S
iguršr drew a ragged breath across his whiskered lips. Frustration weaves itself into EVERY fiber of his being. It is this place. It is his mother. It is the sweltering heat and the loathing festering beneath the surface.
So he wanders and avoids the prying eyes of this new "family." Most days he spends it near an oasis far from the beaten path. The water is clear and cool, the Joshua trees offer sufficient shade and the grasses grow abundantly at the pool's edge. He crops thoughtfully on them as he tries to piece together what was left of his life. In those days leading up to his captivity - he tries to figure out where the wrong turn had been. Had their noble quest not been blessed? Had their venture been doomed by the gods from the beginning? He drew in a breath. All of the potential answers laid themselves heavily across his shoulders.
Skogsra? Fadir? Skadi? Had all of them been pulled beneath the angry waves? And now he is the soul survivor of his family. The thought is painful and a wave of guilt bubbles in his gut. He pushed himself from beneath the shadows of the Joshua tree and into the sun's unrelenting heat. He closes his glacial eyes and shakes his head back and forth at the possibility that he is utterly alone. His hooves shuffle across the dusty ground and carry him further from the oasis. Each stride becomes quicker then the last until all he can hear is the thunder of his heart and the pounding of his hooves across the hard sands.
Sweat darkens his coat, and lather flecks foam along his flanks as finally he slows to an ambling walk. His heart hammers in his ears and drowns out the sorrow. The patchwork stallion slows and lets his gaze fall to the sand at his hooves as the emotions ebb and flow. Guilt. Anger. Self pity. He draws a haggard breath. What has he done?
A friendly call draws him from his self loathing. Glacial blue eyes sweep across the tops of the dunes, until they pause at a distant figure. Their call beckoned him forward. Yet, he hesitates. Every muscle in his body frozen. His decision now, is to either follow their call or to return to the prison of his own making. The seconds tick by, until he turns his gaze and his hooves toward companionship.
Numbly, he pushes himself further from solace and toward conversation. As he draws near to her, his nostrils flare drawing in her sweet scent, his glacial gaze remains friendly and his posture neutral.
"Halló," he says in a friendly tone and dips his two toned skull in a greeting
"what brings you to this side of the desert?" in his time here, he had not seen many inhabitants make it to this part of the desert sands.
