10-26-2019, 01:16 PM
The first island he'd landed on was Ischia, but a smiling resident had directed him further north. Now, blue digs his hooves into the smooth sand of the tropical island, and takes a deep breath.
It smells of sun and sand and peace and quiet. Castile had been right, the brindle colt thinks to himself.
He meanders down to the water and walks some distance along the beach, following the southern coast until it become the western edged. To his left stretches the ocean, broad and never-ending. To his right a thick and lush green world, quiet but for the rustle of small creatures. Blue smiles to himself, shakes out the length of his white mane. Sometime between his invitation from Ruinam and his arrival here, he'd bathed in a stream, and the mud and brambles had been eased out of his hair with a long soak. Now his mane stands upright with only a slight list where it grows heavy, running from his poll to his tail in one unending line.
It's his father's mane, though he doesn't know it, an inescapable mark of his heritage. A heritage he does not remember; his only memories are heat and fire and burning. A second time, he shakes his head, as though to clear the thoughts from his mind. He hears a sound ahead, and his bright blue eyes peer forward curiously.
It smells of sun and sand and peace and quiet. Castile had been right, the brindle colt thinks to himself.
He meanders down to the water and walks some distance along the beach, following the southern coast until it become the western edged. To his left stretches the ocean, broad and never-ending. To his right a thick and lush green world, quiet but for the rustle of small creatures. Blue smiles to himself, shakes out the length of his white mane. Sometime between his invitation from Ruinam and his arrival here, he'd bathed in a stream, and the mud and brambles had been eased out of his hair with a long soak. Now his mane stands upright with only a slight list where it grows heavy, running from his poll to his tail in one unending line.
It's his father's mane, though he doesn't know it, an inescapable mark of his heritage. A heritage he does not remember; his only memories are heat and fire and burning. A second time, he shakes his head, as though to clear the thoughts from his mind. He hears a sound ahead, and his bright blue eyes peer forward curiously.