[open] give me something to believe in; any

[magnus]

magnus

howling ghosts, they reappear
in mountains that are stacked with fear

The day is cold, even for winter in Beqanna, and Magnus watches as his breath plumes in front of him. As a stallion born and raised in the jungle and who now calls the volcanic island home, it is a sharp change in temperature. He was used to and made for the humidity. He was made for the air that you could feel as you breathed, warming your throat and settling into your lungs. His thin-skinned coat was designed to help him lose heat quickly—and he was happier when he was slick with sweat instead of shivering cold.

Still, there are things worth braving the bitter wind, and helping others find a home is one of them.

For the most part, the day has been devoid of companionship. The field was in one of its lulls, and although he saw a few horses here and there, it was mostly just those passing through on their way to something and somewhere else. So when he sees the pair of them, the young colt and the calm-eyed mare, his smile deepens, his gold-flecked eyes brightening as he angles his path to make his way toward them.

He arrives in time to watch the colt draw his vision into the snow and Magnus smiles, nodding with encouragement at the other. “Clever,” he remarks, glancing up and finding the other’s gaze. He doesn’t know exactly why he has restored to drawing instead of speaking, but he can imagine. He looks toward the mare, his smile crooked. “I believe he’s showing you a picture of home.” His gaze slides back over to the colt as if affirming the statement. “One of the more mountainous regions, I’m assuming.”

He pauses to think, ticking through the lands in his head. “Perhaps, Loess?” He watches the other, hoping to see a sign that he has landed on the right name. “Or Hyaline?” Both were new to him, unveiled to Beqanna during his absence, and he can only pull on overheard conversation to piece together his guesses.

Still, he doesn’t mind the guess game, or doing what he can to fill in the gaps—so much so that he almost forgets to introduce himself entirely. “Ah, apologies.” Another charming grin, whiskey voice hoarse from the disuse and the cold. “My name is Magnus, and I’m from Tephra.”

but you're a king and I'm a lionheart