She had weathered, worn and torn by the many years that had slipped idly through her fingers. She was not spritely, not young. No, she had faltered from bloom, withering until she had become this. Now, this was something rather melodramatic, was it not? Certainly she had not yet found the twilight of her existence. But, to be quite far, the journey of returning to the Isles had been quite cumbersome. She had lacked the vivacious youth she had when she’d first washed up on these shores. And one could not deny, it had been a long while since she’d walked along them – the sandy beaches, the stone littered borders. She had lived much there. She had done so little, but so much time had been spent here: not in the Inlet, but elsewhere.

She remembered fondly, the Paradise in which Riot had claimed. And later, she remembered warmth of another kind. She recalled the warmth of a stranger’s comfort. Solgar.

To say she hadn’t thought of him in a long time would be a lie. After all, he had sired her only son, her second of two children. Had she romanticized her image of him? Perhaps. There was little telling why Anske had never lain with another stallion since. Perhaps, after two failed attempts at happiness there was no need to try with a third.

A silly little thing, a heart is.

It led the way then, pulling her from the froth and tumult of the tide. It led her from the swirl, the ebb and flow of the ocean as she ascended into the Inlet. Her aquiline eyes, so bright, like lanterns, sought through the dim of twilight. His scent, oh so familiar, so much like her son’s, carried along the breeze and it romanced her into venturing further inland, closer to him. She was a fool to think he was waiting for her, a fool to think he would be expectant of such a return. She was an old woman now, not some love-struck yearling. She chuckled at this thought, pausing along the turf. Her ears cupped towards the murmurs of its inhabitants, and she could not help but muse to herself, “So much time,” The Inlet was a stranger to her then. It had changed, altered by the time she’d spent away. It’s scent different, foreign. The only familiarity was the wafting of his cologne, his sweet, familiar musk. “So much has come to pass.” And with that, a whicker slipped from the woman’s throat. A deft call, to pull and seduce an old friend into her embrace.