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Freezing cold water filled his nose even as his hooves started to scrape desperately against the sand below him. He could feel the pull against his numb body and desperately, angerly, he continued to push himself forward. His young muscles screamed with every moment, the voices in his mind only screamed louder. He would beat this, and he would win. At last, his hooves found purchase and he was able to pull himself out of the water, only to be blasted with by the wind of winter. It clutched at his body, icy fingers raking through his short tufts of young hair. The colt bared his teeth and made a dash out of the water before turning back and pounding into the receding surf. There was no scream of triumph, but a silent sneer of hate at the waves. So far it had taken everything from him, his dark eyes blazed as he vowed to take it all back, even if that it was the bones of the lost.

Ignoring the continuous sting of cold against his wet flesh, the seasons old colt turned to look at the land he had found himself on. Nostrils flared and eyes widened, taking in something other than water for a change. This was nothing he had seen before. It started to sink in, he was so far from home. Fate had yet to tell him if this was a blessing or a curse. Casting a last snort in the direction of the ocean and the past, he stepped forward into this new world, but keeping close the need that drove him.

Zharko was young. Almost too young to have been able to survive the swim to the islands. His long lanky body spoke of seasons instead of years, and curling tufts of hair on his neck and feet were far cries from maturity. Still, he was old enough to know if he did not leave the open air he would quickly die. First he turned down one path. Before long he heard the sounds of waterfalls and shivered again. He was still wet, getting more wet would only kill him. He passed through a meadow, too open to the winds and so he kept moving. Everything in him screamed to shiver, try to let his body warm itself, but he would not allow it to show weakness. Not in the face of something as nameless as the elements. Grim lipped and giving into his fate, he continued to press on to wherever these trails would take him.

Thoughts started to slow in his mind and his vision became blurred from exhaustion and cold. He almost missed the thickening scent of other horses until he stumbled upon a grown stallion, grazing away. Dizzy, Zharko eyed him from a distance, unable to clearly make out if this was real or if death was starting to pull at his consciousness. Determined and stubborn, the colting vanner reared back and weakly screamed in defiance. If this was bloody death, just waiting to take him, he was not going to go easily, or quietly. He had made it too far and, still with nothing, had too much to loose.