Nyimara moves purposefully through the rolling hills of sea oats that protected the Dunes of Salem from the ocean’s encroachment. She had much on her mind. Purposefully she did not immediately return to Quinn and her filly. Though Fell was not likely to follow her, still she did not want to risk it. Were it any other besides Fell, the silver haired woman might not have bothered to run straight back to where Rhaenys slept beneath the sheltering palm branches of the date trees that grew in abundance in the oasis. Were it any other, there would be no lingering threat of losing her child. Nycol’s death at the hooves and teeth of Faolain had done its part in leaving a mentally, twisted scar on the Dune queen’s heart. From that moment on, she had sworn to herself and whatever gods still looked down on the mortal lands that she would never lose another child again. And yet Fell had come, her own brother, determined to shackle her to him with the demand for her child. Now that isn’t to say that she necessarily feared for the child’s safety in her brother’s company. In truth, there could probably be no better protection. The golden eyed stallion’s dark coat was littered with scars from battles past. From the scents she gathered on his inky coat, he had a fairly large herd of his own and that did not come from defeat. And yet still she balked at the idea of even a sibling attempting to force her hand. If only he knew the plans that her twisted mind were harboring.

The graveled scream of a stallion’s call summons her from the depths of her thoughts. Small, fluted ears rise as proud head lifts to give her dark gaze a chance to scan the sloping landscape before her. Silently she cursed the beast for distracting her so intensely that she had not been paying closer attention. The voice was far too close for her liking. Sunlight glistened on the beach, illuminating the dark shadow of movement that screamed of a stranger. Paper thin nostrils flare as a blast of hot air erupts from her lungs in way of warning and acknowledgement. No sense in letting the drenched soul know that she was not prepared.

With a spray of sand at her heels, the silver haired witch launches herself down onto the beach. Long, mahogany neck arches elegantly as she lifts her slender legs in a high stepping trot. As she closes the gap between them she slows to a more purposeful prance, lithe muscles tense beneath her skin as she eyes the stranger closely. He looked like a wreck. It was clear by the rapid rise and fall of his chest and the exhaustion that etched in the fine lines of his dark muzzle that there was far more to him and his story than a mere swim from one island to another. Had he come from the mainland? From somewhere beyond?

Curiosity peaks her interest now as she halts in front of his crumpled body and tilts her head down at him. A single dial twitches amid the curling tendrils of her pale mane as she pointedly clears her throat. An impish grin slides across her lips, ”If you're looking for a place to die, I hear the Hills are nice this time of year.” she remarks dryly, amused by her own joke. One that even wants a knowing chuckle from the beast within her. Yes, let Marceline deal with the foul smell and bloated corpse on her shores for once. Maybe that would bring the red mare down a notch or two. ”Salem suffers no weak fools.”