The battle had been long and gruelling. A taste of war that she had never herself hoped to feel and yet there was a sense of pride and self sureidness that wrap her tight in a warm embrace. Newly formed scabs litter her body, a particularly nasty knot swelling on her shoulder stung and caused every kick of her feet through the salt waters a painful reminder of what she had accomplished. Tigerlily fell. At least for now. The buckskin mare would know her, she would know that it was Nyimara that lain claim upon Bjorn's heart and she shared it willingly with none.

A smirk of pride gleamed as her feet find purchase upon the familiar sands. Nostrils quiver against the boisterous breeze as it whips droplets from her darkened skin. Ears swivel at the sounds of disturbed gulls and distant parrots. Her auburn gaze roams over the high cliffs above in hopes of seeing the familiar figure of Sigurd or Bjorn ever vigilant in their watch. However today the cliffs are void of life and her brows furrow.

Where were they?

Surely Ysabel should at least be on guard, perhaps with her own annoying little filly tottering in tow. Sigurd was notorious for charging down the shores and leaping to and fro on the cliffside but that familiar laugh is only a distant memory now. Her heart quickens. Despite the limb that dragged at her limbs, and the freshly healing wounds that burned with each stretch of her stride she makes her way beyond the shores and towards higher ground. Small ears swivel amid the damp tangle of silver white mane. Searching for sight, scent or sound of her beloved son. None is to be had. What scent lingered was stale and old. She pauses now, lingering upon the upper grazing meadow with keen eyes searching as a single solitary call rings from her lips. Where were they?