He somehow understands that this place is an amphora of deep-rooted but volatile magic, and while he does not understand it he understands that these chimerical things are things that he must gather – a dragon knows that he must hoard his gold. Skywalker, however, is only a horse and has never before come across inexplicable wings sprouting from shoulders; he does not understand the concept of knifelike horns bursting from the skulls of his new brethren. And now he looks at the mare, wrapping her fondly in the wintry grasp of his gaze, elatedly (if one could describe anything in his disposition with that word) thinking how terribly close this gleaming thing that he desires is. “What does it do,” his voice is level and he remains bolted to his moderation although he’d rather abandon his reticence and snatch that gleaming little thing from her. He does not find a great deal of intellect simpering anywhere in her eyes; it should be no great feat for him to convince her to bend to his greed. Somehow, it always seems as if they do. His lips curve upward and he stretches his neck a little further, letting his sooty muzzle graze against the small object around her neck. Perhaps he does this a little too eagerly, perhaps an allude of some disappointment glows like sterling through a small crack of his well-kept stronghold of discretion: it would bee too easy, he thinks as a strand of her mane tickles his inelegant nose.

Are you turning soft, Skywalker?

No, that isn’t it. Skywalker, however terrible he might be, is a proud creature who (although he rarely shows it) values his dignity and sense of decency higher than his almost desperate affinity for the astringent wine of ruthlessness. However unlikely that may seem. Again, he harnesses his urges and does so quite resentfully. The grass underfoot has somehow sprung into life and fills the cool air with emerald sweetness; it sickens him but the thin stallion lowers his inelegant head nonetheless, distractedly tearing a mouthful from the dark, pungent soil. What to make of this sudden, deplorable failure of character, the question echoes sullenly in his head and he glares at the vacuous mare, as if she were the one to blame. “Skywalker,” the exasperation in his voice is as evident as his aforementioned frown, and silently he questions why exactly he should bother giving her his name.

Perhaps she can be of use, he reminds himself while the amulet around her neck glints and taunts.

“Tell me, Kahlua, what would someone like me have to do to get some of your magic,”

a rhetorical question?

S K Y W A L K E R.

WC: 443
OOC: Sorry about the wait