The group that both Oxy and Circuta followed had begun to trickle upwards into the open air; their faces were strange to me, nameless and devoid of any true meaning aside from the two that I could place. The only one of either that serve any purpose to me seems to have lagged in her promised gifts, but I am patient when it comes to things I truly desire. Perhaps my sisters are not here yet, and I linger and wait for their coming as if a wraith who lusts for their company rather than life.

Either way, I know them for the way they group together and mingle more than with the other horses, as Oxy is not overly social and seems to keep mostly to his chosen herd and away from strangers; he’s currently with one of the nut bags right now (not to be unkind, of course, but from my experience, the chiming bells of my heritage hold no flame to the lunacy that fills the veins of nearly each and every one of these… people). It’s him that I’ve followed up, at a distance, of course; I don’t know his company and we aren’t particularly fond of each other, the stoner and I.

That’s really more of an understatement, honestly, but I need either he or the witch to guide me in the wake of the group I have joined. I am talented at avoidance.

We travel north and seemingly towards the Threshold, but rather than turning east and into its welcoming expanse we travel into the foot of the mountains rimming a vast, icy peninsula and a cold grey bay. My time in Helovia hadn’t provided me much hope of exploration as of yet and I was glad for the fresh scenery; I had first had meetings to conduct and then a plague crashed down on top of the damnable land, stripping me of any opportunity to see what all the realm had to offer aside from forests, red wastelands, and dark holes in the ground.

I smile softly as I think of the holes, now, where once I hated their oppressive stone walls. Within were words, whole stories to be unwoven and rediscovered, and even more splendid than the chance for unknown knowledge was the mystery surrounding the stallion Quilyan.

Everyone stops and waits before a large rock that ruts out over what will be a heavenly meadow once spring arrives, barren branches of the nearby trees clacking as if with enthusiasm for the living who have returned to her bosom; I take my rest at the center and rear of the throng, hoping to maintain a decent amount of space between myself and the others. The figures at the fore are none I know, but I do recognize the mare with the white blotches across her face as one of the group of which my unintentional guide belongs.

The other is a man, which I assume is standard as it is in most western realms, but most favorably wings rose from his shoulders; the height of my leaders is lost to me due to their similarities and raised position, but on a later date I might enjoy a good mental guffaw on the seaside haven led by the most diminutive rulers in all the land.

Size matters little in a fight of either wit or sinew, unless you ask Brighid.