He stands where the craggy rocks meet the river, frothing waves gently coaxing and pulling against the blue of his long legs. The water was clear; so clear, in fact, that he could see the grey pebbles that line the bottom of the river. The stones’ are smooth with the steady flow of the tremulous waters, their different shades and shapes creating a pale mosaic of ashen gray, silver, and near white beneath the surface. A lazy mist hangs loosely over this particular calm twist in the large, winding river. It clings to the trees and rocks, as well as to the auburn and navy of his body, dipping into the muscled lines of his shoulders and haunches. The moisture in the air causes his mane to grip tightly in its dampness of his neck, his black forelock plastering against the bridge of his nose.
 
The Overseer stands stoically as the quiet world envelops him, the darkness of the wood behind him and the slow-moving fog muffling all noise except the sound of the rushing river before him. The trees surrounding the river were bright green against the silvery mist and the early morning darkness that lingers with it. The tall trees were alive and fresh with summer’s plenty – rain and sun was bountiful, encouraging the trees to stretch high and grow, to spread their branches and leaves to cast shade below. The water is cold against his skin, icily moving past him with a purpose that was unknown to him. He remains quiet and unmoving, a statue within a silent world.
 
He does not know why he came here, though if he allows his mind its thoughts he would know precisely why - the world of Tephra, however devoted he is, has kept him from himself. He cannot remember a time he had been alone in his solace, drinking in his own thoughts. 

The sound of a splash - not one of the grey waters splicing against rock, but a deliberate splash - awakens him from his silent stare. He turns his head, surprised to see in the very near distance, a mare steps into the rocky bottom of the river, her body glistening curiously in the rising sunlight. His wings flutter at his sides as the stallion moves his muscular blue legs on the river’s bank, the wet and compacted sand giving in to each press of his weight. In his movement it is obvious that she would feel or hear his presence, but he is not one to hide amongst the fog and trees.

“You are not worried that the current will sweep you away into the ocean?” His voice is deep on the stillness of the air, but light with amusement as he offers her a twitch of a smirk on his navy lips. He halts squarely on the riverbank, a slight tilt to his head and a single brow rising. The river is a strong and unruly source of nature, and in deeper parts turn to raging rapids that spit out into the silt of the ocean.

Warrick