Meadow

How long had it been since he stood on those shores?

He'd been but a yearling, far as he could remember. His mother stood at his back, urging him onto the island. For so long they had traversed the mainland, and she was in search of the one who'd given her a son: Lyov. And Nicholas, he'd no use for his sire then. No inkling nor want to meet him, to speak to him. Though, now in the throes of adulthood he understood something that he hadn't then. He wished for the why and the how. Magdalena had spoken fondly of the Arch and the loving stranger she had found. Many times she had wandered from him only to be welcomed again. Nicholas, in his youth, recalled their parting on the beaches of the commons. Her eyes were turned towards Tinuvel, whilst his were towards his future.

A future that now lacked the luster it had for a yearling lad, but one that still held strength and wonders of change, and growth.

Ambition was never his best suit.

The time since had seen him continuing his mother's wanderlust, inheriting her desire to see more than what lay between the unseen borders of a typical herd. Nomadic tendencies ran hard in their bloodline, and it was hard for him to shirk such whim. But with the passing of the years, he found himself in want of more. Grief held him tightly, it's fingers wound in the silky length of his mane and pounded at his heart. The widower wondered, for a moment, what his children thought of his travels. They'd been given the invitation to follow, though he trusted their own desires would see it that they sought happiness separate from him. Maturity had it's ways of inspiring such independence. And now, finding himself in a new chapter, it was time to define that for himself once more.

He knew his niece to have found this place before him; her scant scent was held beneath the gloam of winter. He'd seek her ought eventually, though for now, Nicholas took comfort in his lonesome sojourn across the unclaimed territories. The smoky grullo steed wandered towards the meadow, a place he'd only seen once in his youth. It's causeway remained the same, the steps of many other travelers laid the road he'd found himself on. His slender figure took it's time as he plodded along, without aim nor any chosen direction. A figure stood in the distance, bathed in the sparse light of night. Curious of the other stallion, Nicholas pushed onward towards him.

He held his distance, allowing the stranger their space. Eyeing him carefully, and braced for aggression, Nicholas' slavic tongue lifted its' greeting: "Good eve, I'm Nicholas."

A breath pulled the algid breeze into his lungs as his weight settled.