Isla existed as a wraith on the edges of the Lagoon, a violent pink shadow that snapped and snarled at anyone who came too close. Especially now that autumn had come to the islands, and with it the restlessness of the season and the change of hormones. She both loathed and longed for the company of a stallion, though none of the Lagoonies came close to catching her eye. The only one she'd seen lately had been hardly more than a colt, and already spoiled by the Lagoon's influence, already cold and callous and demanding, as if she - simply because she lacked a pair of fleshy sacs between her legs - was somehow less than him.

She longed for the men she had known before this fetid prison, the ones like Ori and Zevulun, who offered kindness first, and flirtations second, with not a scrap of the domineering garbage she had to weather now.

She paced now along the outer border of the Lagoon, her ears pinned low and tight against her poll as she stalked along the well-worn path. Often, Isla found some sort of comfort in doing what little traveling she could do, pacing until her muscles became lean and wiry, her once comfortably round, pony-like physique now awkwardly honed, the harsh outline of her silhouette awkward on her body. It wasn't until sweat gathered in patches on her body from the forced march that she allowed herself to slow, her nostrils flared and chest tight as she slowed to a walk to regain her breath.