yael

Honestly, the last thing the little golden mare expects is to hear her name rumbling from the King’s lips; he has never shown an interest in her before – why should he now, even as she passes right by him? Nevertheless, she pauses mid-step, her ears swiveling back towards the horned stallion, before her head, and then whole body follows suit. Lightly adorned, she isn’t much to look at aside from the golden sheen of her skin and the silver-white of her mane. The misty night mutes her, gives her mane and tail a ghostly quality (and oh, what a fine night it would be to turn into a dragon, she thinks – the silent, ghostly guardian of the pine forest). Finely tuned senses detect an other in his voice, but that could be due to any number of reasons, and knowing the multitude of thoughts that often hang heavy on a monarch’s shoulders, Yael does not assume anything.

“Xello Tembovu,” she replies pleasantly, quickly followed by, “xow ees Reksana? You xaf a new child, yes?” It’s been too long since she’d seen the friendly mother-to-be, and so she makes (another) mental note to check in on the sweet, gold-dipped unicorn. But of course, he is not here to talk about his mate – not in light of recent events, and not with a relative stranger. He might be surprised, however, to find out Yael knows more than she lets on. Part of the art of ruling is listening and watching more than speaking. She imagines that’s what Aly is for, to balance the Elephant King out in a way that usually only females can. Ah, but there she goes, making assumptions about him again. She really shouldn’t, and so she pushes the thoughts from her mind.

How does she find life in the Edge? Her immediate response is a defensive quip, not quite ready to give the King an honest answer. “A leettle too cold for my liking, but I’ve spent most of my life een ze Desert, so… I don’t suppose you know vhere I could geet a xeavy blankeet, do you?” A tinkling chuckle follows her mostly serious reply (winter fucking sucks, and she’s a thin-skinned lady, and she has often thought about asking permission to take some glass items somewhere else, to trade for items from the Basin), drifting away as her warm, cinnamon colored gaze finds something far more serious in his gaze. She stills then, studying his own age lines and going back to the scathing criticism Toulouse had offered of the herd.

“May I speak ‘onestly, Tembovu?” Her question comes low and serious, earnestly asking permission to speak her mind without fear of repercussion for an opinion.