Desert

Thief, or warrior? Larceny, or combat? Stealth, or bravery?

The options swirl in Runar’s head as he trots up the beach, his sodden silver coat baking dry in the sun. Cullen had promised that there was the possibility of being promoted to the high rank of Marauder if Runar showed prowess on the path of the thief, but in truth, Runar is not sure if that’s something that appeals to him. He’s only just joined the Lagoon stallions, after all, and while he’d heard whispers of their reputation beforehand, being initiated into the brotherhood is something else altogether. He had expected camaraderie and good-natured hijinks; instead, what he’d joined was a solemn assembly of a few stallions who barely seemed to like each other let alone know one another. Runar has few other prospects, however. And who knows: perhaps once he’s proven himself, the bachelors will warm up to him.

Plus, there’s something refreshing about finally having something to keep him busy, and a reason to travel other than to stray from under his mother’s sharp, judgemental eye.

Runar intrudes on this strange, barren land with a purposefulness to his step and a quickening in his heart, enjoying the relief of the sea breeze from the increasing warmth of the sun on his back. He had picked Salem as his first target for the fact that it was an island to which he’d never travelled before, but also because, if he brings back a captive from somewhere more distant than the Crossing, Cullen might look on him more favorably than the average fresh recruit.

As he continues trotting along the shore, scoping the land for any territorial markings that might give him an idea of who inhabits this place, he soon gathers that a good-sized herd resides here and is guarded by a large stallion. There are no fresh signs of this stallion, however, which eases Runar’s fears somewhat, and he’s about to turn inland to search for this herd when he catches sight of a horse further up the beach.

It’s a young horse: a foal, in fact, his russet coat countershaded with soot on top and cream beneath. Runar watches him for a moment, but the colt is assuredly alone, so he makes his approach. He attempts to keep his body language loose and relaxed, but there’s an increasing stiffness to his pace and a nervous darting of his dark eyes that reveals the the turmoil within him.

“Hey, kid,” he says, stopping a few paces away with a slight frown. “Where’s your parents?”