The Lost Islands
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Common

Force-claiming is allowed here once a week per character, as is blocking force-claims by the Peak/Lagoon (as a whole) once a week. Rollover is on Sundays.

run, red cold river

Anso
the dark stray dog of war
The cursed sea washed him upon these desolate shores again. Caught in a freak storm that swept him from the Mainland where he’d been roaming the past few years, the silver haired brute swore when he caught sight of the Islands through the driving rain, and got a mouthful of seawater for his trouble.

Eyes stinging - from the salt of the sea, nothing more - he clamped his jaw down on a bitter cry, and spent what little strength had not already been sapped from him to fight against the dragging current and make for the nearest shore.

This time, there was no bright eyed filly waiting to greet him, undaunted by his sheer size, and the scars that littered his hide. The land was empty and the dreary expanse of the boggy stretch of sparse grassland that stretched before him only served to dampen Anso’s mood further.

He sought shelter under a lone tree that looked as though it had been struck by lightning in the past, for the way its trunk was split, leaving it half dead. Never struck the same place twice - or that’s what they said.

No sooner as he had leaned one shoulder against the rough bark did the rain begin to abate, as though deigning to grant the soldier who was wounded in spirit a small reprieve, and as soon as the rain had stopped, the air eerily still in the wake of the storm, the seasoned fighter fell asleep before the droplets on his coat had dried.

He woke sometime later, amber eyes blinking open, one ink-dark ear twisting at the sound of some subtle sound. Anso shifted away from the twisted tree, rolling his shoulders to work out some of the stiffness that had settled into his bones while he’d been still. How long had he slept? What had woken him?

The blue roan trailed his scarred muzzle through the air, and turned, setting his sights on the figure behind him, who must have drawn near while he was still asleep. Mind still muddled with exhaustion, he squinted, unsure if his eyes were playing tricks on him.

Clearing his throat - rough from the seawater, and from lack of use prior to that - he rasped out a brusque question that passed for a very poor greeting. “Wha' d'you wan' from me?”

html by dante! & image from unsplash || {REF}




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