Not afraid to close my eyes [diplomats;any]

[Weir]

 Bare brush whistles with wind through their fingerlike branches, one might never know the oncoming of spring here. It appeared bleak to him, with no sprouts shooting fresh and green from the soil. The screeches of birds and chicks were non-existent making for a too-quiet atmosphere. The treeless ecosystem lacked most vegetation he was used to seeing, though he knew the biome to have a very short growing season. There was little to enjoy here but enjoyment was subjective. What he thought was an opportunity for new experiences, another may see as a cruel form of punishment.

Though the roan knew that the land would be unforgiving, he was still surprised at just how very true that was. The acreage was hardly clear of snow, drifts still clung to dips in the land where they refused to budge. Permafrost caught at his daggers, a questionable situation to those that were unaccustomed to traveling with slick footing. He took it easy, carefully considering each step before placing his chestnut limbs to the ground. Rough shrubs barely teemed with life against the still, chill air. Though he was sure that to its residents, this might seem rather warm. Not so much for Weir, he was glad to be clinging still to his outgrown coat, to have that thin barrier between himself and the bite of the air. Rust colored tresses fly in whips about his neck and hindquarters, snapping in the air current in protest.

His amber orbs looked impressively up at what he thought could only be called ‘The Wall.’ Looming above him up into the stratosphere, was one of the largest monuments of ice he had ever viewed.  A single break in its formation to allow passage, something he was sure rested well with the locals, and not so much for those who wished to pass unnoticed. Weir had no such motives, he was here on business, and a little bit of education maybe. He considered everything some form or other of education though. So to say it truly was may have been a stretch.

Sure that he could not be missed, he entered slowly through the passage, his usual sauntering gait. Seeming to have no concept of hurry, though he did stop on the other side of the blockade. Releasing a shrill whistle against the winds, hoping to make himself heard. An ermine scampers across the earth, catching the stags attention before finding its way back in its burrow. He was pleased with the sight, any sighting of animal life was a gift, as he was sure it would be rare. The populations in such a wilderness were very unpredictable, and therefore unstable.

Eclectic Vagabond of the Dale

[Hurricane]

The long, cold months of winter are nearly at an end. With the promise of summer hanging in the frigid breeze, he allows himself to look forward to the all too brief warmer months ahead. The Tundra has long been his home, so the cold bothers him little. Even still, he rather enjoys the (somewhat tepid) warmth of the summer months. They are nothing compared to even the winter months in the arid climes of the desert, but still they are welcome.

When he finds himself thinking (yet again) of the Deserts and, more importantly, of her, he quickly jerks his mind back to the present. He is disciplined enough that he is able to keep himself relatively focused. Disciplined enough to (mostly) keep his mind off of her. But still he finds thoughts of her creeping in more often than he would care to admit. The urge to seek her out once again sits impatiently within him, but for the moment, he ignores it. They both have duties to see to, in lands so far apart and so vastly different.

And those duties are the reason he is to be found high in the skies, large, pale wings stretched wide as he floats on a thermal. His dark eyes are focused upon the ground as he survey’s the land below him. He has spent the last several hours circling the edges of the kingdom, ensuring everything is in order. He doubts anyone could trespass easily beyond the wall without their noticing, but he is not a trusting sort. So when he sees the lone figure about to enter through the one opening in the wall, he is immediately on alert.

His heart leaps involuntarily in his chest as the thought occurs to him that it could be her. But no. The next moment proves unerringly that it is not. The figure is wrong, the color, the walk. Everything is wrong.

He does not approach immediately. It seems clear in the way he hesitates before entering, in the fact that he is alone and seems to be in no hurry, that he is here for diplomatic purposes. Instead he waits, giving those with more diplomatic acumen than he the opportunity to greet him. When no one approaches and it becomes clear he might easily make it to the center of the kingdom before he stumbles across anyone, Hurricane drops slowly from the sky.

Landing with a thump before the visitor, his dark, steely gaze fixes upon the roan stallion. Tucking his wings easily into his pale sides, he offers his own form of a greeting.

I am Hurricane. What is your purpose here?

There is never a day that goes by

that is a good day to die.

Hurricane

html c Insane

[Crito]

The Tundra is only as hard and unforgiving as one makes it.

