The Lost Islands
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family, duty, honor


rhaella

Word of mouth was a wonderful thing. The heat, however, was not.

While nowhere near as thick as it once had been, Rhaella’s mahogany coat is still patchy with tufts of thick winter growth. It does not help that she’s never before experienced such relentless heat; breathing feels like inhaling water and beads of stinging sweat are trickling into her eyes. She’s finding it difficult to stay strong for her daughter, who toddles along with her head drooping beside her, let alone remember why she’d decided to find out where Badr lived and then go find him again.

Time had softened her memory of the stallion and allowed the solace of their first meeting to become more prominent. For a long while she’d lain awake every night, remembering his words and trying to decide if he could be trusted. Then she’d eavesdropped on every conversation she could until she had heard the word ‘Salem’. Her departure had been on a whim, a decision made in the light of a pleasant mood. But now, exhausted by the swim, concerned for Shael, and irritated by the heat, Rhaella is regretting this decision.

Mater, est velah si Badr bunhil?” the dark filly asks her, looking up with tired blue eyes. Rhaella’s white lips press together in a thin line as they continue to stroll through the barren sea of sand. “No,” she replies firmly. “Er vergen sekhu vi. But he will help us.”

six-year-old mare of nowhere;
widowed karvieg of aleksei




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