between the shadows and the soul - all kingdom

[Engelsfors]

angels fall on broken wings; The deep, darkness was all consuming and all silent, save for the breathing of my own lungs and Killdare's silent musings. I continued to inch further, the heartbeat rife, so close yet so far. My ears twitch, an unnerving wonder beyond, hidden within the depths. I follow him, the bay steed, rigidly close. Each willowy limb as lithe in movement as the creaking boughs above. I sidle up, step by step the bay steed and I match, but then I slip behind him, just as we break through the shadowy bowels, to a small clearing, there immediately the scent of acrid smoke, fallen ash and scars as deep as thick veins, towards the heart, fill me. I turn an eye to Killdare yet say nothing, only then noticing that by the charred remains of a sickly tree, stood the queen herself. I see her then, the painted lady, regal as ever and as graceful as the stars come midnight. She is like a statue, engraved perfectly solid in the backdrop. Immediately I notice Killdare's head bowing, I know of respect and am rigid as they come, but perhaps I wasn't as astute as the soldier. I shook my head, ridding of the tendrils of mane before lowering my head to the painted queen, muzzle breathing in the cold air, the ash of mysterious hope. ’Straia.’ I remembered her words, how often she was called a lady, a queen, but it was simpler as Straia. I still offer her my respect, my allegiance. mussed mane falling over my eyes as I meet hers. ’I serve this ashen earth, my lady. My gratitude, immensely.’ a rise in the ranks. I eye up the others, unmistakably Killdare to my side, a twinkle in my blue eye. 'Congratulations, Killdare.' He was a knight indeed, a growing soldier in the blossoming ranks. There would be tales, tales told indeed of the bay steed. A slight curve of my lips fleetingly blessed my facade before melting back to a debonair line. I dip my nose to Erebor, just off from the painted queen. The Prince, handsome is as handsome does, he was certainly doing things. 'Well met, Erebor..' ebony tendrils fall over azure orbs momentarily, concealing them from view. When Straia descends into conversation about diplomatic ventures, I listen but do not interrupt. I stepped foot on Chamber earth after the foray, but I listen, lips peaked, salmon tongue wetting them momentarily. Awaiting the firecracker of words. can't give up, can't give in;