Boastful, prideful, dauntless strides carry the stallion. A twisting flash of gold and black intermingled is stretched upon a pelt. Gold hooves thud against the ground, crowned head tossed into the breeze and cropped hair blowing listlessly. Nares flare, eyes made of ice pointed directly ahead at the pristine beach which is slathered in rich blue waves that stroke the shore. Black glittering sand traipse at his feet, cushioning each hoof fall before billowing behind and disappearing. Crisp air bites his skin, charging the stag forward, faster, who thundered along. Black sand curls around his figure. Miniature horses, dangerous looking, black and glittering, ran along beside him, barely the size of his head.

He leaps off a ledge, a wild smile plastered upon the dark face. His own sand catches him and he runs down the ramp like figure which disappears the instant he steps off. When his hooves touch the feathery sand he shoves his hindquarters down, flints digging into the sand and spraying the tan sand everywhere. Neck damp with a sheen of sweat, he stands still, proud. Neck arched and held high, crowned head hung above it's normal physique. Narrowed eyes stare at the begging waves - they beg for him to step into their depths, each return reaching out for him before being dragged back as if upon a leash... and yet it fights to return each time.

Somnus gracefully slips into the waters, a serene sensation spreading throughout. Eyes close, though body still stands poised, cocky. The water laps at his sides gratefully, caressing the sweaty bodice. Suddenly, he plunges into the ocean, submerging himself in the waters to cool his heated figure. He reaches the surface and slips back out of the sea and it beckons for him to return, silently reaching for him upon the shore. The stallion shakes himself, water droplets flying off of him. His tousled mane falls unevenly and he smiles, piercing eyes watching the black sand build at his feet into an army of the miniature horses that had run along with him before. They line up evenly, and he gazes at them intently, daring them to move. The stare back at him, waiting for command. He gives them none. "Good," he whispers, deep voice echoing slightly through the sand bars.

"If only..." he trails off, mind constantly searching for something, something, anything of his past. He knew nothing of himself, not even his own name. What kind of name was 'Sand Weaver'? It was but a petty nickname the Temptress had given him upon his arrival in what they call the Threshold. Would the Sand Weaver ever know? How was he to figure it out?