Tembovu

the Elephant

Ears twitched in response to her foreign words and gentle sounding of his name— mirror the twitching of his generous manhood. Subtly, he shifted, willing and commanding his urges to heel (or at least attempting to). He lost her dark and lovely eyes as they look away— in shyness? A coy act? He was unsure. But he gladly regained the dark gaze and her enchanting accent as she responds to his question— though the brief silence is not missed by the King. Perhaps he had overplayed his hand, perhaps it wasn’t ‘Kingly’ to personally inquire after a spy… He shrugged inwardly, for he had wanted to know more of this captivating creature.

At the mention of her wing, his eyes turn to the listing left appendage. His muzzle quivers once, wishing to feel the old injury, stroke the silken black feathers, perhaps even knead away any spasms surrounding the offset bones— he blinked rapidly once, twice, thrice. That’s enough of those thoughts, Elephant.

She continued to speak, his mind grappled and fumbled to hear and register her words. But suddenly she is angling towards him, closer than before. He just barely caught himself, stopping his thick columns of legs from moving backwards and away from this small, yet powerfully bewitching, winged mare. He had started in control of this conversation— what had happened? That’s what he got for asking further questions of the raven.

“I could never meet you again in my lifetime, but now that I have seen your face, I will always remember it exactly as I see it.” His preoccupied mind had caught this phrase. “Remember things exactly? A useful skill, though I hope we do meet again,” thick lips are moving before consulting with his distracted brain. And his mind is shouting at him— she had asked a question! He needed to reply, what had it been…?

Ah, why was he king? Features, which he wasn’t certain how expressive or impassive they had remained in his moments of internal struggle, wipe entirely clear. He supposed tit-for-tat was fair, but this was a question weighted with the blood of a child. Quickly and easily, it weighed and focused his head, lips pressing together slightly as he considered his answer. Much of it was his spotted friend’s personal woes to tell, not his place. “I have never aspired to power or monarchy,” he quietly compromises to give a but of personal information, “but when Mauja stepped down as King, I was there to be appointed.”

Silence fell after his somber words, their breaths creating quiet eddies in the mist. His gaze, now on her face, glances to the a break in the shattered wall behind her, “The pleasure was mine, Imonada. Safe travels back to the Falls.” And with that, the King quietly dismisses the raven.