No matter which territory was in, Sigrún always seemed to find herself near the shore; able to watch the tumultuous ocean and the comings and goings of equine between each island. Perhaps it was because she was so used to living in the mountains, it was a strange and novel feeling to just be able to see the ocean. Back in the Inlet she had found a ledge on the left cliff face of the narrow entrance into the territory. She had often watched Dögun come and go, sometimes bringing new herd members with him, other times alone. She wondered how many more he had gained and how many he had lost since she left.

“Where is that?” Kraken asked from her side, motioning at a flat, red land mass - most assuredly Salem. Sigrún looked at the island, answering neutrally, “I do not know”. The filly huffed sharply, her stare hard as she looked at the unknown island. She would find out what island it was eventually. “That is the crossing” her mother told her, nodding at the largest land mass of the islands adorned by a large peak. “And the white island is Tinuvel”. Kraken looked out at the two named islands. One day she would see them all.

Above the steady hum of the ocean breeze and rolling of the waves, a snapped branch caught the roan mare’s attention and her head turned. Ears flick back at the sight of an unknown and possibly unfriendly stallion. She had certainly not seen him around the ridge before. She might have thought him here to whisk her away just as the painted stallion had from the Inlet yet his posture did not suggest he had any such intentions.

The mare turned, angling her body between the pale stallion and her daughter. The dun filly peeked around her chest all the same, wondering who the stallion was and why he looked so funny. “Mother? Why does he have manes on his hooves?” she asked curiously. Sigrún snorted, letting the filly know she was ignoring her question and warning her to be quiet.

The mare’s ears raised a little at the stallion’s question. Not a threat. “Ja” she answered with a simple bob of her head. If she wondered why he wanted to know, she didn’t say it. Sigrún never said much more than she needed to, often less.