A strangely static discomfort had settled into the Elephant. Though it was a welcome change from the looming depression and red rage that had plagued him prior to the Turtle’s bells and Tree’s gifts. The world, though not as filled with sadness or anger, lacked the luster and interested it had held for him when he first came to Helovia. It was as if the colors were not as bright, magic not as inspiring, flavors not as delicious.

Never had he felt this way before… so lost. He was so accustomed to purpose: revenge and destruction, traveling to Helovia, joining and building a herd. But now? Now he stood in the Thistle Meadow once again. A place that had come to haunt the great stallion. A place of fraudulent peace and shattering sentiments.

He stood in the trees, silent and looming in chilled shadows, at the edge the Meadow. Eyes of hard cobalt studied the sea of drying grass— perhaps subconsciously finding it akin to his old lands. Strangely (masochistically), he had recently begun finding himself longing for Dorobo, the Land of Plains. It was foreign, this feeling of homesickness. But, as the mind is wont to do, his memories of the place were becoming romanticized. The warmth, the sway of tall, dry grasses in the wind. Downpours of warm, fresh rain in the wet season— soaking the entire land and it’s inhabitants. Nights of fires and drums, pounding hooves and dancing…

Slowly ebbing were the memories of betrayal and death, of lies and deceit. Years spent mixing and ingratiating himself with greedy, corrupt men that sent soldiers so easily to their death— all for the sake of more; more power, more resources, more greed. His mind carefully, tentatively, was letting the image of the beast fade into past oblivion. Maybe because he had clung to it so tightly when seeking revenge, and now he sought to bleed out the poison…

So, it was his disconcertingly heavy heart that paused his large hoof mid-step the moment he laid eyes on the shivering, pale gold pegasus. His immediate instinct had been to approach her, provide his colossal warmth to the ivory mare of golden splashes. But his mind— so weighted— hesitated. It knew his own skin would be drawn to the obvious silken shimmer of hers. It knew his nostrils would flare, taking in whatever feminine scent she gave him. And, after the tree, his battered soul just wasn’t ready.

In that half-breath of selfishness (which sent a spear of self-deprecation prodding his inner beast), another winged woman approached. She was marked with the stripes of the Southern Forest in Dorobo. His hovering hoof fell to the ground, weighted this a memory. He had been leading the advance on the southern forests when the fire had burnt their bodies… The striped and primitive tribal warriors had burned Mara and Faxr alive…

Shaking his head, it was these thoughts that plagued him (gone were the romantic memories of Dorobo) as swift and long strides carried him towards the two winged mares. It was indecent of him to not provide some kind of warmth to the mare. After all, despite hating the cold, he had plenty of his own heat to share. He just barely caught the end of the striped mare’s question, before another woman appeared— what of smoke? This one also winged (was this a meeting of beautiful pegasus mares he was intruding on?). She flared her impressive wings, creating fire beneath them— and she does not even turn to look at the two mares to whom she speaks.

His brows raised as he finally arrived, great bulk coming to halt near the shivering woman— perhaps closer than he usually would have, to share some of his radiant heat. A brief thought of the flaming elephant crosses his mind— but no, that beast was too wild, too angry, to produce now. “Golden lady, you are cold,” his low voice rumbled without pretense, “Perhaps this woman of fire-wings would be inclined to provide some heat?” Dark blue eyes flicker from the impassive face of the golden to the disinterested face of the (he now realized young) mare.

And, as his mind had predicted, the scent of the woman drifted into his nostrils— but it was not of feminine perfume. It was of smoke and ash. Gaze flickers towards the striped mare, that must have been what her earlier question was asking. He paused, wondering if he had missed introductions. “I am Tembovu, of the Edge,” his deep baritone rolled, deliberately leaving out his rank for the same reason as his earlier discomfort… he wasn’t quite sure.