quinn.
The Dunes have grown quiet.
Quinn isn’t sure about the rest of the islands, but the storm caused by Marceline’s demise has begun to clear, leaving silence in its wake. At least, as far as the coffee-colored stallion can tell. He doesn’t know everything that happens behind the scenes on Salem, though he tries to learn as much as he can. Marceline’s son Evrain is now king in the Hills, Rafe and the silent oaf from the Bay are back at each other’s throats, and as always, everyone plots to overthrow everyone else.
Quite a lot of drama for not very much change at all, he thinks.
He knows Nyimara will be bored soon. The Witch Queen does not sit still for long. With Solomon’s woman making an appearance as their only personal disturbance (but still a significant one) he knows she will be restless. There is not much Quinn can do in the Dunes, but he suspects he might still be of use to her. Perhaps he can give her something — or someone — to play with.
He isn’t sure exactly what he’s looking for when he reaches the crossing, shivering lightly in the unfamiliar cold. The leaves here are mostly gone from the trees, rushing quietly instead across the yellowing grass. Frost creeps across the bark of tree trunks and crunches underfoot as Quinn makes his way around the Common. The claiming grounds would be too easy; Quinn’s strengths are slightly less physical, and more of the linguistic variety. In any case, Nyimara can come down and claim a mare any time she likes; Quinn wants to give her something a little
more.
The Falls are empty, but far more ideal than the Common. Quinn settles comfortably in a patch of grass and bends down to passively graze, the sunlight warm on his coffee-colored coat. From here, he can see the clearing surrounding the pool beneath the waterfall. His pale gaze, deceptively half-lidded, drifts across the pleasant little watering hole, alert for any movement.
He watches, and waits.
stallion. spanish mustang mutt. 15.3hh. smoky black overo.
