Red Blood, Blue Blood, Old Blood, New Blood

You have a new hobby. It's almost wholesome, actually. You want friends. Good friends. Violent friends. Your pursuits bring you to the Portal again today, your breath a fog caught in the fine strands of your whiskers. Snow crunches underfoot. Hangs heavy in the boughs of the gnarled trees. Your thick coat wards off the worst of it, but this freeze rivals even the brutality of the Aurora Basin. It doesn't bother you, of course. You're not a child, and you're not weak. You just don't particularly enjoy it. So you're not in a very good mood, right now. But you're trying to keep an open mind because someone good might be around just waiting to meet you. You're a solid blackness on the pale shadows of the forest, your gait lithe and predatory, your horn thrusting keenly skyward. Perhaps there are good Helovians left. Perhaps you just have to find them. What you do find — is not Helovian. You don't know that, at first. You just know you see wings, not the lurid technicolor of a native Riftian but a comfortingly earthen brown. You pause mid-stride. Blink. Turn fluidly in that direction, your gaze curious if not hopeful. He's larger than you, but only just: a bay stallion with an impressive mane and a respectable wing span. He looks lost — something about the way he surveys the area. Snow gathers on his back, which is odd, considering it hasn't piled so high on yours, but maybe he's been asleep? Or something. You don't know anything about medical matters, and you're not interested in learning, anyway. You are interested in his name, so you call out across the snow. “You!” Tactful as ever, the low boom of your voice shivering in the trees above. At a halt several strides away, you prick your ears and await a response. countdown to selfdestruct

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