Skywalker has always preferred the night and its ample secrets; in the gloom that clings so readily to his black skin, his ulterior motives are allowed to thrive and fester, shaping and reshaping in the most disturbing of ways. The thin, black stallion is fiercely ambitious and that ambition keeps him occupied – why else would he linger in that godforsaken marsh that reeks of rot and lunacy? Amongst his newfound peers he disregards that his own sanity could well be questioned and he does not think that his obsessive-compulsive tendencies are remotely unsound. He is terrible and proud: these traits of character making an honest appraisal of his faults impossible. So, he has moved out of the pestilent silence in the spectral marsh, and traversed all the way back to the threshold under the pretext that he cannot keep in the company of the insane. Why, he wonders, do they take such terrible pride in being dysfunctional?

The night also offers him the luxury of watching without being seen: a convenience made easier by his tar-black skin and the strange constancy of night that holds Helovia clenched in an iron fist. A gathering of shadows and trees on the westernmost border of the threshold harbors him and he is thankful for the vantage point as it gives him the opportunity of choosing his company. Something, he has learned, not too common in these overcrowded lands. From where he stands he watches her stumble across the treacherous lips of the borderlands, his face is clad in a blur of mild disinterest and ugly curiosity. If you know Skywalker, it is not hard to say from which part of him the two, conflicting attitudes sprout. Bolted hard against arrogance and indifference, disinterest is the most prominent and frequent expression to surface on his hard face, but his obsession on the other hand – that feverish ambition that goads him in his every endeavor – cultivates a morsel of interest in his chest. Keenly he watches her stumble towards the water, slightly amused by her stumbling weariness.

And then he detaches himself from the shadows, his blue eyes fixed on her as she lowers her head to the cool water, his movements are slow and easy but his stride is no less in the length of a wanderer. It does not take him long to stand at the other side of the stream, coming to a halt in such proximity that, if there had been any sun, his shadow would fall into the water by her muzzle, warped and distorted by it’s quick run.

“Are you lost,” he asks and steps into the water, the numbing sensation washing against his forelegs, “or just dying of thirst?”

S K Y W A L K E R.


Hemlock

Skywalker does not listen; her answer runs off him like water and he is too preoccupied, greedily letting his eyes wander over her. His eyes, while eerily blue in true light, seem grey like falling rain as they slip over her from shoulder to hip; the semblance is uncanny, disturbing even. And he dotes on it all the more. The lines and angles of her body gather themselves up like whispers, incoherent on their own but when they amass into a single shape they become a sleepy lullaby, a low, singsong voice in the dark. Something tells him that he wants this delicate little thing that has so graciously presented itself to him, this subtle perfection that is so close to his, had it not been for the hard, ugly shape of his nose. He dips his muzzle into the water and helps himself to a long drink, but the water does not quench this thirst and he looks up again, unsatisfied. As always.

She does not seem unsettled by him and he finds the realization strangely welcome; usually he relishes in the fact that he is fearsome and awe-inspiring, but not tonight. Tonight he wants the company of this mare and her cool composure, tonight he relishes in glancing at a greatly improved mirror image of himself. Skywalker wonders how she feels, or rather how it feels to run his muzzle down that unforgiving but somehow unflawed slope of her shoulder. His lip brushes against his chest when he tucks his nose in, feigning mortification as she remarks at his appearance; the succession of dry, moderate laughter reveals his ploy, however. Skywalker is well aware of his uncomely face – he has, after all lived with it for some years now. But his complete disregard for his visual shortcomings has tended to, after a while, make him curiously appealing. However unlikely that might seem at first glance. Contrasts, someone called it, and he has never been one to object. Where someone else might have cringed at the uncouth nature of her consideration, the stallion finds himself entirely comfortable. Not too surprising, perhaps, given his aloof nature.

“Perhaps,” his face is upturned again and he tilts his head slightly, as if to give her a better look, “but I’ve a hard time finding something that sticks; the snow keeps melting.” He proceeds to shake his head, making his long neck seem all the more snakelike and treacherous, “so I make due with what I’ve got and, strangely enough, I do get by. Better than you might expect.”

A pause coupling with a sly smile; silence, and then:

“Granted, you don’t look awful, but you lack character. How absolutely devastating that must feel.”

S K Y W A L K E R.


Hemlock

It seems that no matter how hard one might try, finding yourself alone in the threshold is simply an impossibility; he has not revisited these borderlands since his first arrival to Helovia and now he realizes, annoyed, what a terrible and overcrowded place it is. The irritation lingers, he lifts his head and whips his thin tail against his hocks: fluid but somehow exaggerated movement. A fluent display of dissatisfaction. As the pale unicorn (has he ever been this close to one of those wretched things? He wonders at the question for a moment and then reminds himself of the glass-horned Seele, the antlered Argona) slips from the velveteen cloak of perpetual darkness (much too close for him) and announces her coming by chastising him, he does not instantly reply. In fact, he takes a long moment before even considering her, unwilling to look at anything else at this nocturnal flower, petaled with something he will soon discover and identify as stupidity. All the better: Skywalker has never really liked mares who insist on thinking for themselves.

