the secret of our world is written in the stars
He finds himself at the bank of the crystalline lake, his ivory nose hovering carefully above the quietly lapping waters that dampen his hooves, the wet and compacted sand giving way beneath his weight. The springtime wind is lush and gentle, twirling the blue and starkly white of his mane and tail within its cool fingers, playing with the red and black feather that lies curiously behind a single ear, entangled within his mane since his birth.
His brow is furrowing the longer he stares into the water, snorting anxiously as he inhales the scent - fresh and clean, without a trace of salt or brine or smoke. He’s used to the ocean with its rolling and constantly changing tides, that slam into the volcanic rock of Tephra with frothing and rhythmic crashes, angry and sweltering and unforgiving.
Here, however, the water is completely clear and barely moving, save for the gentle ripples that the spring wind causes across its surface - otherwise, the young stallion is staring into glass. He lifts a single foreleg, white and bright with the green mountainous backdrop behind him, and paws curiously at the shallow water’s edge, turning up little smooth pebbles with his hoof. Once out of the water, he lowers his muzzle to examine them, sniffing at them curiously. He glances upwards with a tilt of his head, the mixture of white and blue cascading over one of his curious and even-bluer eyes as he stares out at the wide lake.
Svedka is completely fascinated by it - its unnatural stillness and impossible transparency - and without much more investigation, he picks up his feet and dips himself into the waters (cold but inviting, very much unlike the warm and tumultuous ocean of Tephra), his gold and white painted skin shivering as the water rushes up to meet him, lapping gently at his shoulders and haunches. He lowers his head to drink deeply, eyes roving to look beneath the surface - his legs were completely visible, as was the heavily-peppled bottom. He snorts sharply (and sprays water everywhere) as he realizes that he can see the shining silver sides of fish as they dart quickly around him, some brushing up against his legs in their movement. They are larger than he has ever laid eyes on - not tiny minnows in the warm shallows, or even the ones he has seen predatory birds carry away in their talons.
“I can see the fish!” he says with a toss of his head upwards.
He glances around quickly, hoping to find another close by to share his findings (he hopes for Solace’s figure on the bank nearby, but the spirited stallion would shout his discovery at whoever he found there).
Svedka
