Meadow

“I’ll leave the Shore to the gulls and swine.” The reply descended swiftly; an owl’s swoop of dissension and refute. No, the Shore had not meant to fall into his hands and the workings of Anawar’s intent presented him a fair truth: solidifying something he should have known, should have felt. As much as winter crushed at his nerves, pummeling patience and affections, it would seem the tundra and its’ beating heart wanted him back.

“Tinuvel deserves better.”

The affirmation was thick. Polluted, rife with avarice. He thought of the one who had taken the shore and abandoned it; thought of the fickleness of the rabid greed and impetuous inanity. It was absurd, it was disgusting: a blight on their very existence. They shamed Tinuvel, shamed Atlantis with their flighty hearts and it simply, would not do. Those were a pox, and such things weren’t meant to exist among those like them: birthed from resilience, from power, from aristocracy of the wild. He grunted in displeasure, shaking his head in disgust.

“She is much too good for the ungrateful, the unwilling,” The Cove. A place he would also need to see, but first: “I wish to visit the Inlet, I’ll find you in the Cove once I do.”

He eyed his newfound brother, certain of his conviction, of this course he was setting them upon. He moved to begin the departure, though decided to wait. His eyes held on Anawar, seeing if he too meant to return to Tinuvel in that moment. If not, he would go to the Inlet and see who sat upon its’ throne.