Lobes fell harshly upon towering poll, composure placid and 'tough'. Something in patriarch's orbs flickered as if with amusement for mare's temper . . . a'fore icey iron clamp shut gate to despondent void of emotions. Removing any warmth from swirling artic depths of molten amber . . . silver tresses pacing casually across haunches.

"You shall find only grief, ire, and malice within these lands . . . this only shall I warn you of. You are not welcome here, but I shall not 'kick' you out. I give you permission to wander these lands of your own free will. Though there is naught to find but what I mentioned, for I shall not comfort the longings of a mare whom believes she has lost much."

Brouge turned, words hanging upon the air as if trapped in silver webs . . . a voice of pure black magic. Her past was not his to learn of, though he could . . . only by the way she conducted herself. For it was all in her eyes . . . and he found that the way they blazed with anger so quickly somehow delighted him. A sudden color splashed across his view, startled brute turned, his figure disappearing into the shadowy forest once behind him, mists swirling about his feet . . . he would wait it out.

All became bored in such lands . . . she would be no different.

Let her explore the desolate region he called home . . . it could do no harm.