“It’s only going to get colder.” 

Why he should he use that specific turn of phrase? Hardly a phrase at all, really, just a simple statement. And yet, it rang so oddly true to him, so oddly important that he should speak it the way he had said it, any no other way. 

Rozetta was no spiritual expert, no, but he knew time was as a river that flowed endlessly. It met the ocean, eventually, and then once again it would find itself. He does not question it, he only continues, as he looks up to the sky, frowning under his bandanna. 

A bridge is a passageway into the world, but yet so far, it has not been back to his world. No, Rozetta was not as lucky to have found that. And would he ever be so lucky? That was not an answer he was much privy to. All he knew was himself, his horse, and the endless stream of time that flowed as fast and endless as any river ever did. 

And so from world to world he would travel, an endless journey for a quest he would likely never accomplish, a prophecy he would almost surely never fulfil. And as the hooves of his horse grew weary and his head grew blank and blinded, still he moved on. 

Be it luck, or Fate that as one of his poor horse’s shoes grew unusable, that Rozetta should find himself travelling alongside a path that flanked a large pasture, empty now, the chill having sent the animals inside, at least for the time being. So it’s a shock to the system when none other than a snake should come swimming past bloodshot, dry eyes. 

Reaching backward into the large pack he wears on his back, he finds that he was looking for was not there, (it had broken, that was why, yes, he remembered now, it had broken and so he had no other choice), so that lightning quick hand jerks down to his side, pulling one of the guns loose. 

Rozetta knew not the implication when he shot the raven out of the sky. He knew only his hunger, and that the raven was the first thing to cross his sights that was even worth the ammunition. Not big enough to leave him full by any means, and one should make a point not to eat scavengers if they could so help it, but it had been several days now with only the slowly returning vegetation of spring to sustain him. Meat would do him fine, and help keep him warm in the nights that still left a coat of ice on the grass by the time the sun rose. 

There was no knowledge that a Storm Wolf was in these parts, and truthfully if it had been said to him that there was, that too would have made little impact. Zetta was sure there were wolves in these woods, he’d seen plenty sign of them, but what hunting a raven and a wolf had to do with each other, he didn’t know. 

It comes mid-conversation, a mostly one sided conversation as Rozetta had been more apt to listen and nod occasionally as opposed to actually participate. But eventually, he had broken in, voice quiet and while it was a bit cold it wasn’t entirely unkind. 

A large horse with a saddle still strapped on him means that this horse has a rider. Or, at the very least, had a rider. Now many’a things could go wrong that leave a horse riderless, but this horse seems well taken care of. His coat is shiny and well kept, the saddle is well oiled, and the horse is well-fed. There is no sign of blood, no sign of struggle. 

Which rules out many of the less fortunate reasons this poor old thing would be without his rider, at least. 

And so what of it? Why has this horse wandered off? Where did his rider go without him?