The Tundra is only as hard and unforgiving as one makes it.
He’d learned that lesson early on as a new transplant from the humid Jungle, as he was bitterly cold even in the relative warmth of summer. No one had told him how to survive the desolate place. He had to find the caves himself. He had to learn when to venture out into the snowdrifts. He had to learn where to look for the last traces of lichen on the boulders that had tumbled down from the mountain. He might have only barely survived that first winter, but in all the following years, Crito had thrived.
Of course, the isolation has always suited him just fine. He’s always been stubborn and as stuck to his ways as the lichen is to the granite. His mother had habituated him to being alone when he’d been a colt. Echion always had more important matters to attend to, and even when she managed to grace the twins with her presence, she might as well have not bothered at all – her shoulder was as cold and unfeeling as the ice Crito now walks on.
He’s gotten better, though. Old age might not have made him any wiser, but it has brought him a newfound clarity. An urgency replaces the marrow in his creaking bones, a desire to do more before it’s too late. He wants to help. And whether it’s due to a deep-seated loyalty for his family or for simply for himself, he doesn’t know. What he does know is that he is a part of the Brotherhood. To uphold his place in it and to fulfill his new sense of duty, he cannot live as a hermit, as much as it often pains him to be social.
The bay roan ambles towards the ice wall, having heard the piercing call moments before. It’s not terribly cold yet, but autumn brings a definite chill that he feels even through his shaggy coat. Crito hasn’t left the confines of the kingdom in quite a while, and as Errant’s newly named right hand man, he means to remedy that fact. He needs to learn how the other kingdoms are faring in order to properly assist his king. The thought of traveling makes him grumpy, however, and he’s scowling by the time he reaches the pair of stallions.
He nods at the familiar Hurricane before turning to the other roan. “Hello, gentlemen.” He can’t place the smell that comes off the stranger. It’s not the Tundra, at least, and he cheers considerably. One less kingdom I have to visit. Hurricane has already asked the golden question, so he only offers his name to the likely-diplomat. “Crito.” The weathered man tries to shift his weight to a more comfortable position, but grimaces when he finds it is less so than his original stance. Damn old bones, he thinks to himself, giving up on the endeavor entirely and waiting.
C R I T O
king's hand of the tundra
ooc: I dunno how I missed this thread. Apologies!