Tembovu & Mbwene

Chico’s greeting is exuberant—which, truthfully, is what had drawn the attention of the detached matriarch elephant in the first place (in addition to his plush, soft fur). And Mbwene, for all her cantankerous apprehension towards the animated rougarou, could not help the warning flap of her large ears; but it was half-hearted. And disappointed surprise flashed through her bright blue eyes as he started to slow his rapid approach; plopping down before her, just outside of her trunk’s reach.

Her ears snapped back once against her miniature skull in irritation, eyes narrowing in her wrinkled gray face. A soft, indignant trumpet issues from her trunk even as it rose and stretched out before her. She leaned towards him, fisting her appendage in his pale mane and yanking (perhaps slightly harder than necessary) the unruly manticore towards her. A soft string of annoyed and chiding chortles sounded from her throat as she pushed her soft, wrinkled face into his mane.

No leave.

The King’s head shot up, ears and attention swinging toward Mbwene and the entrapped Chico. His eyes were wide, his brow raised, “I just heard her,” his surprise pushed the words, unbidden, from his dark muzzle, “Mbwene. She just spoke.” His deep rumble was nonplussed; he hadn’t realized that Mbwene would actually speak to him. He had assumed that was for the companions who were irregular, magical breeds. Not Mbwene, his little elephant.

A grin crossed his face, shaking his head slightly as he turned his attention back to Roskuld and her words. ”We never should have left.” And his grin faded slightly, listening solemnly to her fumbling words (it seemed, to the Elephant, that she always started with fumbling; but somehow, someway, ended up saying exactly what she meant). Though, despite his solemn face, his navy eyes had begun to warm and dance as she rushed through words and sighs.

But his eyes did widen slightly as Ros reached for a blade—did he knew she had that? His heavy skull jerked back slightly at the electrified sound the blades made as they snapped together. But, his eyes remained unblinkingly on the woman’s face, even as she sank the impressive blade into the ground before him.

“No, Ros, you should’ve have left,” was his simple, rumbling reply—emphasized by a small squeak from Mbwene. And he stepped around the earth-plunged sword, long columns of thick legs making quick work of the distance between the one massive and one stocky unicorns. His thick, muscular neck reached out, aiming to be thrown over her gleaming, blue-black withers, “But I am glad you are back.”

“That’s an impressive blade,” his quietly admiring remark would be spoken into her cropped, streaked mane.