They have weathered yet another storm, and it is a wonder, in a way, that Beqanna still stands.

With magic pulling in every direction, with several threads of power trying to best the others, he finds he would not be surprised if one day it all imploded, like a star collapsing in on itself.

Or sank entirely beneath the sea, as seemed to be the current theme.
First the three lands that had made up the south, and now all the rest, save for a scant few.

But just as the multitude of other times that lands had disappeared and then new ones rose in their wake, this served only as the beginning of a new chapter rather than the ultimate ending. He hadn’t been alive for much of Beqanna’s decorated past, but there seemed to be something strange about everyone born here; the way they seemed predisposed to dealing with disasters, as if from the first day of their life they knew nothing here would be easy.

Maybe that explained why he had been born with a chip on his shoulder, or perhaps he had simply inherited it from his father.

He is not quite so bitter as his father, though, and the vibrant aurora-coloring of his mother seemed to further soften his appearance. A pair of night-black wings sit folded neatly at his sides as he navigates his way through the forest, casually keeping tabs of his surroundings as he makes his way through the lush summer undergrowth. He was not in search of company, but he was not exactly avoiding the general population, either. If he wanted to disappear he very well knew how.

Still, when his vividly colored eyes land on the figure of an unfamiliar mare in his proximity—close enough that he should have perhaps done something more than simply cast an up and down cursory glance—he does not greet her. Instead he merely pauses, and holds her gaze for a heartbeat too long as he waits to see if she will say anything to him first.