The venomous blizzard had finally come to an end. It's effortless bite turning into a pitiful nibble of bright white snowflakes, flicking and dancing as they fell slowly to the frozen earth. The darkened clouds heading off further into Helovia and leaving the sparse tundra with a new coating of thick cold snow. A harsh weather system but one the bulky mahogany had grown accustomed to, Descaro hardly noticed the weather and stood rather forlornly against an icy wall. Sheltering out of routine. Light peeped between scattering clouds shining down brilliantly on the glacier the warrior had decided to take shelter beside. His coat was hairy and pieces strayed along his jaw lines and his underbelly, crystal horn lighting up just like the block of ice next to him. Cloven hooves looked more regular as snow compacted between the gaps, obsidian tail chunky and damp. All in all it was a miserable day for patrol.

This land wasn't really theirs and nothing had been said about the upkeep on patrolling. Descaro did it more out of habit than anything else, heart yearning to do something more than stand around chewing on the rare bit of grass offered. Their leader was off busy somewhere, probably brooding over his losses and the momentum behind reclaiming the land was slowly being lost. The thought made his teeth clench. His proud racist belief chaffing at this lazy idleness. He hadn't even a mare to play with.

The breeze had abated and the snow finally stopping. Descaro picked up his split hooves and moved off to continue his routine patrol. Body dripping with water as the snow melted upon his back and travelled in mini rivulets down his barrel. His regimental march taking him through another arch way of incredible glacier, the sound of his walk echoing back to him as he mulled over his next route. Emerging from the small frozen hole Descaro flicked his tail and turned right, moving away from the ocean and further in land. Happy that the coast was clear and nothing lurked within the glaciers embrace.

The mountains became lest frequent as he made his way towards the far north's border with the rest of Helovia. He stopped at the invisible line and looked out across frost fall's cold picture of the land. Thick mane gently blowing in the calmer breeze, his snip seeming pinker in the wintry conditions. Pools of wonder gazing at the specks of scattered trees that formed the region of the Foothills, a land knowing peace for maybe far too long. Descaro allowed himself a deep breath, soon, Descaro, soon.

Waiting was such a boring game.