Waking up to Ash and Dust [Any of Tephra]

[magnus]

I

magnus

howling ghosts, they reappear
in mountains that are stacked with fear

Time is fluid for Magnus, an ever-changing and ever-rippling thing. It does not have the same concrete realness that grounds so many. Instead, it becomes something that bend and melts away, leaving him to jump through it, from one year to another—sometimes losing them entirely in the process. He fights against this, the vague and flimsy reality leaving him with holes in his understanding and perception, but there’s only so much he can do to hold it together.

Death and life and immortality have stripped so much away.

All of this to say that Magnus has little feel on the pulse of current events.

He does not know this son of iron. He does not know the recent tragedies that have plagued this land that Magnus helped build. He does not know the death that rattles in Warrick’s lungs.

Still, Magnus is born from kingdom blood. He had lived and served in four prior to the Reckoning and he helped others in the molding of this land. Duty runs deep within his bones along with a sense of responsibility that he could not shake if he tried. He also has painful scars from the mismanaged and forced overtaking of a kingdom, and thus suspicion runs deep.

Of course, he has no idea what has transpired or that the shifting of leadership is soon. He just sees what, to him, is a stranger’s face, a stallion that carries with him the distinct scent of Taiga who now rests on Tephra’s borders. So he does what he has always and will always do: he makes his way toward he border to meet the unknown, his handsome golden face neutral.

“Hello, there,” his whiskey voice hangs in the air between them, the curiosity clear in the burning of his gold-flecked eyes. “My name is Magnus.” He doesn’t assume that the other will know who he is, but neither does he assume that the other is a stranger here (although the rich smell of another land seems to suggest that he doesn’t call the volcanic land home).

Unsure of how to proceed without know if the stallion lives here or not, Magnus just waits, the edge of a sun-bleached tail flicking at his war-scarred hide. The air is heavy with unspoken words and change and thus he gives himself time to unwind the threads that make up this moment. He hopes the stallion is friend and not foe, but he is prepared for the worst.

Always prepared to defend his home.

but you're a king and I'm a lionheart