Fell paces restlessly along the Bay’s shore. He’s never been particularly patient, but he’s managed to muster enough of it to attempt to play Nyimara’s game. He knows politics are a slow process; he had been prepared to wait.

It was taking too long.

Not only that, but his witch of a sister had gotten her talons on Kohelet. Why had he ever thought she was on his side? Nyimara doesn’t take sides. There is only ever her own side. Even those at the other end of the game board eventually find themselves flicked off the table with the other pieces. Fell wonders who she’s really playing against; either she’s playing the game by herself just for fun, or perhaps he should consider himself lucky to be just a pawn.

Despite his attempts to puzzle out Nyimara’s goals and his role in helping her (willingly or otherwise) to attain them, he is too close. He cannot back up enough to view the scope of it. Kohelet fills his vision. Since their meeting last autumn, he is at once shattered and in love with her all over again. It’s a sickening and euphoric haze, and he can’t shake it. Solomon’s attempt at the throne had dredged up a desperate hope in him, as well as a terrible bitterness and anger. His feelings for Kohelet, his thinning patience, the feeling of being cornered by Nyimara’s and Solomon’s expectations – neither of whom he really cared to cater to – it was all too much. He was sick of doing nothing.

His demands of Solomon were not ideal, and Fell knows it, but a future under the former Tinuvel King is an element of that bigger picture he just cannot back up far enough to see. Now, at least, something is moving.

The sky has grown dark while he wears trenches into the sand, and he looks up to find that storm clouds have obscured the sun. A cold wind picks up from the sea and tosses Fell’s heavy, coarse mane. He is brought back to the present, and the fury that had lain dormant for these past seasons – the fury that had leapt to life again when Kohelet was whisked away to the Desert where he could not risk following – flickers down to a steady, smoldering hate. It’s not the same anger that has kept him frothing at the mouth for so many years. Fell has shifted from sprint to marathon, and now his heart burns low and slow. His anger persists even after responding to Solomon’s request for fealty and giving himself some hope, but as the storm rolls in and cold autumn rain begins to drive little pits into the sand, it focuses, and steadies. He is less volatile.

He has a direction.

stallion | marwari mutt | black | torn left ear | bay