The stallion picked his way--as he did every day--through Cetus's muck. It coated his legs; it smeared, dried and cracked, over his flanks where last he'd rested. He was not well-fed; his already naturally slender form was malnourished from halfheartedly grazing on nothing but dry swamp grass. It had left him tired, of late, and he'd retreated from most interaction with others.

He had his mission, but he did not know how to fulfill it. Some listened. Most did not.

He had his task, his rebirth, but it felt like nothing, now; there had been no further contact with the white being, even when he'd prayed--almost begged--at the foot of the Spire.

Was he made available enough to those who would know the truths he held? Probably not; the gentle being had asked him to spread the word and caves knew he'd tried. But they always wandered off before he'd finished, uninterested perhaps, and that had slowly molded him through disappointment into little more than a recluse.

A swamp hermit, really.

He made his way to the edge of the Heart, and there he lowered too-thin neck, drinking at the water's edge. Where was Aquarian? Would the Master one day decide he'd been too soft, and lunge out, and drag Khloros down by the throat? Eat him whole, perhaps? The horse didn't know. Other masters had proven fickle, cruel, mad, and violent. Dragon insisted that Aquarian was different; but was the alligator right?

Khloros didn't know--and recently, he didn't care, either. He'd find out, or he would not, and otherwise he--in a slightly listless way--would tell those who came to him what knowledge he'd been granted. That was his only purpose now, after all.

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