i don't dance, don't ask......i'll be over here, oh here..
She struggled to no avail in the the thicket, a small voice now reaching her ears. They flicker to it, wondering which small child this is. It's an unfamiliar one, though Sarkis doesn't claim to know all those who inhabit the Jungle. How could she?
The outline filters through the thick twists of bramble, a little blue thing, roaned like her own coat. It's difficult to discern from the voice of the young as to the gender of the foal, but the voice assures her it's Mother is coming. It's Mother will help her. She sinks then steadying herself for whoever was to be her rescuer, surely they would have an opinionated glare at her predicament. Amazons shouldn't be caught up in a bramble in their own Jungle. Amazons should be strong and fierce. Sarkis wasn't really any of those things, Sarkis was light and kindness. She was concern, curiosity, and candor. She was at times a klutz, a blabber-mouth, and perhaps that was the worst of it. Normally, Sarkis was always talking. To anyone, to no one, her mouth and her words ran away with her- lately though she had been silent. It's not certain if this stillness would last.
Sarkis Her name, a question, and a voice. One she aught to have known from the start, one she now recognized. Lagertha. The army leader her Mother had placed good faith in to lead, to be Khaleesi.
She shrank, she can't claim she didn't, though she can not go far without a literal thorn in her backside. Wincing, snapping her eyes shut as the thorns rake her in retaliation to her movements. When she opens them again, she can see most of the Khaleesi peering into her cage. Uncomfortable, of course it was she huffs. "It's not me, it's that cat!" She protests in a juvenile manner, certain that she wouldn't just walk into the thorny trap on her own. "It tricked me." She reveals and sulks, because that part was probably her fault. Should have known, shouldn't have blindly followed the creature.
Sarkis can hear Lagertha telling the child to stand back, Vidar. A boy, the child is a boy. She wonders how they Khaleesi felt about that, how the child would feel about it later. She makes no comment, though she feels an air of resent at the thought. Her brothers had been more or less shooed away, the men in general had really. Her ears are flat as the armored mare steps forth, her features display a sense of sheepishness, though it is eventually replaced with curiosity. Sarkis had never seen the Khaleesi don such magic armor, part of her wanted to touch it, the other part told her not to. What was it? What was it made of? How did it work?
The vines part soon enough, pulled back by hook and branches that sprout from Lagertha's body. Her body? Is it her body? Sarkis isn't sure as she steps out and into the clearing with a "Thank you Khaleesi". She looks around confused, unsure, tail swishing in awkwardness. The boy is there, a young, freshly made thing. She gives him a half smile, "Oh- Hello there new Prince."