Meadow

At the word of there being other islands, she is grief-stricken. She knew that to explore these lands meant to plunge deep into the waters, striking out with great striped and rosy-red legs, exhausting herself and showing up on some unknown coast, bedraggled and wet and looking like little more than a great pink ball of hair and salt.

Not that Sighurd was vain- but the stink of the ocean was still fresh in her nostrils, and she feared that there was still a great glob of seaweed caught up in her mane, because she could still smell something fishy.

Crinkling her nose at the thought, Sighurd never would have thought that a stranger would have been concerned about her safety. She doubted even her father was too perplexed about her whereabouts. “Siggy, you’re a big girl now.” He had told her when she was freshly weaned from her mother’s teat. “It’s time for you to see the world on your own. I won’t hold your hand.”

So she had, and she rather enjoyed it.

”Oh, anywhere here and there really, na.” She wiggles her head, as if gesturing to the entirety of the meadow once more. “Too many people coming and going for the bitey things to be of any trouble, na.” It seemed to be a good strategy to her. She doubted that any herd was as highly populated as these alleged common areas, and she would rather rely on safety in numbers over a tired and bedraggled stallion that patrols his territory on his own.

Crowds offered the best safety, even if she didn’t know anyone’s name.

“And you braved the cold just to explore?” Sighurd remarks incredulously, a visible shiver running down her body at the thought. “You are made of tougher stuff than I, na.”