R I C C I A R D O
The Sandman.

Scouring back through Helovia was a tedious business for the Sandman. It was something that he was torn between - he loved and loathed it. But for all this, here he was again, searching through. All the memories reminiscing of times that were not that long ago, but felt like an age away. As he took in the scenery, it all flooded back. He remembered how the heat of Tallsun danced rays of light onto the frondescence of the Threshold, the way the cool breeze was welcomed in blusters as it sang through the trees, the grass that was dry yet still oozed with beautiful mossy hues. His first impressions of Helovia were positive, and they had continued to soar. But now, he thought back to how he had been a fiery beast with a short fuse, giving himself a less than fond name with the likes of d'Artagnan. Yet, as he thought back to those times, perhaps having the fire in his soul like he once had would get him somewhere. Now the brute felt like he was wandering through the lands with an extinguished soul, just a casing of sorrel pelt.

He glanced through up the low lying hill, shivering at the cold. Frostfall made him irate, he hated anything to do with the cold air. Ricciardo longed for the sound of birds, sands and open salt waters that covered the horizon for as long as he could see. Just like his birthland.

Soon his thoughts had the plug pulled on them, and he practically collided into the side of a silvered creature. Squeezing on the brakes, his sturdy pillars then pulled himself back, carefully throwing his handsome crown out of the way so as not to pierce flesh with his horn. Taken aback by not even noticing the creature, he then went on to investigate it. It was a fae, a beautiful one at that. She was pure frosted, tainted with violet hues in her pools and horn. This stranger was certainly a spectacular one.

Always a pretty face... his unconscious warned him, but for the Sandman he did not care. It was not uncommon for a brute's blood to be boiling with such raw passion for a beautiful vixen; Ricciardo was no exception. The flame-kissed brute apologised for his accident,
"Forgive me ma'm, I must admit I got distracted."

He dipped his head apologetically and in respect to the newcomer, before adding, "You are new to these lands?" His query was simply to quell the desire to speak with such a fine specimen. What was he becoming, stooping so low?