never take advice from someone who just admitted to being devious and just confessed to treason
It was a wonder that there still remained parts of the realm that the Thief had not yet explored. Or perhaps it was not; he wasn't often one for wandering these days. It was almost laughable, since he had never remained in one place for long, years before. There had been no time to settle, no time for complacency, no opportunity to drop anchor for any longer than a few seasons at best. Now he had formed a vague acquaintance with the land; Roland could recall and identify that one particular root he seemed to always trip over on his way out of the Basin's valley. He knew the exact tree under which he liked to sleep in the Thistle Meadow, if he ever grew tired on his walks, though they were few in number. He had come to know particular twists in the worn path that stretched and wound from the north to the south. He recognized the particular pool of water- now almost dry in the heat of summer- that sat in the Threshold, the one he had bathed in on his arrival, with his father's lackeys still on his tail. He had built a layer of memories and meanings into the land, a familiarity that only came with an extended stay.
The Thief had no name for the place he came across now, no knowledge of what it was, or where he was. He had committed to memory, roughly, the route he had taken to arrive in the grove but he was, unequivocally, lost. Or perhaps not. But he was not entirely helpless, nor was he entirely alone. With any luck, Sikeax could give him directions, unless she was no more familiar with the area than he. The Thief hoped she would recognize him from when they'd seen each other last. Perhaps they could have another game.
Roland picked his way through the thick foliage, ducking beneath clusters of leaves and stumbling over tangled roots, around crooked branches thick with fragrant blossoms. His hooves slipped from the grassy bank, pushing through the reeds that grew in abundance at the pool's edge. The water was not excessively cool, nothing like the ocean in winter, and thankfully it did not carry the sickly stench of salt that never failed to turn his stomach. The Thief waded forwards without a moment's hesitance, still a fair ways away from the champagne filly. The moon reflected off the surface of the pool, chalky fragments of white light floating like shards of broken glass, stirred by the ripples of his movements. Roland's gaze settled questioningly upon the younger mare, brow creased in concern as he watched her push deeper into the water. "What are you doing?" He inquired, not unkindly. His voice was soft enough to avoid stirring the peaceful silence in the grove, hoping his sudden appearance would not startle her.
It became evident after a moment, however, that she had not heard his approach, must have been lost in contemplation, stolen away in her own thoughts. The Thief looked on with a growing sense of alarm as she carried herself further into the water until it reached her chest, her withers, her throat, and without waiting to see if she would sink deeper Roland launched himself forwards. The tranquility he had earlier hoped to preserve was effectively broken as he pushed through the water, hooves digging into the soft sand underfoot. He followed the light of her horn as he neared, waves rolling across his back and surging against his chest. Could she swim? Was this nothing but a harmless sport- would he be considered a fool for swooping in and attempting to rescue her from her own amusements? He had rarely swam as a child, and that had not been for a great many years. Was he to be pulled under as well, lost to the snare of weeds and bulrushes lurking beneath the surface?
"Sia," he called out nervously as he drew closer. He hadn't forgotten what she'd said to him last, and had wondered afterwards at what it had meant. Did she consider him a friend? Was that why she had said it, in invitation? Was he right to call her by her nickname? "Sikeax!" He repeated firmly, though it might have been futile. Would she hear him beneath the surface; could she sense his ungraceful and uncoordinated approach, the discordant surge of his limbs through the waves as he fought to reach her? The Thief couldn't help but wonder as he reached her side, propelled forwards so suddenly that he would crash into her if she did not move; had his seemingly harmless game of throwing stones into bottomless caverns inspired some suicidal tendencies within the quiet girl?
@[Sikeax]
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
