Precision marks every step the unicorn takes, his quick disciplined stride and scarred pelt clearly marking him as a warrior. Serious gray eyes scan his surroundings, cautious but not afraid. Even here, hundreds of miles from war-ravaged Vanthra, he watches for the dreaded assassin group that had almost claimed his life once before. Thoughts drift to the medic who had saved him, wondering what had become of the valiant stallion. He had wanted to go back for him, but circumstance had forced the quiet stag to leave without his nameless savior. Regretful, but there was nothing to be done about it now.
A quick toss of his head dismisses the past, and in the pale sunlight his unique markings flash silver. The metallic etchings swirl in abstract patterns, reaching from the base of his equally argent horn down to his velvet muzzle. They grant the soldier an air of elegance, suggesting that he would be just at home in beautifully sculpted palaces as on the battlefield. An illusion, but he allows few to know that. If nothing else, Leon is good at concealing his emotions.
The hush of winter keeps the steed on alert, cataloging every sound and motion in order to avoid ambush. An unlikely scenario, but he has not lived this long by remaining ignorant of anything that may seek to harm him. So, when a coyote springs from the trees in a show of exuberance, he does not flinch, nor when a brightly colored bird darts across his path in a flurry of red feathers. Such sights actually serve to reassure the veteran, proof that nothing malicious lurks about, for the animals would not travel about so blithely if they sensed any hint of a threat.
The crunch of snow alerts him to the approach of another, something large enough to tramp through the icy powder rather than run lightly over the top of it. The sound of the steps suggest an equine form, or perhaps a large deer. Head turns to face the source of the noise, wary. He has not come here for a fight, merely a place to rest. Wearily, he waits for the intruder to move into view.
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Psyche the DarkEmpress Posts: 380
| Deceased |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 hh :: 8 (ages in Orangemoon) Buff: ENDURE |
| RayoDeSoleil |
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She is not scarred as a warrior may be, but she has seen plenty of battles in her lifetime.
The chunk of flesh removed by the winged Sultana of the Dragon's Throat has still not regrown at the base of her mane, nor will it ever; the only thing that remains is scar tissue, stretched tight over the bone of her spine. In other places on her bodice, one might find small marks of previously fought battles, but there are none like those of her Plague-sister, Elizabeth, or even like those of this stallion. They had seen true battle; the shadow-mare had merely seen victims, too many victims to count. They had been helpless, or course, and few had fought back. Why, she might never understand. It wasn't like they couldn't - but they hadn't, and she had reigned victorious, and that was that.
She did not often venture into the Threshold anymore; her duties in the Basin proved more time-consuming that one might originally assume. But still, it was her duty to present their face to those entering Helovia. It would grow their numbers, if nothing else, which may not be entirely necessary, but would always be welcome. Still, she hoped that she had not placed her responsibilities aside for nothing, as she was rather selective about those who she would bring into her harem. And so it was that delicate nostrils flared, taking in the many scents of the waypoint into the lands of Helovia, searching for a fresh, distinctly unicorn scent.
And found one. Ivory-dipped pistons propelled her forward, bringing her into sight of the unicorn stallion. He was slightly taller than she with a bay pelt marked with silver dapples. Other strange, silver markings lit his hide as well, and a smooth, grey horn adorned his crown. His physique was that of a traditional unicorn: cloven hooves, a leonine tail, a small tuft of hair at its end. Her own body was not quite the same. She had the tail of an equine, long and flowing, and hooves that were solid. It could not be said, however, that her blood was not pure; as the granddaughter of Riekahn the Crimson King, it was sure that she was a unicorn to the core.
The scars upon his pelt marked him as a warrior, and she could always use more of those. The way he held himself suggested that he was waiting for her, that he had heard her approach. So perhaps he wouldn't be entirely useless to her. "Hello there, darling," she called in an almost-cheerful voice. Her tones dripped honey, alluring, and yet at the same time dangerous, an odd combination. "And welcome to Helovia."
[W/C | xxx]
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Walk walk walk.
"Talk talk talk."
Think think think.
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![[Image: psycheicon.png]](http://i800.photobucket.com/albums/yy285/schwartze_asylum/psycheicon.png)
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Use of force and/or magic (with the exception of death) is allowed at all times.
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