Accept the fires from which I came ;;

Scythia is the epitome of a ghost town. It’s slate-stained King has no doubt that, were it a southern desert, the population of tumbleweeds would vastly outnumber the number of equine that roam the hills and hollows of his kingdom. To some, the emptiness would be disheartening, its near-silence a death dirge sung quietly into the land’s cracks and crevices. But to the silver-crowned man, it is a challenge. Many spit on the mere existence of Scythia – it’s former Queen had even turned her back on it, relinquishing her throne and returning to Courant’s humid jungles. But Taboo is determined to win this war, even though it seems as if he is fighting a losing battle. He had disappeared from the realm of Hoof Prince, abandoning his crown and his lover, but had returned, the prodigal son, properly recalcitrant. There had been no one here, aside from Avarice, to beg pardon from for his elusion from his royal duties; no one here to challenge his claim to what was rightfully his, and so the piebald King had re-assumed his title and crown.

Spring has set in the world of Hoof Prince and Scythia has not escaped its life-giving warmth. Though snow remains unthawed in the more formidable hills of the northern region, it has all but disappeared here in the heart of the land. It lingers here and there, in the shadow of a flourishing pine tree, in the bosom of a boulder, but for the most part, spring has sprung. Though he has yet to possess Brighton’s emerald, Taboo can almost feel the new life erupting all around him. Blades of new grass carpet his kingdom, poking up through ground once too frozen to facilitate any living thing. The trees of the forest are abuzz with all sorts of insects and creatures and it is amidst this subtle cacophony Taboo stands.

The sun is beginning to arc back down towards the horizon but its warm rays remain stretched across the earth. The Scythian monarch stands atop a small hillock, head lifted into the warm breeze trickling across the open field just below him. It teases his thick, knotted mane before dropping along his sides, picking up unattached winter hairs and carrying them on. His entire body itches and the only cure for this particular plague is the rough bark of an old tree. Reluctantly, he leaves his quiet vigil, ivory-licked limbs tugging him downwards, towards a small copse of trees in the near distance.