white as a cotton field and sharp as a knife
The little wolf did not know how far she had traveled to get to the shore. All she knew was that the terrain had changed drastically over the months, from desert to mountains, from mountains to steppes, from steppes to a great rocky drop over which she now stood. The slope was not vertical, and with Faolain’s petite figure and tiny hooves she was able to make the descent without complications, but towards the bottom the rocks were slippery and treacherous and with great frustration the little wolf had to slow her pace and be careful. Faolain was generally calculated and not necessarily impulsive, but she hated going slow.
Agitated grey waves battered the stones at the base of the slope and when the black mare reached them, she strode confidently into their hungry, foaming mouths, her slender body almost immediately being hoisted away as the ocean swallowed her. What she did for the next few hours might not necessarily qualify as swimming, but she did her best to keep course through the churning waters, and at the very least she did not drown before washing up on the Crossing’s shore.
The swim had taken an enormous amount of energy, but Faolain had energy to spare. The little wolf shook herself off and kicked up sand as she took off towards the grass, slowing to a canter once she was within the trees. She was a small horse, standing at only fourteen hands high, but her legs were long in proportion to the rest of her body and even at a lazy canter she covered ground easily. Her small hooves stirred up frost and light slow, and kicked up dead leaves behind her, and despite her small size she still made a thunderous noise tearing through the band of trees that walled off the center of the island from the ocean. When she did break through the tree line, a lovely silver meadow opened up before her, and the little wolf slowed to a brisk walk. She could smell other horses here. She paced the edge of the meadow, head tossed high and eyes sharp and alert. She had been told tales of this island by many different individuals on her travels, but had never actually believed them. She wasn’t even sure what she was hoping to find here; would she rather it be empty or teeming with horses? Faolain could not decide. She had been alone all her life, and continued to prefer to keep others at a distance, but she had not made plans for what was going to happen after finding the Islands. The others who lived here would surely have information; she would start there, and figure out the rest as she went along.
The slight black mare finally stopped moving and waited, scanning the meadow for others.
