Just as she had suspected, the swim had been so incredibly unpleasant, that she regretted her decision the moment the water swept over her pink shoulders and splashed up against her youthful, strong neck. Thankfully, amongst these isles, the undercurrent is weak, and the islands do not seem far off from one another. The stallion happily knows his way, no doubt from frequently coming and going, not unlike clockwork.

He was, after all, a stallion intend on growing the numbers of his herd, and perhaps that was why he had so eagerly invited Sighurd to his shores.

She is not a cowed woman, and knows the intentions of men. Even without the quiet stories from her mother and father, she had grown into womanhood and learned the dance of man long before now. While Björn is handsome, and his cajolling had not deterred her, the red woman was wise to his goals the moment his teeth had dug into her skin and scratched at her back.

At least he was a damn good back scratcher.

Their swim, though frigid, is brief enough that Sighurd does not feel the rage she had felt upon washing up on the shore in the Inlet. As cool, pale sand rises up beneath her feet underwater, allowing her to walk instead of swimming, she rises out of the waves and braces herself for the bitter winds that would crash into her flesh once she had come ashore. The wicked cold does not come, and there is instead a mild sort of air about them. “Oh.” She observes, flicking her ears and looking around, turning her head to look for the stallion and ask him why. Why was this place not as wicked and as evil as all the other places she had been?