The woman of glass steps back, away from him and his questions. Her eyes avert, their lovely lavender depths lost to him. His dark brow furrows slightly in concern; he had been surprised, and so his words and body had been loud and tense. Now, as his black-rimmed ears perk and strain to hear her whispered answer to his question, he realized that his massive body and booming voice left the delicate lady frightened.

When she finished speaking, an ear swiveled backwards in dismay. His eyes remained on her face, finally seeing beyond the glass and to the cracks that spread across her brow and her side—she was fragile then. And fatigued; there was an exhaustion in the clear contours of her face. A deep breath expanded his slabbed sides, before gently rushing out of his nostrils; slowly taking the surprise and tension out of his massive form as he willed himself to relax. Gone was the rigidity from his heavy body; no longer was his head at it’s great height.

“’Fera Regis’? What language do you speak?” His voice was gentled, quieter than his earlier, demanding tone, “Mauja is still here. He is Emissary to myself and the Queen, Alysanne.” Softly, his deep voice rolled in response to her quiet answer, warming tone an attempt to put this glass-made mare at ease. His eyes still studied her face, hoping to once again gain her delicate lilac gaze.

The silence lasted for a moment, until she gave him her name, “The pleasure is mine, Ayelet.” Though the moment was ruined at Mbwene’s curiosity incurred the screeching wrath of dark wings and talons, along with pinned ears and a flinch from the woman. The elephant’s ears flapped, slapping against her neck, and her trunk raised and swatting at the swooping barn owl. A short, blasted trumpet warned away his talons, her own tusks slashing once through the air. But she small matriarch did heed the raptor’s warning: she shuffled backwards, trunk falling listlessly from her face, no longer trying to inspect the cracks in the glass mare. Though her bright blue gaze still traced the fissures. “Just want touch,” her grouchy, chagrined voice sounded in the King’s head.

He shook his heavily horned skull slightly, navy gaze darting in reproach to his incisive companion, “My apologies, Ayelet and Lior. Mbwene can be overly curious, at times.” The small elephant harrumphed through her long trunk, giving the dark barn owl a scathing glare before turning with a flick of her tasseled tail and going to purposefully inspect a clump of moist moss. Her attention to the shrubs was a little too intent.

The King smiled, then, a warm lopsided grin crossing his dark lips, “What brings you to back to the Edge, lady of glass?” His curiosity burned to ask her why and how she was made of such a delicate substance; but her caution and fatigue held his questions at bay. For now.