lanky stallion, no longer finding the phrase strange to say after nearly a decade of calling the place home.

“What about you?” He asks, having noticed her small step toward him and following hesitance. He has no qualms about nearness to mares (and has the eighty children to prove it), but he is not the type of man to force his presence on someone so clearly reluctant. He doesn’t move away though, clearly allowing her to press forward if that’s what she decides to do. She is pretty, he decides, if a bit too young for him. Everyone is too young for him, of course, but he occasionally likes to pretend he has some sort of standards. “I’m Texas, by the way.”

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Something he’s said seems to resonate with the dun mare, and Texas watches as her mood shifts. Not having a home isn’t a state worthy of sadness for the bay stallion, so for a moment he is at a loss as to why it is so striking to the mare beside him. He’s gone decades with nowhere to lay his head but the Meadow, but his necessary socialization threshold is remarkably low for a horse. The same clearly can’t be said for Hoku.

Clearly the idea of home has brought up sour memories, and Texas does his best to seem appropriately concerned. He does look more closely at the scar – he’d not noticed it at all until she’d pointed it out. He’s never managed to keep a scar for longer than they take to heal; it’s a side effect of his immortality, he supposes. It does look rather nasty, and telling of a painful wound to go along with her story. “That sounds sad,” he says, unsure what else is appropriate to say in response to such a tale.

When she refuses to get close despite clearly seeming to want to, Texas chooses to break his customary approach and takes the final step, pressing his warm shoulder against hers. It’s nothing more than companionable – shared warmth in the cold – and he says nothing about it to avoid any potential awkwardness. “The Falls is nice,” he says with a nod, “Warmer than here anyway. No nasty stallions either.”

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Despite his initial disinterest and dislike of the high emotional content of their interaction, Texas is grateful for the silence that she allows to grow between them. So many others might have filled It up with idle chatter, but Hoku seems content to watch the deer searching for food in the Meadow.

“Why don’t I take you there?” he offers suddenly.

She doesn’t seem especially happy here, and while he’s far from possessing a White Knight complex, he’ll readily admit that sometimes the Falls gets a little boring. He’s invited several others in the last few weeks, and while Nixie, Cymbalta, and Below are lively characters, they do all seem to be very fond of talking.

“You can make it your home, if you’d like, or just stay for a while.” This is why he’s not the best recruiter, of course; he feels no need to pressure someone into staying or to convince them that there is no better place than the Falls. He is sure there is, of course, but he’s not yet found it in or out of Beqanna. So it is to the Falls that he always returns, either at nightfall or at the end of a decade of wandering.

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