the unforgiving territory before him seemed entirely unsuitable in so many ways. it was nothing like the vlast. the sun burned down, scalding his ink black hide, and the sands before him shifted in front of his very eyes. there were no mountains on the horizon, no endless green forests, and at his hooves, where there would have been rich dark earth, there was only sand. it was the wrongness of it that drew him like a moth to a flame.

he is tired of roaming. tired of searching. he is done hoping. it is time to start anew, as best he can. his first impression of the dunes is of how entirely different this place is from the old domov. there is hardly a shred of affinity for the view his dark eyes take in, but if he is to begin again, he cannot be reminded of what his behind him. the past is over. the past is mrtvý. dead.

lukasz stands on the shoreline of the beach, ankle deep in the churning saltwater. he is a solemn dark figure against the bright landscape, his convex profile distinct without the contrast of color. his sides shudder as he whinnies, issuing a respectful announcement, he seeks the leader of this land.