The threshold is a quaint place, it would almost remind him of home, if it weren't for the constant reminders as to why it exactly it wasn't which plagued his senses as he walked. It was not flood season for a start, and neither was he southward in his entrance to this place. It smelled different too, it was not rich with the smell of rain or acrid dirt scorched under unrelenting heat and drought. Birds sang their merry songs and the wildlife upon the turf bounded through the brush and thick roots.

It wasn't like home at all, he decided with a silent snort. Hadn't that been the reason he had traveled so far and risked so much? All on a hunch, all on a few spared words before he had bid farewell to an old friend.

Kiuaji was on the precipice of no return, once he had entered, there was no going back.

Thick canopy provided shade from the sun that ruled in his lofty eyrie, not that he minded the heat once it touched his striped back, without the speckled shadows cast by greenery. Quite the contrary, he enjoyed the sun just as much as he enjoyed the rain when the time came for it.

Kiuaji moved silently onward, graceful and effeminate in his step. Plum stained hooves touched where they were deliberately set, every movement was for a reason, illusions and fabrications to betray the eye to who and what he was. That was his job after all, to mystify and mislead, he would weave these intricate threads time and time again in order to ruin. Walls and emotions were often the quarry, he shattered hearts and made widows. It was sickeningly poetic his job, he had to admit, pierced ear flickered with his thoughts, you could write romances based upon assassins and their quarries, poisoners and their intended.

There had been no love for him, however, to sing about in his most penultimate campaign. The only embrace he felt was the strong sense of duty and honor to friends, the repulsion to barbaric acts against a proud nation.

Conflicted emotions and morals, for a stallion that made his life the misery of others who couldn't make him go away.

Eventually, his step came to a close. Trot became a whimsical walk among the ancient oak clearing he had stopped in, then stilled within the refreshing waters of the spring creek that snaked it's way through. Impressive horns spiraled and caught in the light, casting them in a warm light and soaked his back with pleasant warmth as he resigned to rest momentarily.

Amethyst eyes glanced around twice, making sure that there was no one he had missed beyond the brush and low scrub, company wouldn't of been dismissed but that was besides the point. Satisfied, he retired to refreshing himself with the icy water beneath him, a lone shadow of Dorobo seeking momentary respite in his journey.



_______________________________________________________________________________

notes;;

talking