Tembovu & Mbwene

Mbwene’s trunk explored the leathery membrane of Hubris’s wings, delicately tracing the vessels that pulsed and blocked the light that showed mutedly through the rest of the thin, but strong, membrane. It’s clear, from her shining blue eyes, that’s she’s fascinated by them. Though Chico had similar wings, she was always drawn to his thick, plush mane. Hubris had no such luscious locks to distract her—though she was interested in the soft, flexible flesh beneath his wing joint. It was far softer than any other skin she’d touched thus far with her exploring trunk—

And then she gave a short, surprised toot as the bronze dragon’s dextrous claws placed a white flower behind her large flap of an ear. Her eyes twinkled as her trunk left Hubris’s scales to inspect and smell the sweet, pale flower now beside her skull. Her wrinkled grey lips curled up in a smile, before promptly puckering with purpose as her eyes hunted the abundantly flowering shrubbery around them.

Finding the red-veined leaves she was searching for, her trunk yanked out the bulbous, red roots and she promptly squashed them beneath her round feet. The plant’s bright scarlet pigment quickly began to stain her wrinkled grey skin, but she didn’t seem to mind. Instead, she turned her attention to Hubris’s wing once again, globbing a hunk of the crimson color on her trunk-tip and reaching out. Should he allow, she would begin to paint a design on the membraneous parts of his appendage—a symbol that had leaked from her bonded’s past; one that had happiness ingrained in each line and curve.

A lopsided grin crossed his muzzle as the Mountain supplied the meaning of ’infallible,’ “That’s one I know—I, too, am not infallible,” his deep voice rumbled with hint of a warmly amused chuckle. But the warmth faded as he continued, “I have made many mistakes, likely more than your father…” he paused, navy eyes looking away as Sanaa’s news of Dorobo’s current unrest settled around him; of the current unrest in the Edge, Elsa’s deep-rooted hate for him, Hawezi’s absence, Safiri’s illness, Zubari’s bitterness, Kiada’s manipulation, Kianzo hostility, Mauja’s burns, Tsavo’s isolation…

A long breath pushed out of his dark nostrils, deep navy eyes watching the antics of their companions—which would have been amusing if his mind was not so full (the ache was returning to his plague his poll). “Perhaps it is better to find a solution than to place the blame,” was his low, quiet rumble—as much to himself as to the Mountain beside him.

His attention was drawn outward, once again caught off-guard by Isopia’s candid sharing. “The Moon Goddess kept you alive?” His deep voice was clearly surprised, as he parroted her frank statement, dark brows raising in question. What history did Isopia share with the Edge and their patron, beautiful, manipulative goddess?

Finally, another long breath breath pushed out of his chest as the Mountain rightfully remembered the discord of herd members the day of their challenge. Sigh too much, was Mbwene’s distracted, matriarchal chide through their bond. A rueful, lopsided grin crossed his muzzle—the refreshing, blunt practicality of his companion often grounded the man when too many problems and issues folded in on him.

With his thick lips still curved up, his gaze roved back to Isopia’s bright gold. Again, his deep rumbled tolled, though this time not quiet. It was firm, calm, and assured, “Being a leader—or doing what you think is right—will often make others ’unhappy’ with your choices. There are those in the Edge that dislike me,” he chuckled, somewhat blackly, before continuing, “But, as I said, you are welcome in my herd.” He paused, shifting slightly, “I find you easy to be around, now. It is not a requirement to be an always-pleasant individual to live in the Edge. On the contrary, I think the Moon Goddess may smite you, if you were.” And, with that, he ended on a low, deep chuckle.