Sigrún was used to the cold. She grew up in it. She travelled in it. She lived in it. Summer on Tinuvel had been mild but not warm, much like her old homelands. She had unintentionally set off for the islands in late autumn and had never had the pleasure or misfortune of experiencing the true warmth of the late spring, summer and early fall. She had arrived in winter and quickly joined Dögun on Tinuvel, never venturing off because she had no need to.

It was a strange feeling, braving the icy ocean on for warmer currents to begin swirling around her rapidly filling out body. Given how much she enjoyed her food, it was still debatable to the untrained eye whether she was pregnant or merely fat, but she was beginning to feel the movements of her growing child. She was unsure how she felt about the prospect of motherhood at this time. While it had seemed like a good idea when she was safe and comfortable in the Inlet, her recent moves to the lagoon and now the ridge raised a lot of uncertainty. Would this stallion that Felony made the deal with accept her young considering it was not his? Some would not but that was a problem she would tackle if it came to it.

She pulled herself from the warm waters, shaking the excess from her fuzzy hide. Due to the climate of Tinuvel and winter setting in on the crossing, her winter coat was thicker than was needed on Atlantis. It was very strange she thought to herself, forcing her legs to carry her further into the territory. By the time she crosses the parapet to the heart of ridge, her skin is warm and sticky beneath the thick winter fuzz.

When she reached a patch of bright, emerald grass which was dotted with white flowers, she stopped, eyeing it great suspicion. Cautiously, she lowered her head and took a tentative bite of the juicy vegetation. She frowned, chewing slowly and wondering what kind of sorcery could produce such lush vegetation in the middle of winter.