If it's not with you, herd meeting

the Rift

If it's not with you, herd meeting

Willow Posts: N/A

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#16

01-16-2013, 12:43 AM (This post was last modified: 01-16-2013, 06:20 AM by Blu.)

WILLOW & ERMINE

.arborun lignea .. .mare. ..23 years. .. .16.3 hands.

A smile tempers the stern crease that had become Willow's lips as Jackal not only permits her attentions, but seems to appreciate them. To often has she known pride to rebuff need, a constant sorrow for her. Yet this king, thief or no as the whispers may say of his name, still remembers how to lower his head. You would think the weight of a crown would be a reminder to the royal to remain humble; instead they lock their necks and jut out their chins, turning their nose at anyone beneath their line of sight. When their nape stiffens and the muscles ache it makes them sour and cruel, for even then they still resist the urge to bend.

Willow thinks she will like this young lord.

Another crown appears. Green eyes shift from their focus on the tilt of a lily pad, settling on the blue expression of the Able. His tone, like his gaze, is cool and calm. He stands with a casual grace and an affluent attention to this gathering soon to come. She wonders quietly what is thudding behind those pools of ice he wears as eyes, thoughts beating in sync with the rhythm of his heart. She does not know him for who he is. When last she was around Paladin was the battered sovereignty, and Evers nothing more but another face in a crowd of many. Recognition glimmers in Willow's features as she nods politely to the blue, appreciative of his compliment. She cannot place his name however, nor his rank, though the tilt of his head suggests it is something of importance.

The moment is broken by the sudden appearance of a young mare. Another blur of a memory from seasons passed. Willow takes that time to drop her lily pad, Ermine dutifully shuffling over to grab it. He slinks off through the grasses, heading off to wash the useful frond so that they may use it again.

As others begin to stride forward Willow retreats from the rise of the hill to stand with them, her mending as done as it can be for now. Jackal needs to appear strong now, and he cannot manage that with a bizarre mare fluttering at his side like an anxious bird.

Red lips part with such ease Willow understands at once that Jackal's talents stand with his tongue as much as his hooves. His namesake is well worn, she thinks with a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of her maw. She is attentive to what he has to say, drinking in the information, her roots craving it as much as water. His mention of her startles her from her quiet hole she'd dug in the crowd - well let's be honest, a giant with the back ornament of foliage can't truly hide in any crowd unless it's a forest - her head lifting with response. Green eyes widen momentarily as the words drip from his lips like cold honey. It doesn't register at first, the idea that her dream has finally been answered after twenty-three years of longing, hoping and travelling, but when it does tears brim at the edges of her gaze which have softened to an algae mush.

She laughs a gentle, short and nervous thing, but bobs her head in acceptance. "I'm honorted," she manages to make out in a grateful sigh.
Teeth work at the bottom of her lip, cautious to act further a silly filly.

Paladin's name tilts her ear however, and she is surprised to learn he is still in the herd. That it seemed others bore the title, Willow had only assumed his defeat. She turned then, wondering of where that dark stallion was that had granted her this opportunity in the first place, amused that he would be taking the role she'd once filled so clumsily.

Distractions among the crowd with dissenters soon tore the green eyes elsewhere. Willow passed no judgement on those present, though she couldn't help but admit a growing fondness for the King of Thieves, but she would hear what was to be said no matter from which throat it sprung. She would need to learn better of her herd and her people.

Paladin's voice cut like a steel blade through the din of distrust and tension. Willow's whiskers trembled with her smile, her gaze spotting him at once. She hoped to catch his eye and pass him a friendly gesture, but he seemed not to notice her as involved as he was. Her heart sank somewhat, though she supposed she shouldn't have expected anything more, Paladin had always seemed a very troubled and busy stallion - he hadn't the time for talking trees.

Jackal pulled himself forward to speak again and fill the air that settled like a calm after Paladin's strong tones died away. The speckled dun did not waver as he beheld his kingdom, faces as likely to split into a smile as a frown. A prickling sensation filled Willow's mane as the winds began to stir. They were gentle, but persistent, these winds of change. Jackal spoke with a lady's eloquence and a warrior's fortitude, shedding light in the way a sneaking cat shifts the shadows in the forest it stalks in, while building up the truth as a crafter forges their trade. Jackal stood as capable of all manners of trade and it put the Lignea's heart at ease to know he would yield to opinions and questions without breaking or rebuking.

It should have ended there. Willow shifted her weight, ready to be swept away from this meeting to disperse into the lands, barely able to contain her bucks of playful readiness, but as another quiet began to unfold like dusk on the land, the blue pulled forward to remind the herd of the crown he still bore. Or did.

It will always be a strange thing to watch a king pull his crown from his head and cast it aside. It does not clatter awkwardly like a sword falling, does not whisper like the coiling cloak of a sneak, nor crush the earth like the loosed hammer of a crafter.

A discarded crown merely settles onto the dirt of the floor, gathering dust as all things are want to do. When you finally look down upon a crown, as you only find yourself doing when it has been left on the ground, you can almost watch the gleam of its metal start to fade and tarnish until it is so discolored and plain you can't seem to remember what was so extraordinary about it before. It seems to absorb all the silence from the room so that you are left with nothing but noise; the screams of the abandoned public that realize they are faced with nothing so different from themselves.

Kings are supposed to be undying things that we can bury under the weight of all our wrongs and misgivings. They are supposed to die in glory or fall in grayed age, timeless even as their eyes flutter shut. Kings are not supposed to simply walk away, the trail in their wake the same as our own. It shakes the mortality of our existence and we shudder with the reality that we are nothing.

Willow exhales.

She hadn't known she'd held her breath, but as Evers' tail flicks behind him, she feels a wrenching in the depths of her heart. Though she knew him not for the king he was, she watched him now as a lost one and mourned all the more for the missed opportunity of beholding him for his assumed greatness.

For the better or not, a city always weeps when it loses its figure head.