His legs burned from having walked so briskly for such a great distance. He had seen the white filly, his little Erthe, limping off with the Amaranthine. There had been purpose in their strides— well, at least Ophelia’s. Although he did not know the woman well, so perhaps that was how she traversed Helovia. Though it seemed, to him, that a Specter would be more discrete with their travels. Though he, himself, had been friendly and unreserved when he had been deceiving and empire (though it would hard not to notice an elephant). But, still, the two leaving the Edge had caught his attention— because why would a woman bring a filly with broken legs outside the safety of the Edge? There must be a reason, and a good one.

Though he was waylaid in following the two by monarchial duties— though did he even know what those were? It was so new, the blood of his friend’s daughter not yet dry on sands of the Isles… In his brisk walk, the pair of hoof prints he followed blurred, instead seeing the weeping form of Mauja cradling a corpse. There was red on his snowy coat. The giant wasn’t sure which he preferred: red blood or black ash. Both left scars on the soul.

He followed south, south, further south. Further south than he had ever been in Helovia— aside from the Isles. But they were their own entity (an entity of death and pain, as far as he was concerned). Given their slow pace from Erthe’s injured legs, the great man finally caught up with them as the earth beneath his large hooves morphed from grass to barren, black rock. Cream ears, once swiveling, perk forward as his heavy hoof-falls rang like gongs against the rock. What was this place?

Navy gaze swept up, questions in the dark pools as he looked from Ophelia to Erthe— though figured the filly had as many questions as he did. (He was so new to Helovia, how was he to be a King?!) He cast aside the thought, for it had no bearing in a place such as this. This was an ominously lit outcropping, surrounded by crashing waves. Unease settled into his barrel— for the broken shrines were closer to any god than he wished to be, currently. The gods had brought battles and death in their wake, despite saving those of the Rift. Which was justified, in his eyes. But, still, his eyes were wary as he looked back to the red woman.

“Where are we?” His low rumble was simple, for once foregoing the niceties of greetings and pleasant conversation. He was too unsettled.