Perhaps if the dragonamre of golden and silver scales knew who it was who approached, she might have realised that their stories were not so different; born of sovereign rulers each, princes and princesses, expected to maintain the dignity, the respectability, the decorum and grandeur of one holding such a title (a title which didn't even exist, when all things were said and done). Did those to donated to their genetic makeup differ so greatly? Each strove for excellence, for domination, for a home to call their own, for a land to live and love and grow and worship in; and each achieved that. And though the DragonHeart would be remembered by a great many as a tyrant, a monster who destroyed, who rejected, who ruined and stole from others, she was also a mother, a caregiver, a mare who knew what she wanted and whose determination ensured that was obtained, by any means possible. Such convictions had been passed on to her daughter, certainly, but in a filtered, diluted manner, changed again by the sheer difference in the path Amaris walked; the dragonmare did not deign herself to be a leader, not since the attempt at proving herself suitable for the task had gone horribly wrong, not since the humiliation, the sharp realisation, the irrefutable confirmation that she was utterly inappropriate, inadequate.

The memory tickled the back of her mind, her little king of a companion bristled slightly, shunting the thoughts away; Amaris was ever the queen of his heart and soul, all others were simply wrong, and that was the end of it.

The thickness of greenery and forest seemed a likely place to rest, to fall into respite and mend, to press pause on all the concerns and worries in the world, to reflect on the past and how to make the present, the future a more amiable habitat to reside within. Somewhere within her countenance, the mare knew that this was one of the lands brought into Helovia by the Gods, stolen from the realm known as the Rift; somewhere within, she knew that this land held some blame, its existence the cause of the recent turbulence in otherwise peaceful tidings experienced by Helovians. Wars, fights, battles - this land brought none of those memories to the surface for the dragonmare, no, she relished only in what she saw here today, a comfortable, lush realm where the trees shaded a soft patch of loamy undergrowth large enough for her to rest her hide upon. For the most part healed, dully the hints of burns still glowed upon her limbs and barrel, though none so bright as the four-tiered gash across her pectorals, which still occasionally glistened with a drop of silver blood, but seemed to be healing with the intention of glowing silver forevermore. The mare was laid down, not on her side, but with her chin curved to rest against her chest (just above the fresh scars), her dragon stalking nearby, never far, never completely out of sight.

It was a mental tug, a note of caution, a flare sent across the bond to raise ones alert, that the mare roused from her dose, though she did not deign to rise from her position - she was too comfortable, too settled, to want to move (unless for a true, dire threat, of course). Across her field of vision strode a kitsune, not dissimilar to the one bonded to her cousin (a moment of hope, of happiness sparked to life within her, but it faded just as rapidly as recognition dissolved, as realisation settled that this was a stranger, an unknown entity), (or was he? Had their paths crossed once before, atop a mountain of blue lava, where demons frolicked and youthful fillies ran for their lives in a blur of fear and adrenaline?), whose intentions were just as unclear, ever-elusive to the quiet observer that was Amaris. Following the fox-like creature was a unicorn, and a smaller, far more difficult to discern, griffon, youthful in its plumage and size, dark and barely a smudge against the shadows cast by its older, more mature bond-brothers.

Wings lifted from her sides, though still she did not rise as she watched them; would they keep walking, ignorant, oblivious, blissfully unaware of the dragonmare and her quiet resting spot? Would they approach, investigate, with desires to interrogate, inspect and examine her, as so many feel the need to? Would they challenge her, attack, strike while she was down, disabling her forevermore? Never, came Dramyrth's resounding thought, a tidal wave of consternation overwhelming him as he returned to stand before her, a guard, a defender, a ready combatant should that be what arises from this occasion - though the dragonmare sorely hoped nothing of the sort would occur. She laid, in silent observation, content to let wanderers continue wandering (if only they would let sleeping dragons lie).

@Erebos

Amaris