On the other islands, spring lingers just around the corner. Fell can smell it on the wind when he stands in the surf, though the Tinuvel winter lets little more than the perfume of wet soil drift onto its lands. The warmth is still far away.

Snow continues to shroud the Bay. Fell finds some type of solace in the quiet white drifts, and the fat flakes that sink peacefully to the ground, though he could not describe the feeling even if he had the words. He enjoys silence, in general; something about feeling less alone, or more alone, depending on the day.

Today it is the latter. The Bay has seen suspiciously few enemies at its borders lately, and it makes Fell bristle. It has been nearly a full season since he has seen the spotted red hide of Azalais’s mother, or the brindled coat of Rafe. He hasn’t even seen Nyimara, which should be a relief, but it only makes him feel a kind of angry impatience. He cannot rid himself of the scene on the beach of the Dunes, with Kaeja’s little head in his jaws, and he wants to get the whole ordeal over with already. The dark filly’s hatred of him is a stab to the heart, though he knows he deserves it.

Fell shakes himself as though to rid the ugly feeling of guilt. He turns from the waves, away from the scents of the other islands that sometimes make it so far on the breeze, and back to the crisp winter air of the Bay. He travels a well-worn path, one he takes every morning along the border of the Bay, until the gentle floral scent of Maziel drifts across his path. Fell follows it, his feelings of apprehension scooting over to make room for different feelings as he breaks from his route and turns deeper into the woods.

When he sees her, he lets out a soft blow of air, his nostrils fluttering with a silent nicker. Fell knows his footsteps are enough of an announcement for the blind mare that someone is here, but he doesn’t want to gamble on startling her, especially knowing that Maziel is pregnant. She is one of the rare few individuals Fell has met who not only tolerates him, but even seems to enjoy his presence, and the black stallion is uncharacteristically nervous about screwing it up. He stretches his whiskered muzzle toward her as he nears, his breath of greeting curling around her face in a wisp of steam.

FELL

stallion. 16hh. black. marwari x. Rougaru x visurix.