Slowly, he turns his head towards Artemis; staring coolly at their newfangled, unwelcome company. He has not seen her before but is careful to make a mental note of her, to remember that spiraling horn and the quaint, bloodlike marking in her face. You see; constantly plagued by his ostentatiousness, the black stallion has some minor difficulties with being chastised by those he does not consider his superiors. Couple that with a ferocious vindictiveness driving him steadily towards the cusps of insanity and it is evident that he is unlikely to let such liberties go by unpunished. What she is predisposed to think of him, and for what reasons, he is unmindful of – it bears little relevance in the dark, self-indulgent corners of his mind. The simple fact that she dares address him in a chiding manner, however, is a fact that he simply cannot suffer. He registers the mass and probable power that simpers in her shoulders, makes a quick evaluation of the situation and finally decides that the mare, however audacious the slight might be, will have to wait. He is – after all – here on the behalf of the Asylum. “And why exactly is that,” he asks, careful to maintain a certain levelness in his voice, not lacing it with the threat another situation might have called for.

His attention is soon to return to Hemlock as she interrupts and the sharpness of her voice serves to dull the ardor of his own exasperation. An ear flicks in her direction and he remains as unmoved by her poisonous glares as her remark on his appearance. Ask him and he is likely to name his greatest strength to be the innate and complete disregard for anyone but himself. He wants to remedy himself, shake the nightmares and the constant humming of ambition out of his head; too much time spent with the loonies, he thinks and knows that the best way to make amends are probably the simple urges of intimacy. Thus far, his black sister is the best thing he has come across – he glances at the monolithic wraith, warrior-like and statuesque. Skywalker is curious at her answer because he truly does not understand why he should treat these mares any different than he would anyone else; surely, she must understand that in a world of horns and wings and magic, gender is one of the least relevant issues to concern oneself with.

And then, another interruption: of course. Skywalker shifts his weight and cooks a hoof, he is as visibly annoyed as Hemlock, by now, and the state of irritation only intensifies when he recognizes the last part of their quartet. Harmony. There is something about her – this realization is a sullen and cantankerous one – that leaves a bad taste in his mouth and a blazing fever on his forehead. Can’t stand her, isn’t the right term but it is the first thing to come to his mind. He purses his lips, the smile gone, and he faintly remembers her skin under his lips. Disgusting. “Harmony,” he repeats mechanically, unsure if it is even worth to acknowledge the mare.

“She keeps my introductions, it seems,” he glances back at Hemlock and gestures, unceremoniously, towards the straggler, “now, since you’ve travelled for some time, don’t think of me as anything else than someone who is going to take you from this godforsaken place and offer you a home.”

S K Y W A L K E R.

“A rose is a rose is a rose,” he declares evenly and holds her gaze as bravely as she holds his. Skywalker is not surprised; he remains unmoving while the creek rushes frivolously into an eager accompaniment to his voice. The stallion rarely bubbles with laughter, as the brook is prone to do, and the stark contrast it galvanizes on his voice is teeming with effect. Naturally, this pale mare should disregard her short shadow of influence and take it upon herself to rant on, granting him her meaningless opinion and thusly bolting herself against the plight of stupidity. Unblinking, the black shadow sighs into the still night that begins to break into a rare predawn glow; it is not the first time he comes across someone like her, and sadly it is unlikely to be the last. The rashness and thoughtlessness with which she presents her argument is something he has seen before. Had she restrained herself for only a morsel of time, harnessing her words, turning them over in her mouth, perhaps they would not have betrayed her in such a blatant way, and her stoic expression would have remained plausible, unbroken.

But alas! A mare is a mare is a mare and he does not need to speak to prove his point, but does so nonetheless; the sun rises slowly on the horizon and he ventures out into the light to quench an overwhelming thirst: superiority. “You make me curious, Artemis. You make me curious because you so boldly assume that I intend to demean her. You make me curious because it seems that your perception of mockery and its uses seem so terribly narrow. Surely, you cannot possibly be so daft?” He leaves the question hanging between them for a little while, hoping its suspension in the pale morning light will be enough for her to think it over. He ignores the itching feeling that he is likely talking over her head – she has not exactly presented herself as the most insightful of creatures. “You fight as well as I do, I’m sure. And that is precisely the reason why I ask you why I am at fault for mocking a lady. I see no difference in the attributes of gender and it would be most illogical if I were to treat you any different on the basis of it. Don’t be so hasty in your judgments, lest you’d want your company to think that they stem from your prejudices.”

By now, his amusement has reared its ugly head and he portrays it with a broken smile: he is a terrible thing, this black wraith that does not break her stare. He knows that he has already broken her; the question is if she will admit it? “My arrogance, it seems, is well grounded. Still, I will be kind enough to advise you not to make idle threats – it’s so unbecoming.”

S K Y W A L K E R.