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“It’s not safe for fair ladies to wander the dark alone, you know.”
Like a shadow in the shifting rays of moonlight, Shuler lingers in the darkness, golden coat cast in an eerie glow by the luminescence of the moon, the dark points of his legs, his ebony mane and tail, disappearing into the inky blackness like an apparition fading into nothing. The Basin phantom is well practiced when it comes to remaining hidden. He has memorized every game trail and nook and cranny in the Time God’s valley, knew in explicit detail of the mountain pass that lead into the Basin’s borders, had traveled vast distances and countless miles through the lands of Helovia, forever broadening his capacity for knowledge. He was always watching, observing, collecting information for whatever usefulness it my yield him. Like a diligent student he studies, reads each book and every verse of every individual he meets, committing their likeness to memory, digging into their stories, attempting to reveal the heart of their character, the plot twists of their life time, the end before it has happened.
This bay mare was undoubtedly troubled. Shuler could see it in the flint like glint of her eyes, golden and burning in subdued abhorrence, the sigh of vexation that slips past her lips in whispered wanton. Her movements are stiff, cumbersome, and she is apparently lame because of her injured leg. She is distracted, in pain, not paying attention to her surroundings, lost in whatever tumultuous thoughts raged and raved through the abyss of her thoughts. Shuler wrinkles his nose at the blood, at the rusty, rancorous scent of infection, at the thought of fighting in general, for he never allowed himself within range of receiving such blows, and likely never would. Perhaps some might consider him a coward, but let them think what they will. Shuler liked to think of it as self-preservation at its finest.
He steps from his shadowed seat beneath the drooping branches of an old oak tree so that she may see him, cumbersome limbs heavy with spring leaves, creaking in aged protest at the gentle caress of the late night breeze. Not lacking any manners the dun stallion dips his head, the point of his barbed, black horn brushing the ground in a sweeping motion, and he offers her a most unsettling, sincere smile, despite the previous darkness of his original first words to her. Chivalry is certainly not dead. Drawing himself back up, amber-honeyed eyes linger on her, taking note of the scar across the otherwise soft features of her feminine face, the crooked, spiraling twist of the ivory horn resting upon her brow, and the gentle swirl of blue that coils up the side of her cheeks. In the dim light of the constellations and moon shining down from the heavens above him, Shuler can barely make out the crisscross and jagged edges of scars, older than her current injuries, lacing their way across her skin. He wonders how she received them, what violence such a petite, delicate looking creature could have been subject to. There was only one way to find out…
"Has someone hurt you?”
He speaks in tones of falsified reassurance, kindness and concern fabricated from years of dedicated repetition, his words laced with empathy as they wind their way past gleaming white teeth and ashen lips toward the ears of the lady. It was a simple inquiry for the simple mind, but a double edged sword lingered beneath the surface for those who chose to find it, present in the way Shuler watches her, expectant and knowing as he awaits an answer.
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