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Larkspur swiftly came to the conclusion that she did not like the desert any more than she did the strange, undesirable creatures of the winged and horned variety that inhabited it. They had trekked through the last vestiges of ice and snow as they passed south, down through the mountains that surrounded their home, and further south still until the rolling hills and emerald enshrouded woodlands gave way to the barren, lifeless stone and fine grained sand of the Throat’s northern border. The powdered soil stuck to her nostrils, coating her lungs in its incessant and unavoidable presence, and she could taste its salt like quality in her mouth. It was hotter in this strange place, nothing like the comforting cold of the Basin, and the cerulean and shadow hued mare could feel the distinct and radiating rays of the sun in a sky devoid of clouds as they beat down on her back. If all went as Lena planned, perhaps they would make quick work of this attempt at diplomacy and return home with both their brethren, as well as themselves, unscathed.
She could hope at least.
She had agreed to follow her herd sister on this trip, a chore of ambassadors and emissaries; because she trusted the bay mare more so than anyone else she had met thus far. Larkspur was of no calling or creed that denoted her as one to handle the affairs of those sent as messengers to talk about peace and armistice, but she would not let Lena travel on this possible fool’s errand alone. Faelene, whom she had just met since this journey began, gave the warrior some comfort. The midnight mare with the crimson mane looked fierce in the armor she bore upon her back, a commanding aura that bespoke of the mare’s courage and strength, and would surely give whoever found them reason to think twice before approaching. Like a shadow she remains behind them both by two of her longest strides at a walking pace, positioned on the opposing side of Faelene, gilded eyes narrowed and surveying their surroundings with the utmost attention. She is composed of silence and an uncharacteristic serenity, muscles taught, coiled and prepared to spring beneath her skin. She moves with cat like grace across the sands behind her comrades, attentive and rapt, every sight and every sound taken note of as they come to a languid, unhurried stop. Lena’s voice rings clear, lyrical and smooth against the still of the desert air.
Somewhere behind her and out of sight Larkspur knows the russet-red vagabond, Déodat, lingers in wait, another source of reassurance should things go terribly wrong. She and the bay unicorn had been recruited for one purpose. Should the talks of benevolent diplomacy and negotiation give way to something of a more violent nature, they would have to make sure that their herd mates were protected. The first arrival on the scene is a black mare strewn in threads of silver across her darkened skin, and Larkspur tenses momentarily, for she has never laid eyes on Elizabeth before now. At her welcome the cerulean mare relaxes, at least as much as she can mannage given the volatile situation, and she listens in contemplative silence at her greeting. The most she offers her emprisoned herd mate is a quick and cordial dip of her horned head, knowing now is not the time or place for anything else. The situation, not to mention the wearied state the mare seemed to be in, allows Larkspur to reserve her own salutations and introductions for a later time, choosing to remain quiet and delibrately scanning the dunes that surround them for any other individuals who would happen upon their little group. She lingers like a restless, aggrivated spirit in the strands and tangles of proffered amity, a glowering, baleful soul who seems to seethe and roil in muted loathing of the entire situation. Larkspur hopes more than anything that these southern strangers will at least stop and make an attempt to listen to Lena’s voice of reason before deciding to take any drastic measures. And if not, than she was prepared to meet them.
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Be great in act, as you have been in thought. [rescue]
