.::we are the fallen Angels::.

[Erebor]

We are at war. There will be scars.

Erebor does not dance. He has never danced, because dancing has never been practical and never suited his purpose. He moves with strength and purposeful grace, and now that he's fully grown at three years old, he covers ground very effectively. Efficiency and effectiveness are the hallmarks of his personality. He is, in every way, the good soldier.

He feels the ripples in the heat before he hears the unfamiliar call. It's terribly convenient to know whenever new horses find their way to the Chamber, and to be able to pick them out if he's close enough. But it can still be terribly disconcerting, for him and for them. In this case, he only moves toward the pair (yes, they’re close enough that he can read their heat signature and tell it's a pair) once he's heard the mother's call.

His swift, precise gait carries him to the two of them quickly. He nods to the mother and to her son, stopping a short distance away. He wonders what they'll think of his appearance – his body looks just as it always has, handsome and well-muscled, a fact which he (entirely accidentally) highlights with his constant quasi-military bearing. He is almost always just a hair below being 'at attention'.

But unlike a normal horse, Erebor's coat is currently a deep wine-red. His mane and tail are navy blue and dark forest green. In his coloration, he is the exact opposite of a normal horse. And although he doesn't wear his new gift on his sleeve, the changes are much more than skin deep.

"A pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Welcome to the Chamber." he greets, dipping his head in acknowledgment. His voice is smooth and sturdy, pleasant to listen to. "My name is Erebor. What may I call you?" he pauses, smiling at the boy who trots beside his mother. "And what may I call your son?"

Erebor

Native Prince of the Chamber

warship x straia