The last thing she remebered was the cold, bitter waters surrounding the place. The quiet unassuming lap of sea-foam as the storm finally broke. And Senna, alone, with vast stretches of land between all of it. The scent of blood from a superficial wound on her leg was enough to keep her going, a grounding force for the would-be warrior. How she managed to find herself—-here—was beyond her comprehension. She had been scouting the beaches of her homeland, where the shores were laden with ice—
A throb made her wince; if the mare had been gifted hands they would have pressed hard against her skull.
A lull of the wind, a hush through the warm grass. This was….a mimicry of safety. A place she hadn’t known nor cared to learn. So far, she had seen no one. But her nose did her well—others like herself have traveresed here before. The fact that this was a common ground, prone to the cultures for claiming, was lost on the foreigner. All Senna could see, feel, was the comfort of warmth kissing her skin. How long had it been? Since she was exiled? How long had she wandered those wastelands with her fellow misbegotten?
Her teeth grit together painfully, a huff of air passing from her flared nose. The corners of her gaze had begun to be hazy. No—no! She would not yield to the body’s cry for mercy. She was exile, she was survivor. Wounds and exhaustion be damned—Senna would persist.