The green of the world beyond their desert home had made them queasy and chilled. They sought the sun, chasing it down until they had reached a sea amid all those who grew fat and lazy and eased by the lack of effort it took to live. The Stars of Mira were determined to find the heat of Ra, to soak in the sweltering fires of his embrace. Each were but twinkling flickers amid the vast time and universe, bearing nothing but the wind in their lungs and desert heat in their hearts.

The eldest and second tallest of their number comes ashore first, the steadiest and most enduring, his mane the color of blood, rich and thick on a neck of dappled lily-petal hide. Across his breast between hoof and crest was the mark of Menhit, bloodthirsty sister and vicious claws of Sekhmet. The mark of Sekhmet’s own crown also enriched his face, just as the mark of Menhit graced his breast. He bursts from the water, legs reaching into the sand with firmer purchase than one without a life among deserts could boast. He shakes, eyes attentive, heart racing with the burden of water against wind-taught and sand-tested legs. Never had the wind fought so against him - nor had even sand been so cruel - to seem so calm and innocent and be hiding contrariness within. He looks over his back for the other three, sparing a disdainful look for the sea itself.

The second eldest, shortest of their number with a face so open as though he bore no secrets, was behind him within two lengths, coming ashore and looking like the cosmos made flesh. He is as well painted as his marked brother, though far darker of hide despite the splashes of white. An unusual color, a throwback to three grandsires prior, he shudders free of the wet - fetlocks lapped by the waves he had yet to leave. He has less stamina than his elder brother, but it is still a great deal more than usual horses born without the desert to try them.

His twin comes next, nose touching his honest brother’s haunch in reassurance. Tallest and most well-built, and with a coat of stars that seemed as though it might have mirrored the sky on the night of his birth… he is just as spectacular to behold as the first. He is less affected than his twin, though the only thing they shared was the womb and the darkness of their hide. He has a harder, wilder gaze than the painted brother - and less peace of soul as with the first ashore.

The starlight brother dances to the side, evading the last of them - the youngest and still the fastest and most daring of them. He is entirely swathed in the bloody color the eldest’s color only hinted at in his mane, darkened by the soot of his color’s own fire. Midnight mane and legs and tail play perfect foil against it - but not remotely so greatly as the giant star on his brow, for which he had received his name. A misty white marking of part-brindle and part-roan swept up his groin at his hip the way the second-eldest’s color would have shown should he not have been so otherwise painted.

He bursts from between the twins, sending sand flying as he stops, the swim having only spent a modicum of his energy in spite of his later arrival. He has the proportions best suited to racers, not swimmers, and he shows not one cent of insecurity over having lost their little race against the sea. “Brothers! We have only just made land, we cannot possibly stop for rest now!” The eldest’s face looks every bit as put-out as the others, but perhaps a little less openly hostile. “It is not as though the desert can flee from us, Aldebaran. Show your brothers some respect.” He is deep of voice compared to the wild tenor of the youngest.

The bay shakes himself a second time, clearly itching to argue but knowing better than to challenge the turtle to his hare. “You must let him fight his own battles someday, brother. He may outrun me, but he will never outfight me. I would do his pride some good, I think.” The gleam in the third-eldest’s eye is enough to quiet the bay further, clearly aware that there was precious little jest in the threat. “Peace, Atair. We are all short on thoughts outside the return to Ra’s embrace. Even Antares looks like a rest could be beneficial. Don’t let Baran’s adrenaline fan your temper.” The three eldest turn their eyes on the youngest who rolls his eyes emphatically… for half a moment.

Then, aware and attentive with his wild ranging eagerness to learn about the desert Ra had led them to, he picks up something he had not anticipated. Horse scent. “Rigel, do you smell that?” but it is clear Rigel must take a second or so longer to find the curious thing that had given their upstart brother pause. “There is a master here already...”

“Tares, I can’t fight yet, even if you could you shouldn’t, and Baran’s going to get us killed if they find him first… Ri should go.” The warrior brother admits, putting Rigel out front as the best of them for ambassadorship. “I would not take long. I may not be as fresh as you, but I am not useless and I do have a habit of pissing off our hosts least.”

“Fine,” says the blood-maned brother, “may Shu help you find and greet them. Tell them any tribute must wait, we have hardly spent a breath to recuperate.”

The blued-black brother, painted with galaxies and stars, moved his white legs forward, pushing him inland and across the first tall dunes. Better to find the master of this house, rather than wait for him to find them, travel worn and the others so temperamental.