He’d learned that lesson early on as a new transplant from the humid Jungle, as he was bitterly cold even in the relative warmth of summer. No one had told him how to survive the desolate place.  He had to find the caves himself.  He had to learn when to venture out into the snowdrifts.  He had to learn where to look for the last traces of lichen on the boulders that had tumbled down from the mountain.  He might have only barely survived that first winter, but in all the following years, Crito had thrived.

Of course, the isolation has always suited him just fine.  He’s always been stubborn and as stuck to his ways as the lichen is to the granite.  His mother had habituated him to being alone when he’d been a colt.  Echion always had more important matters to attend to, and even when she managed to grace the twins with her presence, she might as well have not bothered at all – her shoulder was as cold and unfeeling as the ice Crito now walks on.  

He’s gotten better, though.  Old age might not have made him any wiser, but it has brought him a newfound clarity.  An urgency replaces the marrow in his creaking bones, a desire to do more before it’s too late.  He wants to help.  And whether it’s due to a deep-seated loyalty for his family or for simply for himself, he doesn’t know. What he does know is that he is a part of the Brotherhood.  To uphold his place in it and to fulfill his new sense of duty, he cannot live as a hermit, as much as it often pains him to be social.

 The bay roan ambles towards the ice wall, having heard the piercing call moments before.  It’s not terribly cold yet, but autumn brings a definite chill that he feels even through his shaggy coat.  Crito hasn’t left the confines of the kingdom in quite a while, and as Errant’s newly named right hand man, he means to remedy that fact.  He needs to learn how the other kingdoms are faring in order to properly assist his king.  The thought of traveling makes him grumpy, however, and he’s scowling by the time he reaches the pair of stallions.  

He nods at the familiar Hurricane before turning to the other roan.  “Hello, gentlemen.”  He can’t place the smell that comes off the stranger.  It’s not the Tundra, at least, and he cheers considerably.  One less kingdom I have to visit.  Hurricane has already asked the golden question, so he only offers his name to the likely-diplomat.  “Crito.”  The weathered man tries to shift his weight to a more comfortable position, but grimaces when he finds it is less so than his original stance.  Damn old bones, he thinks to himself, giving up on the endeavor entirely and waiting.  

C R I T O

king's hand of the tundra

ooc: I dunno how I missed this thread.  Apologies!

[Weir]

HOCKETY, POCKETY, WOCKETY, WACK

He had not taken note to how long he had been waiting. He was far too busy having a look around, from the spot he stood of course. He toed the ice, scraping a blackened hoof at the layers that made patches along the ground. It wouldn’t take much to defend a place like this, one misstep and off to the Beach you went.

As he stands alone, considering opportunities of defense for such a place, a figure drops from the sky to stand before him. He does not immediately look up from his silent considerations, first finishing his last trail of thought in his mind. A note, a bookmark to hold its place. Perhaps later he would think on this again.

Amber eyes draw from the ground into the hard stare of a dappled gray. He thought that the males’ appearance was as cold and unforgiving as the land in which he resided. No matter, Weir was not one prone to attitude. He meets the others no-nonsense inquiries with a smile, a broad thing warming up his chilled cheeks. ”Ah, Good mid-morning to you.” A shake of his russet crown, following a path down and across his body, meant to send away the chill.

Before he continues there is another male to approach. This one is roan, like himself, but a much cooler tone of brown. A place for everything, and everything in its place, how true. His features display a soured mood, lips tilting downward at the corners. A simple name speaks forth and he adjusts, unhappy with the outcome, stiffness taking his stance.

”It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His eyes blink closed as he dips his head, gesturing his acknowledgment. ”I am Weir, of the Dale. I have been chosen to exchange words, and carry out duties of politics on its behalf here in the Tundra.” He looks brightly between the two, taking careful notes of their stance, the lines of their faces, their overall body language.
”We are currently under the rule of King Ramiel son of Tiphon and Talulah. I’ve come to discuss our position and standings with the Tundra, and whose men do I address?” He blinked his amber eyes, looking expectantly at each.

