Somehow Solgar has survived his first arctic summer. Of course, it hasn't exactly been difficult as such; merely completely different to anything he's experienced before. No one had told him, for instance, that the days would grow longer and longer until there was no real night at all. Instead the sun has only veered across the horizon, zigzagging up and down in a slow, ginormous circle, and just when one thinks it might be about to slip away for the night, it lingers, and instead of night there is only a twelve-hour long grey dusk.
He suspects some of the mares around here - the ones who had remained in the inlet long after their stallions had disappeared - haven't been troubled by it at all. Solgar, conversely, had spent the first few days of the short summer in awe of the sun that never set, but this had quickly eroded into irritation and exhaustion. His sleeping schedule is in a funk, and he feels now as if he is a walking zombie, going through the daily motions without really being aware of any of it.
This doesn't seem to have slowed his luck regarding women, somehow. Whereas he can imagine some males have trouble holding onto one or two mares, and even then have to fight and coerce to keep what they have, Solgar somehow has gathered up a respectable-sized band without trying. Perhaps if the circumstances were different, or if he had not lived life the way he had, he might appreciate this fact more. As is it - and what with his exhaustion these days - his apathy is stronger than ever. He spends his days in a haze, hardly paying attention to the women around him, and hardly caring that they might pack their bags and head elsewhere.
Even his friend The Watcher has been quiet lately.
And so the stallion stands as usual in a thick clump of trees, ears drooping lazily to either side, simply existing. What rationality is left in his brain exists solely to silently curse the neverending daylight. That is, until he sees them. The mare is difficult to miss with her loudly-colored coat, her foal perhaps even moreso with his dark coloring contrasting against the patches of white. Another? Luckily for them, Solgar is no child-killer, and he's too tired to put up a fuss about the colt's presence at all. So he saunters out into the open slowly, his dark eyes looking them over with only a flicker of interest.
"Let me guess, another widow?"
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