With the world changing so rapidly around him, there is much he should be doing and even more he should be considering. It seems though, he cannot bring himself to do what he ought. With the Tundra gone and everything he had once cared for fallen into the sea, eaten by the abyss, he is at a loss. He has become driftless, aimless in a way he never has been before, even when memory had deserted him and everything seemed unfamiliar.
Everything is once again unfamiliar, but his memory remains intact. A daily reminder of all that had been lost. All that would could never return, would never be again. He is a man who needs purpose, and that purpose had been taken from him.
He knows he should find it again, but he cannot seem to bring himself to do so. Not with the weight of his memories holding him down, dragging him invariably backwards. And there are so many of them, these memories. More than any one horse should ever hold.
So, instead of seeking purpose, he finds himself near the river. This is one of the newest lands, so recently granted to them by the fickle mistress of Beqanna. He wonders for a moment if this one is here to stay, or if it too will be dragged into the sea by merciless hands. He cannot say, nor could he possibly guess. The rudder that had once directed his life had not just been set askew, but removed completely. He could not even hope to take a guess at what the future might hold, not even with decades of memory to give him guidance.
A futile guidance, as it turns out.
Instead he walks slowly along the banks of the river until he finds a shallow sand bar, one that invites him to sink his hooves into the swirling water. His feet leaving deep impressions in the damp sand, he moves slowly to the murky edges of the water, pale muzzle lowering until it hovers just bare centimeters above the eddying surface.
The moment of quiet contemplation stretches, until abruptly he steps forward. Splashing through the shallows, he moves through the water with quiet grace until it is swirling just past his knees. Only then does he sink down, pale body lowering into the river until it rushes over his back and toys with the long, white threads of his mane, tugging them along the current as though it might sweep them away to be tangled upon a log. He doesn’t care though. He cares only that the water is cool, bitingly so in the spring air. Reminiscent of the icy Tundra wind he had once stood in daily.
there is never a day that goes by
that is a good day to die
Hurricane
@[jenger] <33333333