there will be scars, Da

[Erebor]

We are at war. There will be scars.

He is a perennial seeker of knowledge, constantly in search of things that might give an advantage to the Chamber. And in his present state, so (relatively) young and (mostly) untrained, there is little for him to do but wander and learn. His mother has agreed to allow him to join both the Chamber's castes, and he hopes his training will begin soon. But for now, he figures his best choice is to wander the wide world of Beqanna, meeting as many horses as possible and learning as much as possible.

He's inherited his mother's opinion of social pleasantries. His natural all-business attitude seems to have transferred over from her to him while he was in utero. He was born like iron, strong like steel and equally Spartan. He is a child born for battle, an instrument of the Chamber, and that is exactly as it should be. He is the first child in many years born solely for political gain. He is not a child of Warship and Straia; he is a Prince of the Chamber, born of her, born for her sake.

But now, today, he is in the Meadow. He is seeking anything that seems relevant to his home's interests, anything from new members, to knowledge of events elsewhere in Beqanna that he could bring back and share with his home. This is the first time that he has ventured to the Meadow alone, but he's never been scared of anything, let alone a simple trip. He's not the kind of stupid-brave that some princes of legend have been known to be; he's the kind of quiet, resolute brave that you hope everyone in the world will be. The kind that gets results, the kind that gets the job done, the kind on which the great achievements of the world have been built. And he expects nothing less from himself than absolute achievement. Not because he deserves it, but because the Chamber deserves it, and he will work to make it happen.

He stands on the edge of the meadow, scanning the horses assembled below. Some of them chat in tight knots, their heads bowed together. Some of them graze or lounge alone. It is early yet, and a thick layer of fog still hangs over the crisp morning, wisps and tendrils slipping silently between the trees, pricked by the tall grasses like knives.

The Chamber-prince is black like an iron spike in the soft grey morning. There is something rigid and regal about his small frame; he's no more than six months of age, but to look at him you'd think he's an old soul – or an old soldier. He is entirely black, solidly built, every inch his father's son. It's internally, in his mind, that he is his mother's child.

But he is a patient child, and as the sun climbs higher into the sky, he studies the horses of the Meadow, hoping to choose the one with the most strategic advantage.

He's not one to waste time on idle chatter.

Erebor

Native Prince of the Chamber

warship x straia