It was quiet in the early hours of the morning. A gentle fog rolled over the meadow, it looked like thick bunches of clouds.
He had not been on the islands long. Maybe a few days, close to a week. The scent of salt and sea is still fresh on his coat. There is seaweed in his mane, twigs in his tail. A ruffian, some might say, and he would agree. Cicero had spent his life in search of paradise. It eluded him often.
A single, glorious moment turned sour. The stallion had seen lovely sights in his time but they turned to brass too quickly. Perhaps it was a curse, he thought. He would never be happy, always in search–always full of questions.
But, for now, he would reside on the islands. There were many to explore. He had yet to see everything there was and his desire was to know what is hidden inside each place. Cicero shakes out his coat, he snorts and tosses his handsome head. Others were beginning to enter the meadow and make their way through the fog.
He nods and smiles when he can, he walks with confidence and–
Knocks right into someone else. Not too hard but enough to make him pause, stumble over his own feet. “Oh, I’m sorry, this fog is ….” Cicero said, his eyes flashed up to the horse in question and he gave a broad grin.
“The fog is dense this morning, but I’m glad we bumped into each other. My name is Cicero,” the stallion said.