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06-16-2012, 11:52 PM
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Wit smolders in her eyes. Asur sees a capable soldier standing before him; she measures the weight of his movements and the keen edge of his gaze. Gradually his breathing smooths into a slow, deep rhythm and his pulse pounds even in his ears. Scrutiny of her features beyond the dull smoke of her coat reveals scars hewn in white across her breast, climbing her throat like some pale ivy. He begins to wonder where he stands in her eyes and just who he stands before, but she answers the latter with a name he thinks ironic, and a low rumble moves in the stallion’s chest below even his hearing. As she continues to list titles Asur answers with little more than a nod. He knows enough to pay respect to such a mare. His single good eye lingers on the dragon as she names it Zaffre, though. After the briefest moment he breaks contact with a shake of his head. For the outsider, guessing how much strange lands have in common with his own is almost maddening. He prefers to dwell on practicality. ”Military chieftess,” a low growl. ”Do you rule beside a chief? Or another chieftess?” Or both, his gaze suggests, merely curious. A thousand questions might burst from his tongue and Asur chooses carefully, aware that first impressions matter more than any other. He might take the ease of much work from his shoulders later if he only gains the trust of such a soldier. Still, he wonders what he might want with her trust, as well. Who is Smoke, of the Windtossed Foothills? What do others say of her? Subjects? Fellows? What battles tore her flesh? What privilege won her the blue dragon? The constant ache of his face grabs more attention than it deserves, and Asur sighs. He is in no position to judge. He crawls, afflicted, to the shadow of her mercy. ”Is your herd the only one in this... Helovia?” he wonders, too. He thinks not but he wonders what the answer will be, how she might shape any others dwelling in her domain. Asur spares a moment to glance at the deepening shadows and wonders if no others will join them on a stormy afternoon. If not, she paints her kind as strongest by mere virtue of her presence. He respects this twist of chance. He respects the strange mare and her blue companion, though he knows only a history of scars and a list of titles. |
