The copper-brown of late-autumn foliage and the, naked, skeletal fingers of old retiring timber, passes in a murky blur as the silver and gold stallion, sails on slowly overhead. His wings stride magnificently upon the softer thermals of mid-altitude and he is content enough to hang there, for the dove who lingers somewhere behind seems to lack strength enough to drive any deeper. That sweet, slender girth - he delights fancifully in  the recollection of inebriating musk there on it - has blossomed on the good growth of these southern lands, though her mood has in contrast withdrawn a little, enough so, that his simplistically male frame of mind begins to worry some for her wellbeing… Noah isn’t phased by this fleshy, curvy silhouette grown about her (he presumes this is the cause) - in fact, he finds the new her rather fetching - but he feels she is spending longer stints than normal, gazing at the change in her own reflection; she does so almost to the point of obsession and it seems apparent, that not even the sweet caress of his affection works to soothe her.

Perhaps the novelty of adventure has worn thin.

It is time to turn back.

The path into the north seems more convoluted than ever. Unsure eyes scan the horizon for the jagged outline of teeth - of mountains - for their presence upon its stark line (he believes), betrays the position of the bitter hovel they seek; a foolish heart pounds beneath a wind-chilled breast, yet he is certain not to let slip any hint of his doubt to his dove. A startlingly emerald forest erupts suddenly from the patchwork quilt of bronze countryside below, and his thoughts press upon its vast, murky surface, recalling a terrain similar or three, from their initial movement south. All those months ago they had paused on the brink of one - the dragon-girl lurked within - and this discovery, the revelation, spurs a jolt of electric encouragement through his weary brain, before feathered arms dip into descent. Very slowly he delivers a path between spiralling zephyrs, guiding the liver-cream princess as safely as he can possibly, into the welcoming embrace of a sunlit glade.

He is tired, muscles burn brutally with the onset if fatigue, but there is a flicker of fire between shining aqua  irises that seeks out the dove for motivation, inspiration. While she alights, he watches on attentively, scrutinising the supple earth as it receives each precious hoof and no sooner has she settled, than his thick, brawny limbs begin as high-stepping dance forward; his bones crave the numbing fury of testosterone and it ignites on cue, to further fuel his ostentatious display. Fireworks sleep below the surface of her skin, and addicted, he delves down to find them. Nares drive home, hoping to sweep along the concave breath of her collar, placing there soft kisses if his lips win their aim - but he pauses suddenly and his chiselled skull lifts high. They are not alone in this glade and he whispers faintly, “wait!” Brothers rest forward vigilantly upon the pinnacle of his crest - it has risen, and torrents of flaxen stream down in the breeze - while eyes search and spy; a stranger, a stallion, stands downstream.

With broad chest swinging and tail snapping brazenly in his wake, he manoeuvres that way at a less imposing gait. ”Evening,” young, bold vocals throw (a show, for he is raw and unpracticed), and he pauses a polite distance to the one coated partly in mud, so that they each might discern the other first. A glance slips back to check on his dove, and a warm smile passes through his expression; when he returns to the male, the softness is lost.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior

All around the little watered glade, the slender needles of a vast redwood army whisper softly (but on mass) in the breath of a cool northerly wind and it feeds white noise into an otherwise empty atmosphere; they - Noah and his timid angel - have seen these woods before and the realisation soon begins to infiltrate the young stallion’s conscience, like the weight of foreboding in the heart of most prey. It was not safe for them to linger, lest the demons rise once more from the ashes of history with deathly intent. He is wary as he stands there, senses swimming through the crowd of variation, with one ear trained to the darling behind; the other stretches erratically between the stranger by the stream and the mutter of movement nearby.

The sullied male is slow to respond, though he stares openly and Noah feeds the same back more charily; why doesn’t he speak? No feather blessed the stranger’s muddy flanks, naked bronze shoulders looked queer in the reddening light, and upon the skull that pointed their way, neither horn, nor branch extended. The winged had seen another so unusual similar, had felt equally bemused, and should not a young filly have come rashly upon them in that moment, he might have lead Nora well clear of that unsettling, bi-coloured glare - without bother to return.

As it were, a creature of sorts emerged from the timer first - smallish, white, and spritely as it bounded about by the child’s legs. Golden ears stretch backwards in response, unsure, for the eyes that scrutinize him have seen few others, but the harmless marsupials of his faraway island home. A sharp snort expels from tight lungs, and whiskered chin lifts well beyond the canine’s reach; one thick, rounded knee lifts into the air and afterwards drives hard, a warning thump into the earth. He cannot know that it follows the filly - the foal, who in every respect should be vulnerable and well covered by presence of a parent - though as it expresses little in the way of agitation on its alien, pointed face, the stallion withholds any further action.

For the sake of caution, his towering frame returns to the flank of the dove; vigilant lips pester the heated canvas pulled snug across her belly. Her gentle-natured heart reaches out to the child, though wariness too, drives her face out of harm’s way (he is glad). As one curious ear returns slowly to the silent male, it catches wind of sweet tones, a warm greeting put forth by his charge; but the delicate nature of her voice is quickly lost to surprisingly eloquent words of greeting. Aquamarine pools glisten with surprise, swinging towards the stranger quickly to inspect and though the rumble of response stirred in the depths of his breast, he had not the chance; for another arrives among them at the same time, giggling bizarrely all the while.

