Vodnik was born on Tinuvel. The weather on Atlantis is mild in comparison, even atop the highest elevations of the windblown ridge, which has already seen its first snow squalls early in autumn. His ability to weather the harshest of winters is apparent the stallion's appearance. He has already grown his winter coat. Long hairs under his belly visibly sway to the rhythm of his gait, and under the winter woolies is a healthy layer of fat. The draft mix weighs near a ton. Heavy footfalls sounding on the damp forest floor betray the true nature of his mass.

Vodnik never makes an effort to mute his progress. Even outside the territorial confines of the Ridge he knows stealth is a thing he'll never master. He plays to his strengths, which means working with his size instead of against it. Through his own racket, Vodnik somehow hears the foreign call echo off the rocky mountain sides.

Ever alert, it catches his attention. In an instant a lumbering walk takes off at a thundering canter. Vodnik's blood bay coat blends and reflects all the colors of autumn ablaze on the mountain side, but it is his bright, feathered legs that draw attention. His movement is dramatic. The grand action of his gait and the flourish of brilliant, white feather turn every head within eye shot.

The power of him surges down the mountainside, causing small landslides and leaving a trail of wounded earth in his wake. Vodnik breaks free of the tree line. His eyes roll with anger. His lips curl and his ears are lost beneath volumes of thick, black mane. With his head low and neck outstretched, he thunders towards the intruder. He has every intention of driving the stranger back into the sea, until he finds familiar features through the haze of his rage.

Gripped with shock and a sudden confusion, the stallion drops his weight into his haunch and slides to a stop several yards away. The spray of pebbles kicked up by the force of his sliding stop undoubtedly reaches the mare, but Vodnik can rarely be bothered to feel sorry.

The stallion tosses the mane from his eyes in a motion that once dropped mares swooning to his feet. His dark gaze has let go of anger and settled on an expression of keen interest. He holds his head high. Lingering tension adds a muscle-bound arch to his neck. A few bold strides close the gap between them. This is the only mare he's ever been able stand before and hold his head high without feeling like he towers over her. Someday she must make him a foal.

"Well hello," he greets the mare with booming chords. "What brings you to the Ridge?" The question is innocent enough but it's charged with anticipation. There is a part of Vodnik that hopes she's come to deliver herself to the Ridge. During their brief encounter by the falls, Vodnik learned very little about this mare. He is unaware she laid claim to her own territory, or that such a thing is even heard of on the islands.