The caves were proving to be something that Archibald would never be used to. From his years in Helovia he had never been to a place he disliked more, not even the depths of the north that he spent several months scouting for the sake of the Grey and the Foothills. He had found nothing on his travels except wildness and malice, but no thread that the Dauntless was not keen to destroy quickly. These caves were quite similar, desolate and full of nonsensical threats. The wraiths and the darkness that Gaucho had spoken of, the memory of Isilme and the shades still etched like a hot coal in the back of his war-torn mind, did not seem to affect this underground fortress. Of all the difficulties and disagreements Archibald had inwardly with these caverns, the idea that his children and his mate were safe within the solace brought a calmness to his mind, despite the pulsing panic that brought his memories flooding into his mind. He could still taste them, the darkness of the Shades, the faces of his herd members and others alike that he had known, attacking him. The scars that littered his pelt burned with the memory, and the Dauntless shook his body as if to rid himself completely of the hide.

The former general snorted and tossed his head, moving his colossal body towards the sound of the raging waterfall. Loretta, the red and white cur so faithful to her core, followed carefully at his heels. The sound of the pair moving through the tunnels was a thundering sound, reverberating off of the stone walls with a rhythm so different than how they sounded on the surface of Loorien. This sound, however, pounded in the warlord's chest and reminded him of his power. If he felt the need, the beast could bring these walls down, solidifying the bones of the inhabitants to pause them like statues in the chaos, bringing them all swiftly to death. The idea seemed to lighten the mammoth's fancy, his muscles itching subconsciously for a kill. Mandrake did not raise a stagnant son, and even in her death her training still pulled at the draft mutt's strings. He needed to taste the blood of another on his tongue, to feel the way his hoof thwarted them. Gaucho had said that the Wraiths would be too difficult to take headlong with only force, but the burning in the conscript's hooves would not be so easily quenched.

Her. Archibald stopped when Loretta broke into his thoughts, his eyes, with color so pure and intense they dulled the sun, bouncing up to meet the sight of a familiar stranger. She was at the meeting; she spoke of weakness. Should we show her? Loretta moved out in front of Archibald, circling around the mare's left to dip her front paws and muzzle into the pool. Archibald's ears flicked flat against his neck for only a mere second, taking in the mare's physical. She was a tall and slender mare, speed and agility dominating her gene pool with obvious ease. Her legs were solid but thinner than his, sporting no feathering. Her neck was arched and tight with muscle, and her refined head ended in the spiraled tip of a solid, black horn. It reminded him of his youngest son's main horn, the onyx appendage reaching towards the sky with dignity. "Archibald the Dauntless," He spoke his name, his deep and orotund, bouncing off of the cave walls to be finally absorbed by the raging percussion of the waterfall.

The ground beneath Archibald's solid hooves was firm, the stone unmovable except at his own will. A warm dampness filled the chamber, resonated by the pool and the falls. The knight had no framework idea as to where the sun hung in the sky on the surface, but the sunlight that flitted through small cracks and holes in the ceiling did solidify in his mind that it was still perched somewhere over the horizon. The kingly beast's eyes had adjusted to life in the caves over the course of his dwelling time, and the lack of a true source of light would not be a hindrance should this mare choose to lock with him in their shared art--her warrior prowess no mystery behind the glint of her powder blue eyes. "Show me your weakness, mare, for you spoke of it as a sad story."

Archibald's neck arched, his muscles tight and ready, his shoulders and haunches coiling to become springboards to carry him gallantly over the stoney floor. Loretta, still near the pool, lowered her head and rolled her shoulders forward, scruff tightening to protect her neck. Archibald's ears flattened away from his pale face, and his chin tucked with trained readiness.





[WC: 795 | PC: 0/3 | M&C: 0/2 | Archibald is using his buffs Dance and Aim. || Good luck, Snowwy, feel free to attack first!]