Tembovu & Mbwene

The Elephant King was outside of the now-glass-protected borders. Though he was thorough enchanted with his newborn daughter, there were things that pressed on the stallion’s mind. Things that pressed so hard that they pushed him outside the Edge for some sort of reprieve.

There was unrest in the Edge—mostly from his stealth ranks. But Mauja’s continued absence (even after ‘rescuing’ him from the crevasse) and the worrying lack of robust warriors disturbed the King. Especially now that Koas dwelled in Helovia’s west, closer than he would have liked to the Edge… and after the griffin’s attack on the foals.

The King shook his head slightly at the thought of foals, pressure building once again within his skull despite his distance from the misted cliffs. Safiri, his small sweetling daughter, was not doing well. She was small, frail even. There was no doubt to the King that, in Dorobo, the child would not have survived past her first few days.

But here, in Helovia, there were healers to aid her. They aided her birth, and now… now they ensured that she came to after her fainting spells. But everyone of them left the King unnerved and alarmed. Perhaps it had been masculine arrogance that had lulled him into the false security of expecting health foals; all his progeny, thus far, had been healthy—

Mountain.

Mbwene’s single word cut through his tumultuous, paternal thoughts. Mountain? They were in the Thistle Meadow. There were no mountains here. His navy eyes flicked to her, ready to dismiss her random interruption—though it was unusual of her. He snorted once, Mbwene’s insistent, No. Mountain, only adding to the pressure in his skull.

And then the image of a large, bronze-splotched, skull-marked dragon flashed (rather painfully, due to his headache and Mwbene’s irritation) through their bond.

Oh. Mountain.

His great skull rose, rather slowly, fully feeling every ounce of of massive, heavy horn. Navy eyes, mildly creased at the corners from pain, looked in the direction of Mbwene’s gesturing trunk.

There she was: the Mountain that Knows. The demigoddess. A fallen Czarina—but one that had been so moved to do right by her herd. And, for that, the King held no grudge against the woman. A soft, short sigh pushed out of his nostrils as he studied her; the mismatched wings, the gleaming gold horns, the surprisingly expressive gold eyes for how…pragmatic the mare seemed.

“Hello, Mountain,” was his deep rumble of greeting, choosing her epithet as he vaguely remembered (after many nights of mulling their spar over in his mind) her bristle the moment he spoke her name. The King was not seeking a fight, here. So he paused, thick black tail swaying around his ivory hocks, all the while his navy gaze studying Isopia’s face, or profile, or whatever she would allow him to canvass.

And then, of all the many many things they could discuss, he simply asked, “How does the vagabond life treat you?” At least, he assmued the Mountain was herdless, now that the God of the Earth no longer championed the Falls... He sighed, further looking at Isopia. Small talk was just that: small. But the greatest of all ideas begin with a single, small thought.

Mbwene, in turn, studied the flower-picking dragon. While her exoneration did not match that of her bonded’s, her grievances were with the Mountain. Not her companion. So, slowly—almost hesitantly, but the matriarch was too proud for that—her round feet shuffled towards the flowerbed Hubris picked.

Bright blue eyes watched him, studying his clawed hands that petal-picked for a moment. Then, dexterously, her trunk reached out to pluck a flower for him to remove the petals from—only to jerk her trunk back with a startled, angry, pained trumpet. At first, she curled it in it a tight ball, before slowly raising it in front of her, revealing a rather large thorn sticking out of its tip. A soft, hurt chuff came from her lips, eyes darting to the bronze dragon and then quickly away.