At-last there is solid ground beneath her hooves, she stumbles up the beach. Her nostrils flare with exhaustion, her two-toned eyes glance up. Her breath catches in her throat, as her eyes lay upon a craggy peak surrounded by rocky slopes and jutting rocks. Yes, this place will do.

It has been a few days since she has arrived on the Isle. The scents were faint, but she has noticed a lack of the strong, pungent scent of testosterone. The air is crisp and remarkably fresh. With each passing day her strength returns, her muscles no longer quake with fatigue, nor her belly growl with hunger. Yes, now she would venture further inland to see who this land belongs to. The ground at her hooves is rocky, yet she feels the strength of her hooves beneath her. She treks further along the rocky slopes, exploring the land. She finds the gushing mountain stream, its water frigid cold and sweet upon her tongue. She finds the treacherous trail, it was jagged and rocky as it winds to the summit of the craggy peak.

Her muscles burn beneath her dark sooty hide, they scream for oxygen and restoration, yet she pushes on. A few rocks skitter down the rocky slopes, a reminder that one slip was all it would take to send her to a bloody death at the bottom of the mountain.

Translation:
Þér heimskir: You fools!