A biting wind gusts down from the mountains craggy snow capped peaks, it ruffles his ebony tresses. The Pony King, quietly wanders along the border of the Inlet, he checks it daily. He had learned many lessons over the past few years, to watch his borders carefully for intruders and to chase strangers straight from his home. His dark nostrils quiver as the wind rushes down upon him, he tests its; deciphering each of the scents that mingle together. The sweetness of pine needles mix with the dry scent of the tufts of yellowing grass. Soon, most likely, within the next few days; Tinuvel would be covered in a light dusting of snow. He knew from experience, that after the light dusting of snow, came the inches that would pile until Springs warmth. He tosses his thick head, and scans the tundra that spreads out before the grulla.
He angles himself towards the ashen sands, he picks up a ground covering four beat gait. His hooves strike out through the sagebrush, leaping over a few bushes. A snort erupts from his dark nostrils, a bit of enjoyment, after the long months of hardship. He stretches each of his legs out further.
His dark tresses flow out behind his muscled neck, he had only gone a hundred yards, when the salty breeze of the ocean slams into his face. On this breeze a familiar scent wafts, Macabre, he slides to a halt. His ochre eyes scan the shores in front of him, his anxiety pricks at his grulla hide. He had not seen her since that day in the commons. How many months had it been? What would he even say? He shits his weight from one hoof to the other, he knew what he had to do. He sets off at a slow trot, his head snakes back and forth; he searches for her crimson hide. As he nears, a form begins to take shape, there she stood. Her crimson hide stark against the ashen hued ocean, her mane whips around her. He wanted to gallop to her, to shove his nostrils to hers. Yet, he continued his slow trot until he was within earshot.
Macabre? Why are you here? Where is Dexter?" He warily eyes her, he knew that Dexter would not of let her return to the Inlet without him.
Dögun
We'll ride in the gathering storm
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