It mattered little whether the colt’s ambition matured into the strength and courage of a soldier. Africa knew well that it took a selection of nature’s finest beings; of those built soundly, with resilient minds, and the most unimaginable resolve, to flesh out an army. She was none of those things; quite the opposite in fact, and only time would tell which side of the spectrum young Marco would fall to. If not a warrior by heart, she would guide and support him readily through any other endeavour he set himself to achieve (a mentor, and friend through and through). The warmth of his body nestled against the rib-lined bulge of her barrel, filled her with calm; she could not explain the sensation, the euphoria as anything less than nurturing by nature- she was pleased that he was so cooperative, so willing to allow her fuss.

His quietly curious voice rose again around them, a question that Africa had deliberated over many a night by the fire she had once tended to passionately. Gentle eyes lifted towards the canopy beyond the guilt stallion in their company; minute leaves shimmered delicately through a shroud of mild mist, and the placid gurgle of the stream coiling through the ghostly underworld forest, seemed to offer to their waltz a magical rhythm. A harmony unseen and unfelt by lives too loud existed throughout Helovia- from the ancient groan of Threshold pines, to the shifting sands of the southern desert peninsula; and the one-winged mare felt an uncanny connection to it, an unfathomable desire to learn beyond the realms of what only the naked senses could reach. She did not answer Marco’s question right away though, instead Silas had come upon them. When the colt’s small figure jumped with surprise, Africa swiftly touched her muzzle against him to soothe away any nervousness- the Zephyr meant no harm after all. The gift was bequeathed, and she could only smile brightly between her painted friend and the bay boy; his praise for Midas’ handiwork a welcome gesture. Then, when silence began to douse the ring of voices Africa turned slowly with a curled neck to look upon the youth.

"It has been a long day. Rest now Marco and I will colour your dreams." Whiskered lips fondled affectionately the veil of his messy black forelock, brushing them from the boy’s thick lashes and to one side of his ashen forehead. There was comfort and safety in this network of tunnels and chambers, and when he woke again next, there would be much exploring to be done- certainly Africa would be available should he seek her company for anything more, but he was no foal, and her intention was not to smother his independence.

She began... truth cloaked in the wild fantasy of a creative mind. "Long ago Dragons far larger than any of those companions you will find around our country today, fashioned the population to do their bidding. Fierce, materialistic and cunning, these primordial beings were clad in thick scale armour, not easily pierced without the aid of magic; and their lungs hurled great scorching infernos at the foolish uprisings who opposed. Though few in numbers, their presence in Helovia was feared terribly and one Dragon in particular, Urulóki declared his nest to be the southernmost island of the land- a wild forest girt by sea.

That was where the infamous battle of Dragon’s Throat took place and the reason for its name today.

Back then, no desert wilderness scarred the beautiful landscape. Battle after battle took place, each revolt against the villainous ruling of Urulóki burning away more lush forest; staining the earth red with blood spilt in vain. The folk of Helovia were bold though, and concocted constantly new weapons and magic’s- poisons, self-wielding swords and the like, to bring forth and challenge the fire-breathing serpent with. On one such occasion, their fury and determination was so enormous that Urulóki was at last brought down upon his knees and slain... but not without grave consequence.

With the last breath of life, the Dragon purged an almighty fire that destroyed the island’s beauty- turned the trees to ash and dried the surrounding ocean for miles. That is how both the desert, and the peninsula it rests upon came to be. A small portion of land exists still as a lush, oasis right in the very centre of the region- that was where Urulóki had stood those final hours. It is said that the vast lake there is his very throat, and all which remain of his wicked existence. Fable suggests that when a Dragon’s body is robbed of life, it dissolves into the thing the creature fears most- water. And the burnt red-gold sands surrounding were once buried beneath ocean currents.

One tree withstood the fury of that fire- the Dragon’s Blood Tree... and its relic still stands to this day, weeping blood in place of sap for the many lives lost during its long life; those bodies still lie deep beneath its roots."


[Note: Just finishing this thread I think now. I feel like everything that could be achieved in it has been. Happy to start/join another whenever you are ready Wylfen <3 Reply if you like, but this was Africa’s last post here.]

Africa