I WILL FLY ON
THE WINGS OF A VULTURE

Large, heavy hooves plodded in the mists along his new home’s borders. Though, truthfully, the nomadic stallion didn’t really feel that the Edge was his home. Not yet, anyway. He had done nothing to make it his home. He had been frustratingly thwarted by mares in this herd— in this realm really. And, truthfully, the stallion hadn’t had a home since… ever. He had lived in a house with a cruel mother and harsh father. Sought warmth and love in the beds of loose women and whores.

So, it was with careless, heavy steps that he meandered the Edge’s borders, sunk in thoughts of a carnal craving he had been denied—denied for longer than since he had first experience the wonders of a woman’s flesh… Dark nostrils flare, raptor eyes narrowing as they tried to peer through the misted trees. Was that a mares’ scent that wafted into his nose?

Pale ears swivel forward, listening closely. He heard a pleasantly female, sing-song voice and perhaps the sound of something shattering? Curiously intrigued by such opposition of sounds, his heavily feathered hooves began a thudding trot towards the source of the noises.

He sharp, amber and yellow eyes notice the thickening of shrubbery beneath the trees as he came closer— mostly noticing because the twigs and leaves became hopelessly tangled in his feathered legs, knotted mane, and untamed tail. But thus was the usual state of affairs for the winged man of the wild plateaus, so he continued on.

Starkly white brows raise as his gaze alighted first on his Queen, the ever-elegant if mysteriously saddened Elsa. He noted her companion as well, and both of their attention seemed focused on ice-shrouded shrubs before them. His appraising eyes then roved to the other winged mare, whose beauty also did not escape him with her ivory and ebony dipped skin. She, too, had a winged creature with her—a rather handsome owl. But, alas, the man spent little time appreciating Hemlock’s tawny wings.

“My beautiful Queen,” his head dipped first towards Elsa, tangled forelock spreading across his pale face before his attention shifted to the other woman, “And I’ve not yet had the pleasure of your acquaintance, lovely lady? I am Graasvoel, just recently of the World’s Edge.” His rough voice sounded in greeting, an easy grin crossing his face as he looked between the two alluring women.

But then his attention was drawn to the thicket before him. “This is the one we’re destroying for the spikes?” His question was almost rhetorical, as his sweeping red legs carried him closer to the icebound bushes. “Those thorns are vicious,” he noted, eyeing the long points before continuing, “At least my size will be of some use.” Partially meant for himself, his mumble had meaning beyond the breaking of iced over vines.

But, still, his heavy forehand lifted with a half stroke of his massive wings, dark hooves striking out at the looming expanse of frozen thicket they needed to eradicate. Perhaps this was the beginning of making a home.