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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
If it’s open skies the winged man is searching for, he need look no further than the Northernmost reaches of Helovia, where mountains provide dizzying sweeps of updrafts and thermals, where the only thing higher than a soaring horse are the barren, ice-capped peaks.
Wessex is most decidedly of the earth; built like a tank, as her herd mates affectionately say, all muscle and heavy bone and mottled, shadow-blending fur. She walks with all the grace of a moving sapling, heavy hooves never quite trying to hide her presence in the Threshold. Why? What for? Strangers usually do not like to be surprised with a fearsome looking creature such as she (mostly to children, she thinks, though build and crimson-tipped points might give someone else pause). She, too, would have difficulty in a dense forest - but these trees are wide enough to allow her to pass unhindered, with the only occasional problem in a low-hanging vine or particularly leafy branch that gets snarled on her splayed crown.
Thus does the skewbald stallion meet the mottled mare as she breaks into the well-lit glade, kohl-rimmed and orange eyes boldly eyeing him up and down. About her height. Large wings. Not their usual recruit (they are a uniquely horned bunch, far more so than feathered), but his first impression screams both irritated and strong - and their army could always use a man who knows how to direct his frustrations.
“Everything ok?” she asks with deep voice, the rumbles of inquiry originating deep in her chest. A black tufted leonine tail swishes gently back and forth, relaying the fact that Wessex is not, in fact a threat right now. “I’m Wessex. From the Basin.” As if that explains everything.
W E S S E X
@Noitceru Welcome to Helovia!
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
