The Lost Islands
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Meadow

Force-claiming is not allowed here. This is a peaceful, neutral area meant for socialising.

you taught me the courage of stars / ursula

ROHAN, the lonely
eastwize x seze mutt 16.2hh wfg classic champagne tobiano

The first several months of his life, Rohan spent his time in grief; mourning something he did not know. Her touch had been gentle and loving, however fleeting it was. Her first and last words to him are haunting, and they keep him awake most nights. It had been sobering for him, forcing him to grow up so much faster than he should have. Six months old and already his face showed his weariness in the small bags beneath his eyes and the way he carried himself. Barely alive and already defeated. It was a cruel hand he had been dealt. He had family and they had tried to placate him, to give him the love his mother would have. They were met with wet eyes and a tight jaw. Rohan deliberately distanced himself from them. Perhaps it was foolish to have wandered so far. Swept up in the currents between the islands had been a blessing and a curse.

Now he was as truly alone as he felt.

Coughing and sputtering, the sea spat Rohan up on the shores of the meadow. Sea water dripped from his parted lips, dribbling down his chin. His small hooves sought purchase in the sand as he dragged himself further up the beach. The crisp fall air was made even chillier due to the water that clung to his soft coat. Someone should have been there to warm him up. To wrap his tiny body up in a warm hug and shield him from the wicked winds. Instead he heard her whispers;

“Your father would have loved you, Rohan, more than life itself."

"Mommy," he bleats helplessly, the youth on his face startling against his normally stony expression. His fuzzy ears flatten against his damp mane, the hairs sticking erratically the the curves of his face. It was not often that he allowed himself to cry; he'd spent most of his tears on the very first days of his life. Rohan dropped his small body to the grasses and pulled his long legs up against his barrel. He pressed his whiskered muzzle against his knee, heaving a soft breath against his shivering skin. Cold. Wet. Alone.

Truly alone.



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