No Time for Lies and Empty Fights
There were few things left in Helovia that the tawny giant felt were truly worth saving. As he strolled with young Isara in toe through the meadow, he mused fondly about her – because she was developing far more rapidly than he had presumed possible for a... child. Frequently he passed his paternal eye across her, and a smile would quirk the edge of his stern expression. She had softened him in a sense, carved compassion into the ridged poise of a soldier; perhaps she was fonder too him still more than Daenerys or Morana had ever been. It was a pleasant feeling, though he showed its effect to none but her.
They delivered the litter of plants as required, and Hector led Isara south for the second time in as many days when the next task - to catch animals - was given. Without question he charged himself with transportation of their trap, it was unwieldy, clinking and rattling to the tempo of a more considerate pace. But there was another plan rising through his mind, and as the crowd dispersed and evening’s bruise thickened around them, the stalwart stallion turned his face down to reveal it.
"This is the perfect opportunity, Isa," he rumbled softly through the slow quiet of the hour. "Why not practice your technique by trapping these critters beside you?" It was an honest enough suggestion, though perhaps the practicality of it lacked logic – if all else failed, he would hunt down a hare, or a fox if need be...
They were approaching the tree line. Veci, aide us, but do not kill, he instructed firmly, and the Boggart writhed delightedly in place. Copper eyes were peeled and scanning carefully as they slipped ever nearer beside the ominous dark of the forest; few sounds broke the silence surrounding – it was dense, unnerving – and as a precaution the stallion lifted the wing nearest to maintain contact with his child. "Veci is watching," he hummed reassuringly, but his attention was quickly snapped left by the stir of voices nearby. "Come," he whispered, stepping off cautiously with steps impossibly quiet.
Ahead there materialised the figures of three, two familiar and one not so. He approached with wings ajar in proud salutation - the stallion of those grouped was a dear friend, a brother beside whom many a war had been won. "Midas," he crooned, noting Africa (the mislaid once-Sultana of his home) with a cautious nod. Gaze blazed over the third party, the winged serpent by his foot and finally the fallen stag and his doe. "Ambitious..." he mused aloud with an obvious smirk tainting his tone – he slipped a sly glance by the painted Czar.
"This is Isa," he mentioned with lips touched to the filly’s poll tenderly. "...she is in my care. Isa, Midas and Africa once called the desert sands home." There was no need for the specifics surrounding – the past seemed irrelevant. "And you?" he continued, nodding to the lingering colt, "I am Hector."
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