The great stallion misses very little that occurs on his island. He knew the time was growing short, each day Beowulf grew stronger and soon, soon Sanibel would try to force him to the waves. The boy was strong, he knew that if the pale mare guided him to the mainland and then off to the prairie after a quick rest that the boy would be able to make it without much struggle.

Each day he found himself watching her closer, determined to intervene if possible. He only had two foals this season and while Vasilisa's colt was strong, the black mare was poisoning his mind, and that made him weak. Beowulf however, had become a quick favorite. However much Sanibel hated him, she still dotted upon the boy. She did not whisper words of hate in his ears, like Vasilisa did. Of course he half believed this was out of fear as to the repercussions that might be aimed upon her, but Rougaru felt content that for the time being she was under his control.

When Celestria appeared, it was not hard to miss her. She came as she usually did, full of anger and hatred. He doubted there was ever anything soft about the palomino overo mare. He is there in a heartbeat, standing silently alongside a bewildered Beowulf as he watched the two mares fight. He knew without a doubt who would win, and for a moment debating whether or not to intervene. However as Celestria drove Sanibel towards the oceans and away from Beowulf, it became quite clear. He could keep the boy. Silently a devious smirk played upon his lips as he met Celestria's gaze. "Welcome back." he murmurs as she approaches, her eyes and attention on his son. A single dial flickers at her cooing tones, how odd it sounded to his ears. "Beowulf..." he says, angling his head towards the pale colored colt who by this time buried his head beneath the mare's flank, unable to resist the hunger. "He is your responsibility now." he adds, eyeing her suspiciously. He knew it had not been long ago that she had given birth, he could smell the thick scent of milk upon his skin and once more the hatred for Shamwari burned in him. The wolf growled, its golden eyes flashing behind his own emerald green. He did not ask her where the foal was, nor did he care. It was not his... Beowulf was. Were it to come to it, he would put the foal down to ensure that his own would survive.