[AW] The Breath That Carried Me Away
A gust of cold wind ruffled Sloan’s fur, sending a shiver down her spine. Early, pre-dawn light gleamed over hard-packed snow as she continued to brush out her gelding’s coat. Grown thick and shaggy for winter, it took quite a bit of effort to work out the dead hair, leaves, and mud that he’d managed to work into his fur overnight. The deep bay horse stood placidly as she worked, occasionally touching his nose to her shoulder in curiosity. Chuckling quietly to herself, she murmured, “Hush Ted, it’s your own fault I have to brush you out today.”

The gelding had decided to roll around in one of the few places clear of snow last night and managed to get himself filthy by the time they woke up. Besides wanting to keep him clean, Sloan was well aware that any debris still trapped in his coat when she saddled him would drive him crazy for the rest of the day. Ted was a good boy, hardly ever complaining, but she didn’t want him to have to deal with sores or pain of any kind. She had promised her brother before he died, that she would take care of his horse, and she intended to live up to that vow.

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He had known that eventually strife would find them, but he had never expected it to come from one of their own. Wither Rose Soul had become a thorn in New Caledonias side, and now while she huddled in the Under Thing the rest of them were left to lord over their decisions. Rand was recuperating under the care of their Healers, and members of the City Watch were patrolling the borders to assure that no one came in or out without their knowledge.

The King did what he could to assuage people’s fears and did his part in completing patrols across stretches of terrain that lead away from the Underthing. He sought out trails or crevices that an escapee may seek out and marked these mentally in order to present them to the Guard.

At some point Patrolling became Scouting, and Iomair allowed himself to lope onward in his halfling form, his bushy face bowed into the fierce northern winds. Like this his wolf heritage was more apparent. His thick mane danced about his shoulders; his whiskers touched with bits of frost that melted each time he released a pent-up breath. There was something about the wild which calmed him, and though he was not often apt to wandering it helped to loosen some of the stress that had built over recent days.

The morning light cast everything in pastel. The mountains calmed him and the stone beneath his feet soothed away some of the discomfort that he could feel in his bones.

Wither had turned on them like feral dog.


The air changed, and brought with it the scent of horse and fur. Iomair changed direction as curiosity won him over, and he chuffed softly as he came upon the lone traveller. Sloan Stromberg stood at her horses shoulder, her hand working the brush with broad strokes that saw the animals wintry fur drifting on the brisk wind.

"Hail," He called so as not to startle horse and rider, "That's a fine looking animal that you have there."

He gave his tail a gentle wag in an effort to show that he was not a threat.

(///) | NPCs: N/A

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