Achaius rode in the darkness like the effigy of glory through the dark of uncertainty. The bay of his hide was underscored with flaxen which faded to darkness and leapt into life with the play of light across his hide. The night was still, and waning. From the east the gray of pre-dawn escaped the skyline and bled into the darkness of the night. The sun dispelled the night with gradual efficacy, leaving the air in a tentative, dim and overwhelming gray through which he walked like a precursor of the dawn, emblazoned with all the superfluous glory, the radiance and presence, but marked for mortality by the flaws of his grace and the fugue of emotion that rested in his slate eyes.
Achaius’ lithe figure was of uncertain origin. There was predominantly Hanoverian in his powerful limbs and chest, his strength and height. But his features; eloquently chiseled were unmistakably Arabian. There were signs of a life sparked in brilliance and still waxing with the light and promise of youth. He had a determined, unwavering manner in his gait that spoke of confidence, a deliberate arrangement of his features that suggested intelligence, and carefully contained laughter in the smoky glass of his iris to suggest a personable nature. These things were all eclipsed by the undrawn force beneath his skin. A solemn, unflinching hauteur pulsed through his veins. A force, it seemed, he had not yet encountered and had no purpose yet but in its own waiting.
Above him the sky emerged, announcing itself in rays of colour; beginning the wrath the day would inflict on the restless world beneath. Today it had an exceptionally arresting diversity because it bounced through the glass above, bending into new directions and splitting into vibrant colours. He stood still as the sun rose from the horizon, his eyes enmeshed in the play of light through the atmosphere and the glass. As the colour burned forth from the realm above him, so too did it burn across the cure of his shoulder and the length of his flank. The burnished bay of his skin turned to a rich, dark bronze like the coals of doused flame. His profile was elegant against the pale green of the skyline, where it had been indistinct against the navy velvet that now shrunk impatiently below into the West. He walked on.
He was pretty sure that he was within the World’s Edge now, a little more than an hour ago he had nearly amputated his ankle on a piece of jagged, angled glass that had fallen along the earth. Shortly after that he had come to an entrance, of sorts – an aging glass barrier stretching up beyond where his eyes could see. The glass was not entirely clear, spotted in places. It also distorted the light more at the base than above his head, which made him suspect it was very old and gradually settling. He had not had to walk this glass wall for long before he found a split that appeared deliberate, though it felt longer because he had had to divide his attention between the ground – where loose pieces that had fallen from the whole created a dangerous obstacle course – and looking for the way through. It was large enough to pass through easily and so he assumed this was a doorway, or checkpoint – although there had been no one there, at the time, to check him as he passed. After a few hundred meters there was much less glass just lying around and he relaxed a little, looking up.
Tembovu stood before him, suddenly; startling him from the single-minded glass spotting he had been engaged in up until that point. The other stallion was massive. Achaius had rarely seen a creature so large. His size was such a statement that it took a moment to register any finer details. It was incongruous with the precisely painted markings along his sides and legs which reminded Achaius of antelope he had seen once in some dusty southern scrub-land, running in great vast herds from golden cats. The long dark horn was more weapon than decoration; more practical appearing than many of the others he had seen so far. Maybe that had less to do with any intrinsic character it held and more to do with the way that this man held himself, his head, and his horn. Slight men might hide their natures but it was hard to mistake warriors when they were super-sized.
The buckskin was not looking at him, but Achaius found it hard to believe that he could have snuck up on anyone, since he had taken no care to walk quietly. Still, maybe he was looking the other way on purpose. Achaius considered this, shrugged and said:
“I apologize if I’m intruding.”
The stance he adopted – reflexively, but not defensively – was tall and square. He smiled, his well-practiced features adopting an apologetic, affable expression while he tipped his head, curiously examining the other.
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
