The tension was thick, so think Kiuaji could hazard a guess he could step into thin air and be carried by it. Their opposite compositions with bridges of similarity had made for a magnificent, strong bond that had stood the test of time, from colts to young stallions and then into their own pathways of life. It had even stood the test of a crippling war, had he not stood at the left hand of Tembovu through it all? Had he not risked everything to siphon information, to ruin and divert so that the mighty warrior may have the carcass of Makutano as his trophy?


So why, for the dead and departed gods of Dorobo, had it been a mare, who had fractured what could of been the reunion that seemed destined to never happen. A pretender to Mara's legacy of love, a banshee who wore a hide that should of been in the hands of someone more deserving. The bile in his throat tastes acidic, but he is a creature who is used to such taste, afterall Dorobian politics were often measured on well you could hold your tongue and keep your stomach in check.

Long legs had carried him swift and elegantly over the long road back to the World's Edge, head held high and tail fanned like a silken trail behind him. Every ounce of him bled poise and composure, his voice no less honey on his tongue as he replied to Tembovu's stunted attempt of conversation. The survival was a sore topic, Tsavo, Ada and himself had all felt the after ripples of the storm as it's final waves had crashed against the mountain they had toppled. Kiuaji leaving Dorobo had cost him a heavy blow to his pride, but his self preservation had won out in the end. He would not deny his old friend the pleasure of his voice and the answers he sought, he was a petty serpent, but not that petty.

"A rather romantic thought, a glass wall to keep out strangers." He snorted, taking a moment to examine the shattered remnants of the wall closely. Sharp it may be, but brittle and oh so transparent. Wasn't the whole point of a wall to keep people from getting in and see what you were doing? "I'm sure you no doubt have some suitable replacements in mind, after all, you are rather seasoned at points of war."

The poisoner had lapsed into silence after that, a pace behind his best friend as he let him lead. Glittered orbs were steeled and fixated on the path ahead of him until they came to the clearing and a sharp drop. He could almost see why Tembovu had come here, and been raised to a kingly mantle. Beautiful but dangerous at every turn, if one did not look closely at the mist. In the end, he stopped beside his old friend and tilted his head enough to peer at him with both eyes. One of them was going to crack first, launch themself into a blurted fit of words and comments about the source of their tension.

Turned out it was Tembovu who cracked first.

His elephantine friend explained, and he listened, ringed ears pressed forward to catch each word that fell from his dark muzzle. Fate was a questionable mistress at best, and to hear that Tembovu had seen Rexanna as some kind of boon pulled a twisted and bitter smile from the poisoner. "Bov, you know as well as I do that chasing fate is like chasing smoke, chasing ghosts of old scars that have only just faded from pink to grey. It never leads anywhere good, it never leads anywhere whole." The words are softened, hushed as he turned his head toward the sheer cliffs and the horizon. Kiuaji had never loved in an intimate sense, his heart was as fickle as the sea and twice as fleeting as the tide. However, he knew loss well, the intricate feelings that came fast and furious in it's echos and he knew the scales of fate most intimately. A hundred times he had stared into the pools of his own reflection and despaired, chased ideas and ruined what was left between his rib cage to nothing more than dust and rot.

"Though I'm no expert in the ways of the heart, I'm pretty sure if you tell any mare that she looked like your true love, it would scorn her beyond fire and fury." The joke is slipped in to help ease the tension and seriousness of the atmosphere. "I know I would be terribly hurt if you compared my beauty to another."

Another question worried his white marked lips for a second and he sighed. "That colt she had at her heel, Rein, that is a child sired by another, is it not?" If she loved you, my dear Bov, would she have carried another stallion's child? Wouldn't that child be yours? Wouldn't she be her? The lingering end of the question turns to breath on the sea breeze, best left unsaid verbally and he reached out to gently touch the muscled neck of his old, veteran friend. The poisoner hoped that the small token of contact would let him know that Kiuaji was ready to support him.

"Who is she, exactly?" What is she?


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