I'm frozen to the bones, I am...
Bone against bone. Muscle against muscle. Steam billowed around his face as he delivered his final attack on the ailing Inlet King. It was his war that tore the Isles asunder and it was his undoing. Björn had turned his back on this King after he noticed the crazed look in his eyes and how he would risk anything for the sake of pride. The ailing King did not take kindly to his choice and sent his minions to do his bidding; which ended in the death of Björn's advisor and his children being stolen to the Lagoon.
Warsaw had put them all on this path. And he now paid with losing his home.
Björn stands at the edge of the Inlet. Victorious. He casts his glacial eyes over his shoulder as he breathes in the crisp mountain air. The craggy mountain peaks scrape against the brooding heavens and the dark pine forest lays strewn across their foothills. A gust of wind pushes itself against his face and he closes his glacial eyes to breath in its piney aroma.
"Móðurland," he whispers into the crisp autumn air.
With a sigh on his lips he steps to the edge of the hissing surf and pushes himself into the frigid waters. A chill runs the length of his spine as he strikes out for the crossing.
ᚩ
The salt water envelops him and stings his scrapes but he revels in the pain. They are marks of victory. He steps from the ocean with only a slight limp on his front fore. He arches his neck and muscles ripple along his crest, despite the ache in his shoulder he is strong and healthy from his time in the Ridge. He pauses at the top of the beach where the sands meet the grasses and scans the Commons.
His eyes are instantly drawn to a kona gulls, her coat draped in gold and shimmering beneath the early Autumn sun. He has never seen a woman such as this and is instantly intrigued by her coat and how she carries herself across the grass.
Without further hesitation he pushes himself toward her. His hooves instinctually find the tölt - a four beat gait of his ancestors - and fluidly moves toward her. His glacial eyes take her in as he draws nearer and slows to match her gait with his. He keeps his distance as not to scare her off, but close enough they could hear each other above the autumn breeze.
"Kona gull. Do the gods honor thee and drape you in gold and treasures?" his words flow off of his tongue in his thick nordic accent, but he does his best to be understood by gilded woman.
Icelandic Mutt // 11 years old // 14.2 hh // Grullo Sabino // Stallion
Bera Konung of the Inlet
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