What an eventful year Peyote was having. Most of spring had been strangely nice in some way that, being out of it, felt as if he was looking back on a dream.Then, the last few days of the season, he’d been rudely awoken to his reality and remembered what it was he was meant to do with his existence. Peyote had been dragged away to the Shore by Nahawi and then, a few weeks later, released. Nahawi had been suffering injuries the day he told Peyote, but it was the defeated look across the red dun’s face that had told the once-Marauder all he needed to know.

Then, before he had left Atlantis, he had stumbled upon his father’s skeleton dressed in leathered skin.

A day later he had awoken up on his little island the furthest south the Lagoon territory reached. Alone. He had thought that was okay, that he could go among his brothers again, who’s voices had grown in number since he’d been gone. (Gone not just for the first half of summer, but for the last few seasons since he’d drug his pretty little prize from the Prairie and kept them all away.)

But he did not swim away to stalk a random herd, to try and snatch an unwilling, opportune prey of either gender. Peyote walked back to his quiet, empty place, and slept. The next day he went back to be among his brothers, enjoying a rough-housed spar or frightening a captive who might’ve accidentally wandered across his path, but…

It wasn’t the same.

Then came autumn, and, with it, Peyote once again felt easier to irritate. His bites got a little personal. He pushed things just a little too far before backing off.

And night after night, he went to sleep alone in his chosen home.

And day after day, he woke up alone in his chosen home.

Eventually he couldn’t take it any longer. Peyote trailed quietly up the length of Crossing Isle, attempting to behave as though he had no destination in mind but the entire time his gaze shot northward. He crept carefully along the Peak shoreline, all too aware of the current rising issues between the Lagoon and the Peak, and dove into the ocean with vigor. He’d always been a strong swimmer; his sire had forced him to learn quite early.

The painted grullo climbed ashore, but knew this time would not be as easy as last time and he would not find her waiting for him on the beach as fatefully as she had been before. The Prairie herd would likely be more guarded and, with the wind blowing gently by him as he walked inland, he caught an increase of scents from when he’d visited before. His dark eyelids narrowed and his head lowered, shoulders somewhat hunched and steps lighter as he moved into the grasses, letting them rustle and whisper around his limbs.

He would find her. He would find them.

He wouldn’t wake up alone tomorrow.