Death. Darkness. It was as though the very warmth was stolen from the air the closer they came to the well guarded prisoner; an echo of it remained within him still, a reminder of the battle he had just barely escaped from with the life intact. Somehow the reaper had been kept within the borders however, and for that the stallion felt a grim pride. He hadn't succumbed to fear, had kept his pride and done what was necessary - more than he was entitled to do. No one could look down on him for this, not even himself.
So these were the effects of truly dark magic. An unusually stern expression lingered over the features of the gray steed as he looked around the former battlefield, following one step behind Mirage. Dead trees, dry earth, moss turned gray and lifeless - such was the curse of the reaper, who's name he was loath to take into his mouth. By dishonoring the agreement between the Edge and the Basin by trying to escape, and by the very nature of his magic the general had made an enemy in Lace. The Glazier wished to see him gone just as much as everyone else, but he agreed with the WeyrLeader that they couldn't just set him free. Solstice was back home and that was great, more than great, but that was not enough. For holding a captive for no apparent reason and with no demands on ransom, for breaking an agreement and for disagreeing with the rightful claim on the land of Worlds Edge that had been won through battle, a statement had to be made. The Qian would tolerate much, but not an attempt at its members. They disagreed with liars, oath-breakers and racists, and now was a time to set down a firm hoof and state an example.
Truce for freedom. It was a cheap price, but as the grulla came to a halt side by side with the DragonHeart and looked at the stone gray unicorn, he had to wonder if even that simple a request would be upheld. The unicorns of Aurora Basin was known for being extremists, unlikely to negotiate; they certainly hadn't been willing before the invasion.
Masking his own tiredness behind a steely expression, the silver-coated craftsman spared the briefest of glances towards the shadow mare next to him as she spoke, worried about the weary tone of her voice; without changing expression he shifted his weight and leaned over, for the briefest moment offering a brush of his scarred shoulder against hers. A small, pointless gesture, offering her all the support he had to give; she wasn't alone.
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