Common

He stood upon the sands like an inky shadow against the sun, silent as he looked upon the isle of crossing with a cold and distant gaze.

It had not been so long ago that the he had come to these parts… washed onto the shores like a squabbling, disoriented rat, desperate for a floating piece of debris to sink his claws into and grasp until any sort of hope was well and gone. The sea was a merciless mistress, cold and cruel as he knew it to be. It had chewed him up and spit him out upon the sandy shores in hopes that he would perish in the soft gravel, waiting patiently to bury his bones in the tide and take his flesh to feed the monsters of the deep.

But it was not meant to be so.

Meeseek’s demise was not written in the stars the day his corpse littered the shores of the crossing, but he often came to see if such a fate was written for others. The strong would prevail. Not all of them were. And if any prospects were to survive the Ridge… he needed them to be strong. It was a cruel and unforgiving mountain range, with steep slopes and sharp rocks quick to punish. But every fortress had something worth protecting, and the treasures of his home were always there for whomever held the stamina to find them. Or the ingenuity to ask. His nostrils flared a heavy sigh at the thought, and trails of warm breath quickly dispersed into the cold morning air.

The breeze was brisk and strong today. It carried the scent of the sea and faint traces of equine on its drafts; though the shores at dawn were mostly empty in these parts, save for the grulla stallion that resided like a statue over the sands and waters. Large. Still. A patient observer. They would come… eventually.

Unless they were already here.

An ear twisted to catch the sound of the irregular crashing of waves in the shallows and Meeseeks soon turned to watch. The painted mare stood out amongst the softer tones of the skies like a sore, soaking and twisted with the aftermath of her own battle with the sea. His dark eyes were hard as he gauged the femme’s reactions, watching as she watched a scene that was no longer playing in these parts – but somewhere much farther away, if it was even still playing at all. It was much like the reactions of others he saw wash upon these shores... It had been similar to his own, too.

The stallion waited in looming silence as he observed. It was poignant for new arrivals to revel in their realization that they were no longer where they used to call home. The faster they realized this, the faster they would move on, and all the better it was for him. When Meeseeks had felt he had waited long enough and his patience had worn thin for no reason in particular, the rumble of his baritone voice easily carried across the empty sands. She was not far from him and this was acceptable.

“I looked like you once.”

His thick forelock blew lazily across his face, his gaze steady and somewhat intense. The tone of the statement was simple but true, yet condemnation remained absent. He was not one to patronize on such an occasion. “It does not last long.” Whether or not such a comment was meant to be reassuring was left to the reciprocator, his tone flat and factual. With another steady (but yet somehow softer) look he regarded her, his legs finally moving his large body forwards and down the slight incline into the deeper sands. His ears perked and nostrils flared as he neared, his neck arching as Meeseeks offered the painted woman his muzzle and his strong, warm puffs of breath in cordial offering.