Tembovu & Mbwene

The Elephant King was outside of the now-glass-protected borders. Though he was thorough enchanted with his newborn daughter, there were things that pressed on the stallion’s mind. Things that pressed so hard that they pushed him outside the Edge for some sort of reprieve.

There was unrest in the Edge—mostly from his stealth ranks. But Mauja’s continued absence (even after ‘rescuing’ him from the crevasse) and the worrying lack of robust warriors disturbed the King. Especially now that Koas dwelled in Helovia’s west, closer than he would have liked to the Edge… and after the griffin’s attack on the foals.

The King shook his head slightly at the thought of foals, pressure building once again within his skull despite his distance from the misted cliffs. Safiri, his small sweetling daughter, was not doing well. She was small, frail even. There was no doubt to the King that, in Dorobo, the child would not have survived past her first few days.

But here, in Helovia, there were healers to aid her. They aided her birth, and now… now they ensured that she came to after her fainting spells. But everyone of them left the King unnerved and alarmed. Perhaps it had been masculine arrogance that had lulled him into the false security of expecting health foals; all his progeny, thus far, had been healthy—

Mountain.

Mbwene’s single word cut through his tumultuous, paternal thoughts. Mountain? They were in the Thistle Meadow. There were no mountains here. His navy eyes flicked to her, ready to dismiss her random interruption—though it was unusual of her. He snorted once, Mbwene’s insistent, No. Mountain, only adding to the pressure in his skull.

And then the image of a large, bronze-splotched, skull-marked dragon flashed (rather painfully, due to his headache and Mwbene’s irritation) through their bond.

Oh. Mountain.

His great skull rose, rather slowly, fully feeling every ounce of of massive, heavy horn. Navy eyes, mildly creased at the corners from pain, looked in the direction of Mbwene’s gesturing trunk.

There she was: the Mountain that Knows. The demigoddess. A fallen Czarina—but one that had been so moved to do right by her herd. And, for that, the King held no grudge against the woman. A soft, short sigh pushed out of his nostrils as he studied her; the mismatched wings, the gleaming gold horns, the surprisingly expressive gold eyes for how…pragmatic the mare seemed.

“Hello, Mountain,” was his deep rumble of greeting, choosing her epithet as he vaguely remembered (after many nights of mulling their spar over in his mind) her bristle the moment he spoke her name. The King was not seeking a fight, here. So he paused, thick black tail swaying around his ivory hocks, all the while his navy gaze studying Isopia’s face, or profile, or whatever she would allow him to canvass.

And then, of all the many many things they could discuss, he simply asked, “How does the vagabond life treat you?” At least, he assmued the Mountain was herdless, now that the God of the Earth no longer championed the Falls... He sighed, further looking at Isopia. Small talk was just that: small. But the greatest of all ideas begin with a single, small thought.

Mbwene, in turn, studied the flower-picking dragon. While her exoneration did not match that of her bonded’s, her grievances were with the Mountain. Not her companion. So, slowly—almost hesitantly, but the matriarch was too proud for that—her round feet shuffled towards the flowerbed Hubris picked.

Bright blue eyes watched him, studying his clawed hands that petal-picked for a moment. Then, dexterously, her trunk reached out to pluck a flower for him to remove the petals from—only to jerk her trunk back with a startled, angry, pained trumpet. At first, she curled it in it a tight ball, before slowly raising it in front of her, revealing a rather large thorn sticking out of its tip. A soft, hurt chuff came from her lips, eyes darting to the bronze dragon and then quickly away.

Tembovu & Mbwene

Mbwene’s trunk instinctively jerked away from Hubris’ pincher-like talons as they reached out. Not because she didn’t trust him (well, she didn’t entirely mistrust him), but because the thorn in her trunk hurt, and his claws were awfully sharp. Her bright blue eyes jerked to his sea-blues, wide and uncertain as she hovered her injured trunk just out of his reach for a few, short half-seconds.

And then she, slowly, pushed her thorn-imbedded appendage towards his waiting, bronze claws. Ow. A soft, quiet toot left her trunk as he pulled the thorn free; and she jerked her trunk back to her face, close to her eyes so that she could carefully scrutinize the wound.

Satisfied that it was, indeed, free of all offending material, she trumpeted happily. Bright, crinkled blue eyes looked back to the bronze dragon, all hesitance gone as she thrust her trunk towards his wings, wanting to inspect and feel their leathery (but soft-looking) texture.

Meanwhile, the Elephant King disregarded his companion’s antics. His attention was wholly focused on the Mountain. Despite the relative pleasant greetings exchanged, there was (perhaps understandably) some residual tension that tightened the other-wise relaxed and amiable Elephant’s withers. There were many things said during their spar—barbs of logic and seeds of rationale the Mountain had said that now, faced with her slitted gold eyes, returned to needle his mind once again. ’Stealing from an outcast’; ’The Edge benefited from their crimes…’; ‘stealing is a legitimate…’ All phrases that hadn’t quite settled well with the King, a man of strong beliefs and relatively reliable moral compass.

So, needless to say, there were plenty of undercurrents running through the Elephant. His ears tilted towards her as he listened to everything she said closely, navy eyes watchful even as his face was relaxed into casual amiability. And her words—perhaps it was the uneasy paternal instinct raging in him from Safiri’s condition. Or perhaps it bled through from their spar, where he had been a father searching for his missing son.

Or, perhaps the Elephant King was a big softy, deep down.

