Morning crept slowly over the Crossing; beneath the snow-laden branches of the forest, the blue-black of night slowly gave way to the soft violet of early dawn, where it then drifted into the beautiful, icy-gold of a crisp, frost-ridden daybreak. Save for a few sleepy chirps from said overhead branches, the morning was pleasantly quiet, the fresh snow of the night before acting as a soft, fluffy buffer against the normal noises of the rising sun, with only the distant roar of the tide to break the monotony of the silence.
It was toward the roar of the tide that the stallion moved. His dark bay coat had grown thick and warm against the crisp chill of winter, but otherwise he was largely unchanged since his first appearance on the isle of the Crossing. The memories of the life he’d left behind were a near constant torment, pulling a small frown across his dark brow and turning his ears back toward his poll. Yet still, despite the bitter memories of his homeland, he felt drawn to the salty tang of the sea for the familiarity it brought him. He had grown on the coast, had frolicked and flourished amongst piles of seaweed and the creeping creatures of tide pools. The cries of gulls over the sweeping melody of the ocean waves had always been his lullaby and he oft felt that he would go mad when he ventured too far inland, where it was so quiet he could hear his own heart beating.
Following the river beneath the falls, through the forest, the stallion made his way quietly through the early morning light to the coast. With the familiar ebb and flow of the tide rushing in his ears, he felt more at ease and rested, turned broadside to the newly risen sun.
stallion. cleveland bay. dark bay. sixteen-one. four.
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