06-03-2015, 07:16 AM
 Magic, a pulse that rivulets through the ground beneath, like an electric current that ebbs and flows within all in Beqanna; both a blessing and a curse, both revered and feared. The topic, Aneku hears, is about the Magicians that Beqanna boasts in it’s ranks. An ash tipped ear curves and listens to each man as they show themselves and make themselves known, not only in appearance but with silver tongues and gilded words. The chestnut beast knew nothing of hierarchy, knew nothing of past events, he also did not make himself a fixture in politics. He was a stray leaf, blowing on the breeze, but unlike a decaying piece of foliage, he was very much alive, and very much all ears. As each new face turned up, he watched them, his deathly eyes meeting each with a studious stare, cold, knowing. He was an outsider, he knew as much and he also knew never to step over a boundary. He was wise, not stupid. Brave, not brash. A beast within but dead on the outside. He licked his lips, enticingly listening to each in turn. He briefly met the gaze of the girl; her wayward eyes and face of ennui made her quite the spectacle. But the blood-red beast acknowledged nothing, just listened, just watched. Until he was met with a glance from the crown. An acknowledgement was given and thus the beast drew his muzzle, a slight dip, respect. Nothing more, and no less. Fiery tendrils crept over his face as the crisp wind blew through the icy valley. His skin peppered with a frostbitten kiss, he became numb, attuned to it all to soon. He could live here, he could see himself a firebrand upon the white background quite easily. he snorted, cool, low. If his brethren could have lasted here for a while, then the decision was already made in his mind. He had to learn things, store them in little crevasses in his mind. That was when dangerous things could happen. Finally someone spoke to him. He waited with a patience of an elder. He had no say in conversation, he was an outsider, a vagabond. His grey muzzle twisted a little as the painted one spoke. ”Aneku.” he answered. One word, one name. His head then turned to each, a long deliberation taking over everyone’s face. They each were worn in their own way. They lived lives of a thousand memories, some scarred with them, some tainted with a heavy weight on their shoulders. He was a quiet one, but Aneku saw things. He knew things. ”Your numbers look sparse,” his voice is chilling, cold, just like the sharp wind that billowed past him, making him look like wildfire as it took hold of wisps of mane. ”I’m here to add to them.” a long, deliberating pause and he added once more, with a slight grin on his otherwise dead-pan features. ”If you want.” Regarding the rest of the conversation; of alliances, of dead kings and magicians, he said nought. Just remained silent, watching, imposing in a way a fly might impose upon a corpse. Eyes and ears and feelers holding a grip upon the living. He was there, just there. Waiting. Watching. |