Regardless, the giant stallion’s heavy head tilted slightly as she spoke so with such open, candid honesty. There are many natures that would, after defeat, seek to put their best self forward; to disguise and shortcomings beneath boasts or euphemisms; to create an appearance of quality importance.

Isopia, however, did not.

Slowly, in the face of such honesty, the tension melted away from the King’s shoulders. A slight grin curved up the corners of his pale muzzle and eased the painful creases in the dark skin around his eyes. The mare, though as large as he, spoke words that hinted towards a lack of guidance with too much expectation. A burden too heavy without the teaching or training to carry it. A lonely, tired existence—in ways, more lonely than being homeless.

“‘Nepotism’?” his deep voice questioned, head cocking slightly. Not asking how she felt that her existence in the Falls was as such, but asking what the word truly meant, “Before King, I was a general, not a wordsmith,” an easy, warm, lopsided grin slipped across his dark, thick lips, inviting the Mountain to not only educate him, but also find the humor in the King’s disadvantage.

After a long pause, the King then broached the substance of her words. “As a father, I can say that we wish the best for our children,” he paused, eyes searching her gold, “Though, perhaps our hopes turn into expectations of success. And that can be a heavy load for any child to bear.”

He sighed, eyes drifting to Mbwene as his tail swayed in the meadow’s lush, Birdsong growth, realizing that he, himself, may place too much expectation—particularly on the precocious and dark Zubari. “You are a good warrior, Isopia—” he paused, gaze flicking to hers as he slipped and used her name rather than her moniker, “—Exceptional, even. And your mind—” he shifted, thinking, “You do what you believe is right, which can be a hard quality to find in another.”

A long breath pushed out of his chest, before he continued, “What I mean to say, Mountain, is that you are welcome in the Edge, should you wish for a home… I would be glad to have you.” His last phrase dropped the royal ‘we’ of the Edge, instead simply saying what he, the Elephant, felt.

Tembovu & Mbwene

Mbwene’s trunk explored the leathery membrane of Hubris’s wings, delicately tracing the vessels that pulsed and blocked the light that showed mutedly through the rest of the thin, but strong, membrane. It’s clear, from her shining blue eyes, that’s she’s fascinated by them. Though Chico had similar wings, she was always drawn to his thick, plush mane. Hubris had no such luscious locks to distract her—though she was interested in the soft, flexible flesh beneath his wing joint. It was far softer than any other skin she’d touched thus far with her exploring trunk—

And then she gave a short, surprised toot as the bronze dragon’s dextrous claws placed a white flower behind her large flap of an ear. Her eyes twinkled as her trunk left Hubris’s scales to inspect and smell the sweet, pale flower now beside her skull. Her wrinkled grey lips curled up in a smile, before promptly puckering with purpose as her eyes hunted the abundantly flowering shrubbery around them.

Finding the red-veined leaves she was searching for, her trunk yanked out the bulbous, red roots and she promptly squashed them beneath her round feet. The plant’s bright scarlet pigment quickly began to stain her wrinkled grey skin, but she didn’t seem to mind. Instead, she turned her attention to Hubris’s wing once again, globbing a hunk of the crimson color on her trunk-tip and reaching out. Should he allow, she would begin to paint a design on the membraneous parts of his appendage—a symbol that had leaked from her bonded’s past; one that had happiness ingrained in each line and curve.

A lopsided grin crossed his muzzle as the Mountain supplied the meaning of ’infallible,’ “That’s one I know—I, too, am not infallible,” his deep voice rumbled with hint of a warmly amused chuckle. But the warmth faded as he continued, “I have made many mistakes, likely more than your father…” he paused, navy eyes looking away as Sanaa’s news of Dorobo’s current unrest settled around him; of the current unrest in the Edge, Elsa’s deep-rooted hate for him, Hawezi’s absence, Safiri’s illness, Zubari’s bitterness, Kiada’s manipulation, Kianzo hostility, Mauja’s burns, Tsavo’s isolation…

A long breath pushed out of his dark nostrils, deep navy eyes watching the antics of their companions—which would have been amusing if his mind was not so full (the ache was returning to his plague his poll). “Perhaps it is better to find a solution than to place the blame,” was his low, quiet rumble—as much to himself as to the Mountain beside him.

His attention was drawn outward, once again caught off-guard by Isopia’s candid sharing. “The Moon Goddess kept you alive?” His deep voice was clearly surprised, as he parroted her frank statement, dark brows raising in question. What history did Isopia share with the Edge and their patron, beautiful, manipulative goddess?

Finally, another long breath breath pushed out of his chest as the Mountain rightfully remembered the discord of herd members the day of their challenge. Sigh too much, was Mbwene’s distracted, matriarchal chide through their bond. A rueful, lopsided grin crossed his muzzle—the refreshing, blunt practicality of his companion often grounded the man when too many problems and issues folded in on him.

With his thick lips still curved up, his gaze roved back to Isopia’s bright gold. Again, his deep rumbled tolled, though this time not quiet. It was firm, calm, and assured, “Being a leader—or doing what you think is right—will often make others ’unhappy’ with your choices. There are those in the Edge that dislike me,” he chuckled, somewhat blackly, before continuing, “But, as I said, you are welcome in my herd.” He paused, shifting slightly, “I find you easy to be around, now. It is not a requirement to be an always-pleasant individual to live in the Edge. On the contrary, I think the Moon Goddess may smite you, if you were.” And, with that, he ended on a low, deep chuckle.