The salt breeze brings a new scent to their hidden sanctuary.
Sabrael is on the edge of the jungle when the smell weaves through the trees and finds him. It is unfamiliar enough to set him on edge, to bring his defenses up and turn him towards the source. They receive visitors so infrequently, after all, and new members even less often. The soft, sandy earth churns under his feet as he quickens his pace to meet the stranger.
A part of him hopes that it will be a new recruit wet from their swim and willing to put in work as soon as their coat dries. They sorely need the help (and he thinks his mother needs the appearance of fresh faces to distract her, to give her purpose in this vastly changed world). A part of him resents that their borders are still open. Their group is stitched together both by blood and friendship; the young stallion has a hard time believing any more can add to their already rich tapestry.
The spotted man is instantly visible when the Ischian emerges out from under the trees. He moves towards him with what he hopes is a convincing smile. “Welcome to Ischia,” he says when he is near enough. “I am Sabrael. Are you here to visit or stay?” His gold-tinged eyes sweep over the other male, looking for signs of where he’s come from. But the ocean is a great concealer; Sabrael sees only his soggy mane and coat rinsed of any dust or dirt. He is left with his spoken and unspoken questions lingering in the air between them as he waits for answers.
Sabrael