WEIR

The Dale's Eccentric Magic Manipulator

[Hurricane]

The roan stallion is almost absent-minded in his attention towards him, something he would not have thought a diplomat seeking their favor would be. It takes him a moment to even glance up at him. The delay causes one brow to tilt up, his only reaction to the visitor’s distracted mien as he lifts his gaze. The flinty cast to his features, nor the easy way in which he composes himself shows any further hint of opinion.

A strong gust of wind whips across the flat expanse, snaring manes and tangling tails, leaving a distinct chill on the skin. He wonders then how the newcomer fares in their frigid clime. Not that he would stoop to ask. The man had chosen, of his own free will, to venture into their frozen northlands. In any case, he might even benefit from exposure to the harsh climate. And, if nothing else, he would have an experience to share with the rest of his kingdom once he returned to his no doubt more temperate home.

Before the stallion has a chance to introduce himself, Hurricane notices Crito approaching. Excellent. Someone less likely to offend the poor bastard than he. His honesty, one of the very qualities that define him is also one of the qualities that make him a poor diplomat. Not that honesty is a bad trait in a diplomat, more that his honesty combined with his lack of regard for other’s feelings makes it a particularly bothersome trait when the goal is flattery. Or, at the very least, not offending the other party.

The roan introduces himself them, informing them in a rather roundabout way of who he is and from whence he hails. Dark gaze flicking back to the stallion, he studies him closely for a brief moment. Last he had heard, Tiphon had been the Dale’s king. Although, from the sounds of it, this Ramiel is Tiphon’s son, so the ascension is unsurprising.

So, the Dale has changed hands. Good to know.

He pauses then, as though processing the information, before answering Weir’s question. His expression, however, remains as stony as ever.

We serve under Errant.

He would let Crito handle the question-asking. That is his forte, after all.

There is never a day that goes by

that is a good day to die.

Hurricane

html c Insane

[Crito]

The Dale. Ah, that’s the smell coming off of the other roan man. With his aged nose, it’s a rather weak scent, but still distinct. There are traces of pine and deciduous decay similar to the Chamber he’s more familiar with. Crito doesn’t know much about the once-neutral kingdom, other than the fact that his niece – Errant’s daughter – ruled it in the recent past. He’d meant to visit her years ago (had schemed to visit all of the kingdoms in his lifetime, really) but of course, his life hadn’t panned out exactly as he’d meant it to. Too little too late, my life in a nutshell, he thinks to himself, though it’s no longer a bitter thought. He’s come to accept his late start as a contributing member of society – he only hopes his brother doesn’t resent him too much for it.

As he studies the visiting man with a careful, calculating gaze, Crito realizes that he and Hurricane aren’t dealing with the usual diplomat. Weir’s words are alright: dry and tailor-made for the Tundra, if a bit detailed. But the way he holds himself is atypical. The Hand had seen his pause after Hurricane’s introduction even from a distance. He’d observed the blank recognition before Weir had begun his spiel, diving headfirst into waters he seems not to have swum in before. It doesn’t bother Crito that the Dale has sent a new diplomat (he’s the last one to complain about quirkiness, even he realizes this). If anything, it will make this otherwise boring meeting all the more interesting and shake him from his initial grumpiness.

It’s clear that Hurricane is handing him the reigns to lead the conversation, anyway, why not make use of the power? He does tell the Dalean their king’s name, and Crito nods agreeably, turning to the roan stallion when his Brother finishes speaking. He wonders what the man knows of their former arrangement or if he is too new to his own kingdom to know its history. Surely, he’s not been a peacekeeper for long, anyway. “I’m not sure if you know, Weir,” he pauses, reading the roan’s face for hints of recognition. “We were allies in the not-so-distant past, but our relationship dissolved once our king returned to the throne.”

The old man flicks his tail against his haunches, absently remembering days long gone. As then, the Tundra has few allies today. But what they lack in quantity, they more than make up for in quality. He holds the fact that they are blood-allies of the Jungle (for he doesn’t know of his sister’s abdication) on his tongue. If Weir asks, maybe he will tell him, maybe not. “Does he want to re-engage in an alliance with us, is that the crux of this meeting?” Crito’s cracked lips form the beginning of a smile as he asks it. If it is, they might be calling upon Errant after all.

C R I T O

king's hand of the tundra