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12-27-2016, 09:26 AM
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ALBRECHT and strom
He hears the call, of course. He's like a permanent installation of the empty, echoing space of the Aurora Basin, an odd development with his vehement assertations of hating the cold, but as much as he hates the cold he also hates change, a common effect of old age, and now that he's been here more than a year anywhere else would surely fit that description. So he hears the call, and he recognizes it too; the voice of Erebos, the young son of the Reaper and their newly crowned General, presumably calling his first rank meeting. The old stallion is anything but a warrior, in all the most commonly accepted ways. He doesn't pride himself on his physical prowess, doesn't endevour to keep himself in passable, let alone tip-top form, doesn't have aspirations of defending the herd or conquering enemies, but he's made it this far in life, despite the world and everyone in it wishing he hadn't, so there must be some part of him that qualifies as fighter, survivor, the only definition of warrior that truly matters in the mortal world. None of that is what drives him to attend the meeting, though. His shuffling into the outskirts of the gathering is more a product of curiosity and personal judgement than anything else. He wonders if the young stallion will lead his horde with more consistency and presence than the last pretender, because just as when he'd attended those pitiful meetings, he's well aware that what harms the herd will likely harm him too, indirectly if nothing else. So he stands at the back with one leg cocked, listening, watching, his presence an insult to all who come after. What attack could they possibly fend off if they can't even outrun a decrepit old man? "Talk." OOC // Just watching. I told him to take care of his eyes, because they're the only balls he has. |
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