Meadow

fearghas

Fearghas wasn't entirely sure what he was doing on the Crossing again. It wasn't as if he could truly invite anyone back to the Savanna with Cullen's threat hanging over them like an ominous storm cloud. And yet the thought of staying in the empty wasteland he called home was equally repugnant, especially in those quiet moments when even Varanduil left him to his moping. Everywhere he looked was a ghost of someone that had mattered to him.

Driven from his melancholy post, Fearghas trailed lazily through the summer grass. A part of him was half desperate with the need to break into the Lagoon to see if Rade had made it, and a part of him was terrified at the very thought. It was not that he feared for his own life, not really, but he was certain that Cullen's hate now ran so deeply that not even Fearghas' death would be enough to sate him. It did not take much imagination at all to picture Cullen continuing to sick his sycophantic hounds on everyone who had ever helped him or cared for him.

It made him want to run away from it all, but he knew he could do no such thing, so he settled for the second-best option and lost himself in a physical challenge. Fearghas was no sprinter, but as his spotted limbs gathered and bunched beneath him, propelling him into a charge, he was able to reduce his thoughts from the chaotic murmur of regret to the satisfying feeling of physical exertion. Stride, stride, leap over the fallen tree, dodge the deer that ran in step with him for a moment, and then back to running. Narrowly, he swept around a dark figure, and had intended to keep going when a gong of familiarity rang in his mind.

He had narrowed his world to the point that the tall dark figure only just registered in his peripheral vision and the surprise of seeing Božena here of all places sends him skittering to a stop. The sudden halt sends clumps of sod and stone flinging away from his path, torn by the momentum of his hooves. As he turns to face his Peak friend, however, sudden realization dawns upon him.

This is not Božena.

"Oh," he says, throat tight. Embarrassment sends blood rushing to his face and he coughs abruptly, his ears tipping back in uncertainty as he eyed the other stallion. He was so similar to the Prime Minister that upon further inspection, Fearghas couldn't blame himself. However, he was not quite as toned as his friend, and the markings were slightly different.

Plus, you know, he was a he.

"My apologies, friend," he offered in his thick accent, a chagrined smile curling over his mottled lips. "Ye look an awful lot like a friend o' mine."Finally he moves away from the furrows he had torn into the ground with a gentle shake of his spotted coat and sets up across from the stallion. This certainly wasn't the Lagoon, nor the Savanna, and a chat with someone new could be the change of scenery he was looking for. "D'ye mind some company?"

stallion . 4 years . 16.1 hands . smoky black blanket . loveinspired . credit