The dark roil of the clouds in the sky is, perhaps to some, a foreboding sight; towering, with thunderous crackles and illuminating, fleet flashes of lightning, most of the herd has moved indoors, beneath the protective awning of their stone shelters, or the thick pines. I, however, move through the valley unprotected but for the metal plate adorning my shoulder, and the company of my buck, our golden marks gleaming in the brief, bright light that floods the world when the Spark ripples across the black and gray swath of clouds above.

Picking up our pace as we near the border, feeling the thrill and rush of the storm above begin to flood our veins as the promise of rain begins to sing in the distance, its sweet, welcome smell as it hits the sun-warmed stones ushered in by the cool winds of its arrival. Both children of the Spark, I born here, and bound in service to him, and Duir marked by his very essence, the sight of the treacherous sky bodes a rush rather than ill, to men such as we.

That eager delight to escape the toils of my newfound responsibilities is quickly crushed, however, for as my companion and I charge over the rise and into the paths beyond the valley, we are met by quite the distraction.

Toulouse and Roland are abreast the final stretch of the land leading to our cleverly disguised-by-the-mountain-itself passage, some strangers among them. Though the light is dim, I can immediately discern that they are winged, and wounded.

A grimace crosses my face at the thought of having to touch them, especially the male. He has no perfume to distract me from the odd, silky touch of his feathers against my skin, nothing to make the emotional distress I’ll merit from each peculiar sweep worthy of the effort but his thanks.

"Who are these strays?" I ask, because, well, they look like someone has beat them with a stick all the way here, exactly the sort of thing you imagine when someone describes some mangy, homeless creature turning up at your threshold; they’d seemingly been attacked, but judging by the age of the wounds, and the general lack of speed with which they clambered their way forward, I figured whatever it had been was far behind them. Turning my head to my buck, standing still at the far end of the trail, wistfully watching the rain pour down over the rolling hills and rocky outcrops, and down through the shady boughs of the tall pines, clustered tightly together. "Duir, go find a healer."

With magic, not just some idiot with plants and linen scraps, I mentally add, earning a blast of frustrated breath from the nostrils of my handsome companion as he bounds of to do so.

"Did you kill whatever it was?" is my next inquiry of those gathered (unsure of anything more than that they are here), slipping down alongside the painted mare, and offering a shoulder for her brace herself on reluctantly, "we can send someone out to deal with the menace if need be."

Tell them your name, idiot, chimes my buck from his dash to the healer’s cavern and greenhouse, where they are most likely to be found. He’s right, of course, but I still retort: shut up.

"I am Lord Rikyn," I tell them, glancing about at the tall, palomino splashed man, while aiding his female companion (if she’d let me) up the last of the slope, otherwise simply walking alongside her, opposite the massive guardian who accompanied her; with a gesture of my golden horn as we speak, I try to hide the fact that I’m not entirely okay with letting them into it, even if most of my comrades are, "Roland is right. The pass is just over there."

No one seems to take kindly to the old ways anymore.

[ OOC: @Lena you can powerplay Duir making it to you and back here a bit <3 ]