Murdock had continued to wander, ignoring the protests of his aching muscles and proceeding farther north across the frozen plains to where the land sloped away into the endless black ocean. Sense demanded that he turn back and return home, that he find help and have his wounds healed. However, he couldn’t bear the thought of turning up in the Foothills like this. He was their General, he was supposed to be a figure of authority, an inspiration to the citizens of the valley. What good was he when he could not even fly? His mind was a maze of pros and cons, weighing his options as he continued to wander. The barren steppe provided little but a canvas of white for the eyes to focus on, leading his thoughts to wander wherever they wanted. However, a break in the snow appeared, close to the dark line of the shore.

It was a weed. The heat of summer had melted the ice and snow so that only a thin, soft layer blanketed the rough ground. In places where the slush had been pushed aside to reveal the earth, only dirt or flattened, golden grass was visible. However, this one simple weed stood out. It was not particularly tall, not even very remarkable in appearance. It was simply a weed. It bore no bud of curled petals or dried, wrinkled leaves, merely a sun burnt stem that reached up for the sky, starving for the sunlight. As he looked at this simple shrub, so insignificant and unimpressive in its existence, his heart felt as though it would shrivel within his chest and turn to dust.

He had always cared, cared too much, and his love extended toward all things. He felt a certain unrestrainable empathy toward this weed, a feeling that came with a flood of déjà vu that swept him back to relive age-old memories. It had only been last year, had it not, that he had found another such shrub upon this steppe? He had sheltered it from the storm, protecting it with the span of his wings from the frigid assault of a spring squall. It had expressed little gratitude, though he had convinced himself that the deed was well received.

He spread his hooves through the soft snow, lowering his head toward the browned stem and reaching his velvet muzzle out to touch it. The wind was strong on this warm summer day, and it battered the fragile and defenseless sprig relentlessly. He could have sheltered it, blocked it from the rage of the weather with his wings, but his feathers were lacking in numbers. They could not hold the air beneath them, let alone block it from passage. “I’m sorry,” he muttered softly, nudging the stiff shrub gently with his nose. His wings hung limply at his side, their weight barely noticeable across his back. How long would it take for his feathers to grow back? Was there not some way to speed up time so that he might return to the skies?

A weary sigh escaped his lips as he lifted his head, turning his eyes away from the ground toward the dark body of the ocean. He was near the northern border of the Steppe, so very far away from home and warmth. His coat was short, as it normally was in summer, and it did little good to insulate him from the cold and the wind. Shivers racked his body as the wind dug deep into his fur, tugging at his damp, curled hair and tossing his tail about his legs. He was stronger than he was several days ago, and the wounds across his legs and back were beginning to heal cleanly. It would not be long before he was back to full health, though his wings would remain damaged for some time.

Turning his attention back to the weed, he lowered himself down to his knees on its windward side. His body slowly slid down to the ground, long legs curling up against his belly. “That’s better,” he cast a glance over his back at the shrub, more of a statement than a question. The wind was weaker closer to the ground as there were more obstructions to slow it down, but still it battered his body. Close to the ocean, the weather could be quite unpredictable, especially up in the north where conditions could change so rapidly. It didn’t matter to him, though. He closed his eyes. In his mind, he left the cold, bareness of this plateau and returned to the skies. Somehow, despite the cold and the wind, his body felt warm so close to this object of memory.

"talk talk talk"