He appears in a flash of red roses, portals tearing open and there he stands. The familiar sights of the edge burn into his flesh and there is an ache in his chest. Libertad can feel the wind brush hair across his face as he steps near the borders of his childhood home. His adolescent frame has slowly filled out into the man he is now. Beautiful with his hardened edges and glowering expression. Scars litter his back and oh he can already imagine his mother’s glistening pride at the sight. Hadn’t she always longed for him to be a warrior? He was, after all, battlebred and battleborn.. Briefly he had wandered with brothers, a blooming youth struggling along beside them as they waged their wars. A rose amongst the thistle patch, vivid and red amongst the brittle weeds. Some things are far too beautiful for war.  Roses form around his feet, vibrant against the snow at his feet. Whether his sister awaits for him is a mystery.. Surely d’Arcy wouldn’t spend her days awaiting a prodigal brother.. Just as he hadn’t spent his days glued to her side.

The rose ponders on the location of his mother as he simply stands and waits.. Will she be bloated with another stallion’s seed growing inside of her? The harlot always seemed so eager to birth new progeny.. His teeth grind together. No.. He has not forgotten how quick his mother had been to leave him and his sister during their youth. He has come for the simple purpose of alerting his mother of his return, then he will part ways.. No matter the venom he feels towards the woman she is his lifegiver. Blood is essential.. That much he knows as he lifts his foot and watches a rose burst into a crimson river, staining the snow with it’s hues.

All of it is an all too familiar sight that brings a subtle comfort. Finally he grasps what might make his magic unnerving but it has become part of him. His tail twitches, stroking across a pool of red and it stains the tips. He stands in silence, his face a stony calm as he anticipates the greeting of a patrol. Libertad ponders what his mother might think when she finally gazes on his developed frame and sees him not as the boy he once was.. But the man with the scars and the roses, for he has become a nestle of thorns since his departure.