Oblivion. Perhaps that was where she went. Removed from the lands, erasing herself from the memory of friend and foe alike, until all that remained of her modest legacy was a faint whisper on the wind of time that came to pass. Now, a familiar form materialized out of the frosted landscape, fat snowflakes falling heavy upon ground and horse alike, absorbing the crunching sound of hoof against ground. The air resonated with silence, small clouds drifting from the nostrils of the moving creature, freezing into tiny icicles upon encountering the cold air. Mane, coat, beard – the ice had engulfed her from nose to tail, but the warrioress soldiered on, sheltered mercifully by the impressive density of her shaggy fur. The rendezvous with Helovia evoked no grand emotion from the little wildling, at least not as of yet. Korra found little sentimental value in recounting her sacrifices and experiences within, but then again of course she rarely felt emotional about anything at all.

There was no thought in her mind to stop and admire the scenery; rather she plowed through the heavy snowdrifts with an expression of absolute indifference upon her scarred mug. And yet, the little garron felt a growing restlessness within her core, as if coming back to this weary place had pushed something inside her out of balance. Petite lobes flicked back and forth in turn, changing as rapidly as the sensations that pulsated through her insides; was this really the right decision? Would it not be better, easier to seek greener pastures beyond the horizon? That was her usual cure-all for any intricate situations. To just disappear and not cast a single glance over that gold-tainted shoulder of hers. Not this time, however. Perhaps these lands were different after all; maybe they had melted a small chip of that frozen heart and gained the dubious honor of becoming ‘home’. Whichever was the case, Korra pushed it aside and substituted the thinking with action, as she did best.

The surroundings were barely distinguishable under the thick duvet of white, so upon reaching a small inclination the russet mare came to a halt, letting brown gaze scavenge the land. The Threshold. Motionless, as if the whole realm was holding its breath, suffocating in the ringing silence that now filled the air. A silent grunt emitted the lips of the garron, antlered skull held high, decorated with glistening frost and icicles. From afar, her form may be difficult to discern, let alone recognize in her current state. It suited her just fine really. Let the slate be wiped clean, at least for a while, until her past could catch up with her nomadic ways.

thrilling to think, poor child of sin
- it was the dead who groaned within