Crevan
We forget all the names that we used to know
“You should be going home.” The muddy-gold colt chides himself. Over troubled, bruised eyes, his navy mane tumbles haphazardly with every progressive step he takes, giving him the look of someone wholly uncomfortable yet confident enough to keep ingressing. “It’s been a while…” He thinks, though he can’t help but wonder if it relates to the fact that he’s here, in the Field, or if it has to do with how long he’s been away from Taiga. A few weeks, give or take (time never disturbs the youth as it does their elders) but he’s sure that, to his dam, it’s felt like centuries.
It actually surprises him that she’s not been all over Beqanna looking for him and his brother.
These, however, are thoughts for another time. Currently, Crevan has no reason as to why he should even return there - it was almost a natural expectancy for young stallions to cleave free from their creators, to strike out one quiet morning and not return unless driven by necessity. No reason at all, aside from the reason of the obvious: he loved his home. Loved it almost as passionately as his mother did and he supposes (aside from his gifts) that it’s the one thing he’s truly carried on from her. This .. devotion to a specific parcel of land, so tenderly spoken of in his childhood and left, seed-like, to sprout in his own mind, breast until it had grown roots too deep to rip free.
It was everything, and yet nothing. “I suppose I should try, at least.” The boy reasons internally, since one: he was already here, and two: his path had led him into the heart of an already-gathered group. No turning back now, wolf-boy. “And I’m Crevan.” He tosses in, hooded gaze darting from one individual to the next. “Nice to meet you all.”
Then our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow