you don't recover from a night like this; ramiel / any

[weed]

she is the lamb; he is the slaughter

Weed may not have grown up a warrior, but the stallion was a trickster to his core.

He loved nothing more than playing the part, fooling others, using wit and cunning to get his ways. So when his father had agreed to his plans—lent him his magic, he had been thrilled. But, ultimately, Weed had known Carnage’s magic would only carry him so far. He may not be physically recognizable but if he wanted to truly deceive, he would need to finish the job. Oh, and it was a job he loved so well.

As the horses gather, Weed keeps the features of his mask stern, stoic, and calm, but he lets himself feel the excitement of the moment. He replays the raid on the Gates and the rushing of horses, and he lets that memory cloud his mind so that his body reacts in the smallest of ways. His pulse increases slightly, his mouth twitches impatiently as if there is something about ready to trip on it, his dark eyes flash.

He is, for all intents and purposes, a soldier on a mission—and not one he enjoyed.

“I am sorry for troubling you,” he says finally in a baritone voice, the sound husky instead of his usual unhurried elegance. “I did not mean to cause upset.” As the last comes toward the group, Weed does not let the insight faze him and instead gives somewhat of a sheepish smile, dipping his head as he thought quickly on his feet to counter the other’s intuitive knowledge of the magic. “Ah, again, I apologize for the confusion. I am no magician, sir,” he glances around, “I come from the Deserts—and my Queen often likes to send magic tails to ensure my safety.” A soft smile, “It is a tad embarrassing for her to not trust my own ability to protect myself.” He shrugs slightly, “But perhaps in troubling times, it is for the best.”

Clearing his throat, he stood up straighter, still allowing the urgency of his message to play in the reaction of his body, in the small fidgeting of his motions. “I am afraid that I do not come bearing good news—but it is news that our kingdom feels obligated to tell you.” His steady gaze meets each of theirs in turn, not flinching or looking away, but rather holding it for a beat. “We recently came across intel that the Valley is not harboring…good intentions. They view you as weak,” he flinches a little at the word, looking apologetic, “and there are whisperings that they have an interest in repeating history.”

Shifting his weight a little, he continued. “We view the idea of subkingdoms distasteful, to say the least, and while we may not be the strongest of allies, we could not, in good conscious, let such intelligence go without at least raising the alarm.” He presses his lips together, looking at the young child who joined the group with concern before moving his gaze from her to the King. “While we cannot tell you how to run your kingdom, nor would we want to, it may be in your best interest to prepare yourself for war.”

And then, he falls silent—a warrior who had completed his mission.

WEED

© oscar keys