To add fuel to the fire of his bewilderment, the tiny doll addresses them peculiarly, as though she were talking about another. For the sake of his own clarity, mind wanders into the surrounding area and eyes follow slowly, confirming quickly that no others are following. Caught beneath the very unsettling, creepy glow of her grin – and all though he acknowledges her query with refocused attention – Noah struggles to answer. “N-Noah,” he reveals slowly, with a narrowing gaze and hesitant heart. Though charming, perhaps, the newest did not feel to him, to be transparent.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior

Still queerer than any he has met prior - the dry-witted Lord, the presumptuous prince, the reptilian woman, or the rare few with nothing to decorate their identities at all - the palest among them tempts back his recovering interest, with mortal-like responses that (he feels), all but banish that initial spine-tingling cheer. Still she giggles, yet thinner, with a new edge to suggest perhaps, that calculating intellect boils below a comic surface of pallid grins and brilliant expression – a real personality.

Aquamarine’s glisten beneath the narrowed pitch of blonde lashes, and he watches her carefully as she addresses, nay, mocks, his dove; ears fasten rearward when they taste insulting tone and he meets it head on with a perfectly sunny smile and light (hearted) snap of blunt teeth. "Nora speaks in foreign tongue." His tone lacks aggression, aggravation – an eye for an eye - though it seems irrelevant all the same as her attention appears fixed to their muddied, bay company.

A child? …he wonders, regrouping in contemplative quiet, for while the height of her seems too tall, angular hips and wraithlike, dainty features serve to compliment the theory. Nora too was a finely formed creature, though it was easily apparent that she was adult; neither was his sweet-hearted lover as, fizzy.

While the others are preoccupied amongst themselves – the dog rests on the tiny hooves of the (actual) child who is watching, and the rest fling about insults under witty guise – Noah places a protective, reassuring nudge upon warm, milky skin. There is no real reason for them to linger; their journey has been long and they both are exhausted, yet as he teeters on the brink of decision, the strange man slips from the stew to shake the muck heartily from his hide. Wings rise to half-mast, and chin hurls away to the side, but alas he too receives the crude spattering; in the seconds which follow, the male’s name is put forward blandly, and the white woman’s retort comes still faster and more slippery than an eel through the sea.

A surly expression fills the chiselled features of his face, but it recedes again swiftly as he turns lips to preen the longest feathers (flared forward with arms ajar, for he cared little to turn his back on this crowd).

Though bothered by the sudden rise of tension, the listening stallion picks from amidst venom and laugher, a glimmering point of interest. "Your Master?" He queries, tone without stunt and filled very obviously to the brim with intrigue. Weeks before, he and Nora had stumbled upon a God (of the earth), and with expanding pupils now, he ventures one step nearer.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior

Feminine tone quavers like the flimsy spring breeze and it implores with a polite note of desperation that they - the eagle and his dove - should vacate the volatile airs of this meeting. Noah cannot ignore her worry and as she leans tentatively agains the rigid figure of his framework, feathers rise in arc above the fine, petite line of her flesh; it stiffens, a reaction perhaps to that spray of putrid silt, but just as quickly the flare of tension dissolves. Softly fluttering, his velvet nostrils turn to reassure her and he whispers for her ears alone, “…stay, I’ll protect you.”

Realising the error in his method, he doesn't so quickly move to abandon her attention, her very valid concern. “She…” he continues, gesturing visibly towards the dainty, snowy creature as she and the naked bay disband their pointless quarrel, “…Beloved. Like Noah, Nora… And he…” Eyes invite her unsettled (though entirely endearing), pink-blue gaze towards the muddied stallion and then the filly (who still stood present above the queer canine), “…is Canaan, and Sansa.” Tenderly he smiles, tries to reassure - to douse the flames of anxiety - and then reiterates softly, with a slow, guiding muzzle, “…Nora, Noah, Beloved, Canaan, Sansa.”

Already the giggling-mare is answering and twin soldiers - perched ever vigilantly above the return of his curious expression - swivel nearer towards the words of the pasty witch, for the riddles (as he feels they are), spilling from her lips are nothing short of entrancing. It had not occurred to him that there should be more than one god, and suddenly he finds himself contemplating and comparing the recent experience above the molten blue sea. Still, he holds his silence carefully, soaking up the very intriguing (albeit disturbingly told) detail of Beloved’s Master.

Noah considers at length.

Her right eye is a whirlpool of blackness, an abyss that threatens to swallow whole his resolve; the other is silvery and bright (friendlier, almost), and though the pupil within it is too small to rouse a feeling of comfort and reassurance inside him, it is this one which Noah’s sparkling gaze strives to contact.

“Beloved,” his tone murmurs tentatively, slowly, trying to bury the note of anticipation within. Helovia, he is learning fast, is a labyrinth of magic and mysticism - it is dangerous - and he recalls soberly his own few experiences, though mild they are in comparison. “Your Master, the Many Named God…” Who was he to challenge the validity of such a potent message; above all of her enticing revelation, one point struck him like the point of a blade. “… I only want Nora to be safe. How should we serve Him?” Skin hums where her warmth lingers upon him, and the wing lingering over her lowers a little, protectively.

Thoughts graze suddenly over the quest which had been dealt by the God of the Earth only weeks prior.

“Is there another God?” he asks suddenly. The eagle is now careful, representing a new worth of respect, for the white-one has become a prophet, less a lunatic, and his eyes embrace her more tenderly. “Nora and I were given a task by ‘the God of the Earth’. What relation is He to the Master?”

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior