It’s cold out.

He shivers for the first time in years, chills taking his rusty coat and claiming his skin with what feels like sharp pinpricks. Above the sky is overcast, grey and shapeless clouds taking over and blotting out the sun. That only made it colder, only robbed him of any respite from the golden rays that may have otherwise peaked through. Weir did not remember how it felt but now he would know once again the touch of cold, the unpleasantness of it, of it’s true feeling. His gifts were gone, snatched from his dna and makeup as if they had never been and it left the red roan stallion feeling as bleak as the winter skies.

When the world sucked in on itself there was nothing he could do. One moment he was surrounded by his family,  by Eira and their many children and then he was on the mountain. The Mountain, what a strange place, foreboding even and he was not sure why but he could guess. This world, this land had a mind of its own and when it did not it had the minds of the fae that coaxed it into action. This was a punishment of sorts, a reckoning for the ways of all the equine that had come to call this place their home- including Weir.

He had forgotten his purpose, the one he set for himself so many years ago and now he could blame no one but himself. Once he had been a wanderer, roaming over countless lands, tasting new sights with his ever drinking amber eyes. He helped others, he made change for better and he gave council when things could not. That seemed so long ago, a thing that had become a distant memory and now it was all flooding back to the forefront of his endless mind. Weir had tried helping again but at what cost? Sure he was a loyal friend, was humble even if sad at the loss of his spirit and had he done wrong, had he, in the end?

Beqanna thought so and so he felt he could not argue her reasons, she was as just as she need be and whatever he had done, surely he deserved it as much as the rest.

Thus the wanderer is made again, climbing down from the mountainside with a noticeable limp, taking refuge to what land was left to them. The Meadow, as good a place as any to start again and so he ambled about, a slow, sad pace as he searched out his family and friends.