She closed quickly the dusty gap dividing them, glad easily when the Gallant arrived by his own accord across the borderline of his home. As the warmth of the sinewy, smaller stallion’s greeting, a tone ever modest and mild rose to meet the strain of her eagerly forward tipped ears, a great relief leaked into her bloodstream. Gingerly, naturally, her pink-snipped nose danced across the space to collide in friendly fashion with his black stained maw; she noticed right away that the scent of him bore not the familiar tendencies of desert dust. With that untameable childlike curiosity burning beneath the pale illumination of her eyes, Africa flipped away the flaming forelock from her face so she could more easily see him.

Her crown (gold like that which he spun so intricately, and wrought with the dancing dragon’s of long ago), lay caught upon the branches of old Dragon’s Blood near by the oasis, disguised by the rich growth, thriving still where others of his kind had perished. Its weight upon her brow was a heavy burden to bear, and she thought truly no more of herself than of her brothers and sisters of the sand; of her loyal family, and followers of their God. Midas could not have known the new gravity binding her without it, the toil of her mind, now that she had taken his place upon the desert’s throne.

The painted stallion seemed not to relax despite his return; she was watching always the lines beneath his rippling clean coat, and it set her nerves writhing bemusedly. His mood did not seem to celebrate a homecoming. She wanted to ask where he had been, to hand graciously back the rule of the Throat which he had fostered so beautifully- she struggled, but bravely and with much slower success. There was no time for small talk though. Already his voice was spilling vague reason for his appearance, pleading with her (she thought grimly, frowning), asking to speak with her superiors. Once upon a time she might have blushed coyly, but now she stepped closer, the flames dancing wildly through her mane lifting with the gentle arc of her neck.

“I am one of our Sultanas.” She informed him without the gush of overzealous pride. No such arrogance had found place in her gentle, demure soul. Already she had dabbled with the formalities of her role, and her respectful brevity came smoothly- like he might never have seen before. Though she doubted her ability enormously and still considered herself an unlikely candidate for the position, the Starry-Eyed exuded only calm confidence before the stallion; her brother (once pin-up), which had taken perhaps the whole of Birdsong to perfect. Still more she had matured since their last meeting, though desperately now she was floundering, beneath the subtle twitch of her skin with new brewing uncertainty.

It was her responsibility to present steadfastly, and courageously she did. .


[Ooc: Not sure if Soh wants liquid-time or not for this thread. I can tweak anything of course.]