His eyes have adjusted to the dimly lit, ghastly marsh; Skywalker moves carefully among the shadows and vines, taking great care where he places his feet. He is a fledgling waif among the dark, twisted roots and things that reside in this marsh, so his going is slow and thoughtful, still. But he moves nonetheless – so far he has only met a surly mare in these marshes and the slow passing of time has urged him to unearth additional company. He heads towards the sound of voices and sloshing, the gloomy marshland has held him starved for everything else but silence and he knows that he must gain the acceptance of his herdmates if he wishes for his ambitions to survive in the midst of rot and deluded minds.

They will know him, in due time, for his capability. But Skywalker has never been a friend of patience and he has long since made the decision not to wait idly in the shadows. As he walks the mud stains his legs; it is numbing cold and somehow refreshing. Gradually, the voices are growing louder and he knows that they are not some echoes in his head; this sudden rift in the sepulchral silence draws him like a fly to the stench of a corpse. And there they are, all strangers huddled in the eerie stillness that this graveyard provides, all manners and shapes and Skywalker finds himself probably the most unremarkable of them all. He has not made out any of their previous conversation and has no questions to answer; instead he stands quietly with his wintry eyes moving to each one in turn. Wings and horns and antlers, he thinks and wonders at how well any of them would fare against him in a battle, his obvious disadvantage disregarded. Skywalker knows his worth and he is anything but anxious about his feral expertise in the art he feverishly has taken for himself. Though of thin build and slanting shoulders, Skywalker is a warrior and he decides that none of these said lunatics will be able to best him, the assumption fuelled by his arrogance. He relaxes and does not mind the fact that he does not know who he should address first. Eris (though he does not know her name) is the first and only face he recognizes and he concludes that it is best to acknowledge the freckly, blood-haired mare first. This he does with a simple nod and a thin, humorless smile. He looks at the pale stallion who seems to hold everyone’s attention, then the mare he has in tow, who seems to be as unfamiliar to this place as himself. From there Skywalker’s eyes move on to the antlered mare with the strange marking on her forehead: he wonders at the meaning of it, if there is any. Next to fall under his sweeping, hard gaze is the monolithic brute with a strange pouch attached to his shoulder – Skywalker lingers for a moment, that strange, dazed quality of his eyes worries the black stallion. Finally, he proceeds, to a mare of wings and spun gold (he does not see her companion) and a mare that blends easily into the inky backdrop standing next to her. A horn that seems made of glass? How easily will it break?

“I am Skywalker,” he finally offers them all and for a moment his terrible pride seems less edgy, more humbled, “I am a warrior who wishes to join your ranks,” he concludes flatly and thinks to himself that there is no good way to make a first impression in a situation like this.

S K Y W A L K E R.

Eris
Arlo
Circuta
Agrona
Seele
Oxy
Amara

OOC: Sorry for crappy post and butting in, I thought it was a good way to meet everyone. And sorry if I forgot someone.