Sigrún had never considered shying away from herd life, just as most other mares had not either. There were a few who travelled alone, forever wandering without a true home, but that life would never have suited the roan mare. She enjoyed an easy life, she wanted to be able to eat and relax, safe in the knowledge that someone was protecting the borders from the worst threats. That didn’t mean she would abandon her own vigilance but she would not need to be on edge all the time. Her journey to the islands had been fraught with uneasiness and fatigue.

The stallion chuckled at her ascertain, confirming that it never gets very cold. It seemed like such a strange and foreign concept. Surely it needed to get cold sometimes? Tinuvel was cold a lot but during summer it at least got a little warm. Did the climate not need some kind of balance. ”It is very strange” she concluded with a huff, still perplexed. She is awoken from her thoughts by him asking about her accent. Sometimes she forgets it is not a common accent on the islands (despite the number of family she has on them). ”I do not know the name of my homelands.” she confessed, everyone just referred to them as the homelands. “I lived at the base of the Flautandi Mountains far from these islands.” She knew the name of the mountain range but doubted Kasabian recognise the name.