It's unlikely that Liland would let Nattergal leave the Bay alone, but Nattergal doesn't ask permission. The colt waits until his father isn't paying attention and plunges into icy waters off the southern coast of the island. It's still dark when he reaches the crossing isle. Nattergal drags himself up onto the beach, and shakes the water from his coat.
He begins his long journey to nowhere. Steam rises from his dampened hide, and curls from his nostrils like smoke. He is a smoldering ember of pent up rage. Defiance is what leads him astray. With no particular destination in mind, Nattergal puts distance between himself and the Bay. He cuts a course south, along the shoreline, trotting with purpose. His hooves pound the dampened sands like drums.
It's not long before the sun sets the eastern horizon aflame, and Nattergal's stomach rumbles with hunger. His travels carry him inland, where long grasses catch the early morning light and ripple like waves upon the ocean. Nattergal lowers his head. Blunt teeth rip grass up by its roots. He takes hungry mouthfuls and chews like blades of grass are Liland's bones between his teeth.
Small steps and a busy mouth take him on a wandering course through the meadow. It takes a several moments for Nattergal to remember that he's been here before. Memories of his sister and the playfully filly they once met in the place push the anger aside for just a moment. Nattergal lifts his head. His gaze looks out upon the meadow. A reminiscing mind almost hopes to see Neferyt, but his eyes behold someone different.
Nattergal is coming of age. He is younger than this filly, but he is old enough to like the idea of having a crush. The desire is driven more by a want to prove himself older, and less because he has a serious interest in fillies at this point. Nattergal is usually a reserved personality, but recent moods have urged him to act out of character. He swallows his last bite of breakfast and saunters up to the pretty roan filly.
He, at first, exudes confidence. The colt arches neck and peers at her through a veil of dark lashes. A thick of fall of parti-colored mane frames his face. The contours of such hover in appearance between beautiful child and handsome young stallion. His legs are long, telling of more growing to do, but the muscle tone of a stallion is beginning to take shape under his skin.
But once he is near, all words get lost at the tip of his tongue. Nattergal parts his lips as if to speak. His eyes widen, and he drops his head to graze in the shade. He attempts a smooth recovery and pretends he never had any intention to speak in the first place.