The fist sized stone from the Riptide Isle caverns seems innocuous enough now, it’s faintly glowing surface having dulled to the blueish grey of any other everyday pebble since he’d plucked it from its underground pedestal. Still though, there’s an indescribable feeling of – intention maybe? Power? - something when the old stallion brushes his muzzle across it, making sure for the hundredth time since acquiring the trinket that the stone is, in fact, safely stowed away in his scarf.

A scavenger hunt, the parrot had told them, an opportunity to meet a god, and who would’ve thought an old man would claim such a prize? He hadn’t put much thought into the details of actually using such an item when he’d first ventured into the underground, having been just as skeptical of his chances as any of the others must have been, yet here he is, having taken the thing and escaped unchallenged.

His mind is still in turmoil over which of the four deities he should speak to, over which one would actually speak to him, but no matter who he settles on in the end, he’s sure none of them would appreciate the scent of shit and bodily odor and other things that clings to him as if it seeps from his very pores. While he’s sure his death could easily come at the hooves of someone he’s offended, he’d rather it not be the hooves of someone capable of torturing him for all eternity, so he trawls the southern territories for a clean trunked, broad-leaved tree that gives off an acidic scent, it’s brightly colored fruits assuring him of a proper identification: citrus.

He strips several lower branches of their leaves, tucking them into his scarf along with everything else, then trudges down the long road back to the Aurora Basin, crossing the border, passing the rank caves, the secret tent, and the now flourishing greenhouse, continuing on until he finally reaches the hot springs, his head hung low and his hooves dragging beneath him. If it were possible, he'd look even worse now than when he’d left.

He heads for the largest pool, his personal favorite, the one with a smooth stone rim that goes all the way around and is perfect for resting a weary chin on while the rest of the body soaks. That someone else seems to have taken his place sends his brows pinching together and his ears flat, though only briefly. The quiet, unassuming brown figure can only be one member of the Basin herd, and luckily for her, that one member happens to be partially immune to the old stallion’s rabid temper. He exhales, ears drifting forward again, a casual, "Hello,” sounding as he tips his horns backward to allow the cotton wrap tied around his neck to slip up and over his head, landing on the ledge with a soft flump.


"Talk."
OOC // Lena! I'm so sorry for the wait! Very excided about this thread. :)