Where Adalaide is swathed in the bright mists of gregariousness, Skywalker finds himself moodier than usual. A storm is gathering itself up under his skin, the conic nethermost of a tornado nearing ground. With the heavy scent of unlikely springtime flowering boldly in the perpetual dark Skywalker scours the lands for a home to which he can attach his purpose. This far? Nothing. He moves idly through the lavish of crisp foliage while the steady drum of his ambition becomes a second set of angry heartbeats in his black chest. And above all, the thin black stallion is weary. He is weary of empty gallantries that get him nowhere, this jovial, mindless blabber without the conclusion that his rational and oftentimes impatient, condemnatory mind craves. The horizon is vast here, he has decided, and his ascent upon it, to make himself legendary is long overdue.

“Curse those good times,” he stops abruptly by her side and he delivers his rude reply from taut, scornful lips. The storm descends upon his slanting shoulders but he holds on to his restraint a moment longer. Strange, he thinks in the harsh quiet that follows her chuckle, blue eyes. There has been no shortage of female company, all sporting eyes as blue as his. But where Adalaide’s gaze is reminiscent of mild summer days, his is as cold and bleak as the harshest of winter mornings.

Hateful, proud Skywalker bears no more room for warmth in the tar-black corridors of his mind; there are other, more important things that thrive there.

Somewhere under his skin the urge to destroy has begun to fester and gnaw feverishly on his long shadow of near pious discipline, urging him to let that fearful tempest tear through a crack in his patience. “I’ve had enough of this senseless benevolence,” he admits and is quite surprised that he does so. He sweeps his head to the left and gestures towards an indefinite space in the claustrophobic, ripened dark, “this place has been submerged in night for I don’t know how long, and yet you all seem to act as though all is fine and well. I would expect that someone would be a little tentative, but no: all cheer and joy,” he stands shoulder to shoulder with the mare who does not quite dwarf him yet overshadows him in both bulk and height, and while he speaks as if he were another one of those blabbering fools he looks at her. For a moment, the haughty disdain is vanished from his unpolished face and he looks at her instead from behind an expression of wretchedness.

It does not suit him. It does not suit him to speak so brazenly to a stranger, to abandon his stance of scorn to the idle dark and it worries him. But this is a strange place and strange places do strange things to all creatures: those of his like are not spared. He considers the mare from amidst a wearying tumult; he thinks to himself that her skin is like a night’s sky, only inverted, freckled with dark instead of light. Still surprised by his own verbosity – a thing so foreign to him – his mind proceeds to wander to the strength that evidently ripples underneath her skin, as it must with such a hefty build. Useful, something tells him and he makes note of it before speaking again, his voice softer this time: “I’m sorry, stranger, I spoke out of turn.”

He tilts his head, all feigned boyishness, “who knows,” a futile attempt to answer her greeting, “but does it really matter?”

S K Y W A L K E R.

WC: 454
Adalaide

“Not all of us share your opinion,” he frowns, still astonished by his own flagrant outburst. This would undoubtedly lead them astray, onto a topic much too vague for his sensible taste. Inhaling the cool, thin air and exhaling a fine mist as pale as the lamplight glow of the moon he looks at her and wonders if he should humor her and argue against her philanthropic views on hope. True, he had been hopeful once, as every child must be before being ruined by misfortune; true, he had seen hope dig a seabed into dry earth, making way for a tsunami of change that seemed impossible. Skywalker is no stranger to the concept of hope – only, he has taught himself how to use it to his advantage.

Today, however, he is in no mood for a debate on the subject and drops it, letting it sink away like a heavy stone in water. He is quiet for a moment longer, seemingly slipping in and out of thought before continuing, his voice light as the grey tufts of cloud littering the dark sky. “My hope, for example, has given way to other sentiments, the consequence of life has dulled it… considerably.”

That would do.

“It’s delighting to know that yours is still bright,” he adds dryly before lowering his head to a new, luxurious tussock of grass by his hooves, its heavy scent cloying. While chewing – the taste much too pungent for his frugal tastes – he notices how the tempest under his skin has somehow slowed and he is relieved that it has done so. This mare has done nothing to deserve his quick, flaring temper, and he finds it best to keep it harnessed for some other occasion. He raises his head and shakes it, momentarily letting his relatively short mane loose in a black halo around his swiveling ears, his taut jaw loosens, a little more ease in his thin shoulders. Skywalker looks at her again, his gaze as intense as always. “Skywalker, misanthropist and outcast, leading nothing but myself,” he offers and then proceeds to ask, unceremoniously: “The Storm Strike?”

There is nonchalance in his movements as he flicks a strand of tar-black mane from his eyes and a sliver of amusement in his voice. “Doesn’t sound too hopeful.”

S K Y W A L K E R.

WC: 382
Adalaide

He starts moving again, towards the heart of the field, and nudges her gently on the shoulder to encourage her to follow him. The subject they’ve moved on to is still too abstract for his tastes, but he decides that he will not abandon this as easily as the aforementioned contemplation on hope. At least this had some substance and thus it finds some traction in the dark crevasses of his mind. Of course, Skywalker is too embittered and his emotions have simpered in a dank coffin for too long to have a reasonable opinion on the matter. In his world the boundaries of power and authoritarianism weigh too heavy to be lifted to such utopic heights as his newfound company speaks of. Slave to his reason and infatuated with discipline, the black stallion simply does not believe that individuals can govern themselves in such a way. He has witnessed too many failures, in all aspects of life, to believe in the value of the individual, to believe in what is good.

Besides, the one thing that constantly echoes between his ears is the feverish hunger for absolute power and ways in which he can obtain such a position. “That sounds charitable,” he finally answers with the same light tone of voice, as if they were speaking of the weather and not ideologies, “but I don’t think highly of it, to be honest,” without anything else than absolute neutrality adorning his voice he continues speaking, while gently shaking his head. “The problem with this idea is the perception of what is good and just – it is not the same to everyone and above all it is not a constant thing. It is easy to say that you fight for what is good but it is much harder to define what is good and what isn’t.”

A pause and a smile: “let me take tyranny for example. If the tyrant acts on behalf of his subjects, leading in a way so that they are pleased with his every decision. If he strengthens the herd, gives everyone meaningful tasks, makes sure that everyone is happy, should we still consider his rule illegitimate simply because he is a tyrant?”

Skywalker’s heart beats a little quicker – he will not deny that he wishes to be a tyrant, that his word should weigh heavier than anyone else’s, because he believes that this is the way to truly bring happiness to his people. In that sense there is still some altruism left in him, albeit twisted and corrupted. “And suffering,” he speaks slower now, “is sometime necessary in order to achieve something else that, in the long term, will relieve it.”

S K Y W A L K E R.

WC: 445
Adalaide