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Dance the warrior, the warrior
EINARR
The call was familiar on the warden's ears--not because of whom called, but because of what was called. It was a warrior's call, a superior's call, bringing forth the pack of strength and cunning. Einarr lifted his broad head, ears tipping towards the call. It came from the Oasis, a place Einarr knew well in his little time in the Throat. He had explored every inch of their territory, ready to defend it at all costs. Spreading his massive wings, the black stag took to the skies. The warm air of the Dragon's Throat was pleasing as it ran through his inky feathers, bringing him in a low glide towards the originator of the call. Tipping his left wing some, Einarr descended, landing in the sand with a large cloud of dust forming when his cloven hooves made contact with the desert floor and his wings snapped shut. The brute moved towards the gathered warriors with confidence in his stride, his head held high and his shoulders squared. His trained muscles rippled alluringly along his hardened body, glossy black coat shining in the brightness of day.
Bright eyes, intelligent and knowing, looked upon those that were gathered. Another massive stag was here, adorned with horns and wings, and Einarr nodded justly towards the stallion. His eyes looked then to the simple bay creature, the mare he had met upon his arrival in the lands. She had thwarted his first exploration mission with anger and death in her eyes and the intent to attempt to send him there in her wings. She was still puny, but Einarr could not deny her heart. Then, his burnt sienna eyes moved towards the one that had called them. She was a small creature, smaller than the bay mare, and Einarr wanted to scoff. Was she serious? This, surely, was not the leader of the troops. As compact as she was, she was deft in Einarr's shadow. His face hardened some, eyes narrowing in the slightest. At her side a young babe rested, and Einarr shook the feathers that tipped his dark wings, mulling over his thoughts.
Women were warriors. Everyone was a warrior. It was not what was missing between their legs that made the bad taste rise in Einarr's throat, but simply their size and stature. He was not used to being around such tiny creatures. In his home, Einarr was of the average height. No one stood any smaller than a hand below him, and they were the small margin. Their largest stood at just two inches taller than the darkened stallion himself, and that was their king. Clearing his throat, Einarr mentally shook the thoughts from his mind. Give them a chance. He reminded himself before he spoke. "Einarr, warrior of Dragon's Throat." He used the Helovian word for warrior instead of his own language, and it still felt bitter and odd on his tongue.
if you bury me, i'll bury you
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