Thor seeks an odd friend in me, as I am often mistaken as a female myself with my slender, even dainty frame. My abstinence from battle surely has not helped either since it seems an inborn trait in those with testicles between their legs. I do have a pair nestled there, though perhaps they are smaller? I can't be sure, I've never really bothered to look at anyone's balls. Maybe I'll take a peek at Thor's later to start building this confirmation.

Either way, girly stallion or not, I am poor company and his pleading gaze goes unnoticed by my grazing head.

My ears twitch with the faintest of movements as Hellena starts to speak. One pivots more towards the group to better catch her words, curious to hear what she would have to say on the matter. I know our ranks of course, but I could always know more, a truth for anyone.

As usual Hellena speaks with an eloquence born of her wise age and career option. Although she is more willing than normal, which gives her tones a more elated tenor, I still find them a wonderful thing to listen to. In my personal silence I have become more attuned to the voices of others than is typical for a horse. Too often I have found, others focus so much on what they wish to say that they do not bother to even listen first. Sometimes I wonder why some horses were even born with ears.

At the mention of my own name I lift my head, lips continuing to drag in the last of my bite. I find all eyes on me for a moment and feel utterly exposed. Embarrassment reclines my ears back and makes my legs bow my body into shyness, wishing suddenly this fog were thicker or that I had the ability to make it so. I have never been well noticed for my rank or expected to deliver anything but my intelligence and prisoners. I am not meant for making speeches, not in the literal term, or in the figurative of standing before a group and swaying their passions and morale. I am weak at best and certainly no leader of any kind. I often think I only have the figurehead of Spectre to call my title due to our original lack of sneaks - perhaps now that there are some more willing, Mirage may see it more fit to promote someone else.

I would not mind. My duty is not done for the sake of glory, and certainly not for the sake of more responsibilities.

I am Spectre now though, and I assume, for some time longer as I do not take it Mirage is liable to demote someone still serving well. It may just mean I need to learn to improve.
Bit by bit, I already have been, because of this herd. Because of my friends. Because of this family here.

Sulwyn strides towards me as Hellena finishes her speech. I nod my head respectfully to her and have long since finished swallowing my meal. She poses a tricky question for one in my position though, and for a moment I am still in thought of how to respond without turning the whole field black.

After this interlude I let my lips part in a gentle smile and bring my tail to my side.

From its tips the black liquid flows, inching out like worms crawling from the ground when it rains. I jerk my tail back in a sudden sweep and the long, dextrous paintbrush uncoils like a hairy snake, swerving and smearing darkness upon the ground. Intently I watch it and its as if my gaze does all the work, though my tail continues to twitch, transcribing my thoughts, my voice into images.

A gnarled tree smothered in black erects itself and beneath it a horse comes to rest. From another strand of ink I make another horse that becomes a bird, which I set into a branch of the tree.

My story is getting complex and I glance to ensure she is following. I don't have the time or the patience to coddle her now. If she wants to work beneath me she must be capable in mind, it's all we have in the intelligence business. My duty is not a selection to be based on dislike of all the other options. It is not the weakest role and certainly not the easiest. If she thinks it so then she will fail and failing in my line means being captured by enemies who will often torture if not kill you. Perhaps even worse, her failure in my line means the capture of another of our herd and their torture and their death.

My gaze is heavy like the night upon this world.

Another strand of ink crafts an additional horse that walks towards the one beneath the tree. The two bow their heads as if in quiet conversation, while the bird in the tree flutters down closer to listen.

My drawing drops, spilling like infected rain upon the loam.
From its pool I create a new scene.

Another horse I make and then many more. The first is encircled by all the rest and they advance suddenly in a wash of obsidian. They merge, and there there were many there now is one, chains of onyx wrapped about its legs. It tries to run but its legs are torn free and its body, deceased, tumbles like a bleak wave to grass at our feet.
It splashes against my hoof, but it all looks the same. The ground will eat it soon enough.


I lift my head and watch her carefully, curious to see if she understands. I need to know not only if she heard me, but if she recognized the worth and the risk at playing with shadows. Fire may burn, but darkness consumes.