Common

you shouldn’t walk where the hemlock grows

It is her first time back to the Crossing since her fight with Cullen. Faolain drifts methodically through the Meadow before making her way to the Common, nose hovering low above the grass as she strides. Though she is small and slight, her strides are long and purposeful, and she moves quickly beneath the dappled sunlight and uncertain scattering of clouds. The inconsistent rays of light slide across her pelt and make it shiny for a few seconds before she passes beneath them, leaving the reflections of her fur behind. Under the milky light of the cloudcover, she is void and matte, absorbing the thin light and appearing as just a shadow herself.

Movement on the beach catches her eye, and Faolain’s head raises a bit. Her dark eyes scan the sand and the waves, settling on a swaying figure near the rocks that jut from the surf. The figure is ghostly pale and clearly unsteady, and another second of observation shows Faolain the bloody mark on her neck and shoulders. Is that actual blood, or a marking? She cannot tell, but even if the figure were standing still and serene she would still be concerned. Faolain’s head raises further as she sets off toward the stranger, her spindly legs covering ground in a long-strided trot.

She hardly gets out a word of concern or greeting before the stranger whirls to face her, and Faolain halts abruptly, small blobs of wet sand sent flying from her hooves. It takes her some time to register the question she is being asked, and her confusion and alarm meld together to form a silencing mental block. ”Excuse me?” she says; it is all she can think to say for a brief moment, before the words of the mare actually register in her mind. She turns her face out to sea, eyes leaving the other uncertainly to search for the island in question. The pale mare staggers nearly into Faolain, who takes a single step backward but otherwise does not move. Her gaze returns to the strange mare. ”I don’t know,” she answers honestly. In comparison to the frantic, rough voice of the strange mare, Faolain’s own voice is low and smooth, almost musical if it weren’t nearly monotone.

”Do you mean Cimarron?” she asks, remembering a few mentions of the sunken island, but not recalling where she had heard them. She takes a tentative step forward again, offering her body in support of the unsteady mare. ”Lean on me,” she says gently, her voice lilted at the end - a suggestion, not a command. ”I will take you to fresh water, if you wish.” Now that she is close, she can see clearly the bloody marking across the shoulders of the strange mare.

mare | black | 14hh | akhal-teke