Meadow

The crisp early spring air sent a chill down Isengrim's spine as he paced along the meadow's shore. His hooves sunk into the damp sand with each step, with the sand becoming deeper and slushier with every pass. He'd been there for some time, shuffling along the water's edge before he'd stop and stare across the waves toward the location of the lagoon. He didn't belong in the bay and he didn't belong in the dunes. He loved his mother dearly but the sweltering sun was no place for him; and he was almost two anyway. It would not have been much longer before he was chased into the sea either way. He had never bothered to ask his father if he could stay in the bay, it was more comfortable but it was silent in a way he did not like. Or maybe the silence was his father. He didn't care enough to find out.

But the lagoon? Maybe he could find a purpose there. He did not have visions of grandeur of leading soldiers into battle or doting attention on a herd of mares. He was not fit to be a king, and he quite liked it that way. A band of brothers seemed much more appealing to him, and while he did not desire leadership the notion of such a thing was strangely interesting to him. The lagoon was morally grey enough that he thought he might be happy there, at least for a time.

With a huff he turned away, gnashing his teeth together so hard the sound echoed across the nearly empty beach. His tail slashed angrily out behind him and for a moment the feral look on his face was so much like his father. So much like the monsters that plagued them all. But his expression softens, not to kindness or tranquility, but to a void of nothing. There is no emotion across his stone-face as he continues his pacing along the shore.