a homecoming - straia, anyone

[Engelsfors]

Let's love like seventeen, I'm in love with poisoning. Only bring your pretty, frightful gifts to me. Let's love and kill like seventeen now. The shadows move like liquid, tangible and ink-like. Like blots upon paper the blackness does nothing but expand and taint the backdrop of the chamber. I am most comfortable in the swath of darkness, like many of the residents here, but this darkness, this inky blackness is almost suffocating. Unseen tendrils reach out and clutch my throat, kiss my skin like a bittersweet memory of years past. I curl my lips, finding the sizzle in the air crackle and clip. I am still getting used to the myriad of difference here in Beqanna, and I'm certain regardless how many years my hooves touch this soil, I will never know the true extent of the magic that pulses beneath the earth. I am clear on one thing, and that is the phantom mare before me, her iron skin, her ice cold eyes. She was magic, every vein of her throbbed with the aroma of a uniqueness, a becoming trait. I watch her quietly, as intrigued as always and as respectful as I was. I dip my nose, watching as the shadows disperse and in it's place come the raven Queen. I nod, an incline of my salmon tinged nose. 'Straia.' I acknowledge, and my gilt ears turn and capture her fine words. Anaxarete the way it's said almost brings a chill to my bones, and it is mightily delightful. The way the trees seem to whisper her name in unison -- oh yes, she has graced this grounds before, many a time it would seem, so much so that the chamber still bends to her will. Killdare appears. I never doubted that he wouldn't. Perhaps a bit slower than normal. He is wary, as of course it to be expected. We our foreigners to Beqanna's mysterious realm, and are still adjusting to the unique magic that whips and whirls their tentative fingers among the lives. Weaving in a strange new DNA. I nod my head to him, a prickly smile touching my lips. Then another, the newly painted Erebor, a stark contrast against the shadows that he used to be. I drop my nose once more, respect given as always. Then my sapphire gaze is drawn back to Anaxarete, she addresses me and my ears turn, capturing each one of her whispered black magic spells. Something sticks to her, a tantalising allure, something that seems to draw others in. I am certain she is like a clever black widow, perhaps even more deadly. I cock my head ever so slightly to the left, before offering each and all a whimsical stare, before bittersweet poison touches my lips. 'The Chamber bends and bows to you, Madam Anaxarete. There is much history between the two of you. Many tales I'm sure that can go on for hours.' I swallow and slip my salmon tongue over my drying lips, 'But no one is here for simple stories, are they?' I turn an eye to Straia, Killdare, Erebor and then the newly appeared ebony steed; Warship. I've heard Straia talk of him, the Army leader, Erebor's sire. I nod a simple greeting to him before I weave mown black magic, husky and cool. 'Welcome back, back home, Madam Anaxarete.' the iron lady is sure things have changed, by the simple rhythm beneath them. The sapling is growing in the outskirts, a whole new spell cast upon the land. The ravens circle overhead, ebony feathers falling at feet, caws becoming as much the nightly sounds as the wolves cry or the owl's hoot. Silently my sapphire orbs pick out parts of everything; the hushed breaths, the strangled thoughts and the true words that long to be whispered from pursed lips. I roll my golden shoulders ever so, sliding my creamy plume gently over my hocks. 'It is good to be part of this picture... If there is anything I can do to make sure that your stay is more appropriate, please do not hesitate to ask.' Because I will take burdens upon my willowy shoulders as many here would, and I will help any that the Chamber sees worthy, and Anaxarete, she was perhaps someone that even the Chamber had shuddered at. I turn my gaze briefly to Straia, sapphire eyes watchful. She's had quite the welcoming party, a foray of sorts, I am just pushing the preverbal boat out, seeing if one so highly respected needed anything to make her stay much more comfortable. Let's love like seventeen, I'm in love with your new screams. Only bring those pretty, frightful gifts to me. Let's love and kill like seventeen now. - professor of the chamber -