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If he were a man, with a pen atwixt his fingers and a bottle of ink awaiting use, he would take a new sheet of paper and begin to write, using the black blood of the stories to shape the blurred and indistinct history of Helovia, carve it into something sharp and clear. He would let his fevered imagination spill out over the page, craft and create, record and commemorate. In fact, even in his homeland, in a place of tall, weathered, ancient trees and rough-hewn paper, with the crushed berries that created an ink scarlet as blood, he could have written out the world with his spiraling pearl horn, created an entire book. Not here however. Somehow, Carnesîr doubted that the people of Helovia were educated as he had been. Perhaps he should teach them; perhaps he could talk to Huyana, ask her how best to go about showing the unicorns of the Basin.
Lena answered his pleadings, his begging, with her silken voice taking up a steady hum. It was a song subtle in its beginning, a soft undertone throughout the explainations he had coaxed from her- no, not coaxed. Forced? Stole? Pulled? Found? His mind was running chaotically over the similar expressions before he found they were drifting to a halt, steadying to a single pulse rather than the 'triple-beat pulse' as his mother had called it. For a long minute he lingered thoughtfully over this. It was an impressive ability, to be able to soothe the hearts of the anxious and the confused, the lost and the bewildered. Was it some sort of magic? Was there magic in Helovia? Onni had told him the sun had blessed her (that was what his mind thought of it, anyways) which was why she glowed with all the golden fervor of the sun and her boundless compassion. Back in his native land of the moon, green shadows and pale light, they had whispered of magic, magic found in the earth beneath them and glittering in the dust motes in the air. Small magic, but divine and ethereal natural magics nonetheless. Sometimes you could find it in the precious metals; Galathil had armor forged of fallen star-metal, grafted with protective runes. It was said that in his armor he was unbeatable.
But the princess of innocent and naivety, the gilded girl with a beautiful smile and a pale face, had not whispered to him of the World's Edge swarming, overrunning a land quiet and lost in the mists of the cliff forest. Had her home- he sought for the name but found none- allied itself with this 'Qian', which was why the north harbored such animosity towards them? Why could the two not have lived in peace? Why was it that the cycle, savage and primal, had to continue? Was it just the nature of equine life itself, this brutality- could it be cured, this barbarism? Maybe they were all doomed to this...
"What does Mirage look like? Were... non-Qian involved?" Carnesîr queries gently of her, the frustrated movements of his shifting body stilled by the peace she has created within him. "And who lead the herd at the time of banish?"
The card games and ease with the bitter salt of blood
I was in but I want out
My mother's love is choking me
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