Tembovu

Thick, black tipped ears twitched- voices. High pitched feminine voices, rolling masculine ones. He had been surveying the shattered glass (honestly in dismay, it seemed he was making slow progress on the cleaning the mess as the sole glazier). So he welcomed the distraction- any distraction.

The elephant left the painfully slowly disappearing mess of glass, following his ears to the confluence of voices. He thought he heard to females- maybe a welcome of somesort? Then a rougher, clearly male voice. He thought he heard flirting, if the tone was any inclination.  He smiled lopsidedly to himself, amused by his eavesdropping.

He cleared the trees that blocked his view as his King approached a lovely cream mare dipped in crimson. He noted the intimate, if brief, and possessive touch placed on her neck. Ears twitch at the irritated, if amiable, words given to the war beaten antlered stallion. “Torliek,” his low voice was laced with deference owed to a king, though he did not address him by the title. He still was wont to shy away from titles and established authority- and he didn’t quite know his king well enough to trust him with his deep, unfaltering respect.

Briefly he assesses his own injuries from the god battle. A burn across his broad haunches, the skin still freshly boiled. Other scrapes, bruises, gashes littered his thick hide. But it as the constant sting of the burn that rankled him. He assuredly preferred broken ribs or deep pains to this constant sting.

He found his eyes had settled on the pretty, delicate mare. The uncertainty in her colorful body  implied her newness to the herd. He found himself giving an easy, lopsided smile to the dainty lady, nodding his great horn in welcoming.

He turned his bright blue eyes to meet the bright green of the antlered stud- ‘Rohan’ as Torliek has called him. The stallion was striking, to be sure, though a sense of cockiness preceded him and his words. He was certainly self-assured. A chuckle almost escaped the elephant as the mannerisms reminded him of an amusing friend he had had. Though he cut it short, choosing instead to speak, “I’m not sure what you two roses have done to land yourselves among us thorns,” he now allowed himself a chuckle, “But I am Tembovu, a glazier here. I hope Torliek’s appearance means that you two will be joining us?” he switched to address the colorful small woman and the shaggy stud. He had seen the scarlet-gilded, pale woman hanging at the edges of the herd meeting. Though she had seemed uncertain, uncomfortable then. Almost as she did now- the thought disquieted him. A woman loved by a king should not feel unwelcome in her own home.

So he turned his warm smile and eyes towards her. He was about to speak or make a joke to put her at ease, but bit his tongue- mindful of the possession with which Torliek acted. Now was not the time to incur the irritation of a King.