There is love in your body but you can't hold it in,
It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin,
Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks,
And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

They whispered, murmured into the cool breeze, along the softening tide, across the scarred cliff and the rugged, plains. They were magnificent, all of them, touched by strength, love, sacrifice and devotion, either listlessly gravitating towards the pull of their sovereign or maneuvering in a persevering trance, constant, devout, brandishing loyalty that clung to their hearts or had just become polished in their recent acceptance. She watched faces of those known and those unfamiliar, traced her warm gaze to the staunch hues, listened with a courteous swing of her head, placed their names somewhere in the depths of her mind, where she’d stored courtesies never taught to her youthful frame. Silvern, spotted, ebony, sienna, ivory, monstrous, cataclysmic, young, ashen, they all flowed with different patterns and fortitudes, and she thought they must be quite a sight, laden within the glory of the moon and sun, defined by horns upon tiaras and crowns, but established by so many other things that the world could not signify, place, or specify. Touched by the ethereal, otherworldly: hauntingly beautiful in the evocative puncture of their words, movements and emotions. Power and grace, fostered into a union of swords and shields, breathing as one for this single venture, this momentary call by their monarch. She could have spent the day gazing at them, dazed, bewildered by their brilliance, their strength, their rigid prowess that she couldn’t ever hope to possess – but she can’t. Instead, she attended to Mauja’s speech, concentrating on the words and phrases slipping by.

She wondered briefly if the wolf-creature is the same one they had met at the Steppe, friendly, eager to please, but driven away by the protectiveness of the King – had he changed his opinion of her so quickly? Then, he spoke of ranks, positions and levels that sharpened the numerous, ever-shifting, tides of the herd. The sylph found herself at odds, a small war crossing over her membrane. She’s always yearned to be useful, beneficial, an addition that meant something to someone. But did she wish to ask for a title? Had she earned the recognition to garner such a position? Had she gained enough mettle to acquire a title? Her head lowered in thought, brow furrowing in deep concentration, ideas pulling in multiple directions. Would she seem overzealous? Foolhardy? Too brazen, too bold, too impudent? Were there others that deserved it far more than her? Or if she didn’t speak up, could she potentially lose the ability to gain this valuable, productive sentiment forever?

Shortly thereafter, she ceased the muddled factions of her head. Strength, she reminded herself, strength, diligence and courage – if she couldn’t perform this task of speaking her proposition, perhaps she didn’t deserve the chance, the opportunity. Smiling, she raised her countenance, and with a sharp, clever stare, interlocked her gaze upon the sovereign’s. Her voice did not carry the same qualities she often embarked, dulcet and soft, but a silken weaving of ardor and fervor, drawn from the lengths of her finely sculpted tenacity and intrepid designs. "I would be interested in the rank of Emissary.” She could be the staunch diplomat, the shrewd consul, the sharp envoy, the crafty ambassador – but only if he believed it as well.