It takes the pale stallion a couple of tries but he demonstrates resourcefulness and a not-gonna-give-up attitude. Rhadra murmurs encouragement to him between his striking the ice, and praises him with a warm, “Well done!” when he succeeds in breaking his way through the cold barrier. “There is a skill mastered, and one not soon forgotten now that you’ve got a feel for it,” she says, pleased that she has been able to give aid to a horse in need— especially with such a critical skill. One cannot always eat snow to slake their thirst.
She sympathizes with Iscariot’s sentiments of home. “It’s interesting, isn’t it, how the places we’re raised can give rise to a certain distaste once we’re away from them,” she muses. “At least, so I have found. My home was rolling fields and groves of trees backed by a wide, deep river. I suppose these Isles are very similar to where I’ve come from, but,” she snorts lightly. “I won’t ever go back.”
Nothing bad had happened, not really. Not to Rhadra, a loosely independent soul very capable of rolling with the punches. It hadn’t been so bad. But, here was better, for a number of reasons. She exhales again, softly, her breath clouding around her face before it dissipates, and when she faces Iscariot again she is once more wearing a warm, genuine smile, a hint of teasing in her voice as she asks, “Think you’ll linger here, now that you can get yourself a drink as you need?”
rhadra