Once upon a time, Magnus may have been concerned about a kingdom that was quiet and peaceful—and, perhaps, in some ways he still is. But the threat of the plague does not loom as loud as it had once been and he has been working hard on loosening his grip on his own self-doubt, his martyrdom. So he doesn’t spend his nights worrying over the kingdom. There are, after all, places more quiet than his own, and he does not doubt in their ability to protect themselves. He doesn’t doubt in his ability to shield them.
Still, his contentment does not turn into laziness, and he maintains his same patterns.
He goes to the field when he can and he patrols the borders often, enjoying the mild winter of his home as he walks the familiar paths, the ground beaten down beneath his unshod hooves. So he is not far behind the blue mare when she reaches the borders and watches as she begins to settle more easily into view.
It is a peculiar entrance, even for the lands so saturated with their own brand of magic, and he angles his head slightly, a corner of his mouth lifting into a smile. He angles himself toward her, the dreadlocks of his wild mane falling down the muscular slope of his neck, the mud of Tephra clinging to his legs.
When he is close enough that his voice will carry with ease, he gives a soft nicker before dropping his head into a more formal greeting. “Hello!” He comes to a stop, watching her with kind, neutral eyes, his shortened, sun-bleached tail flicking mildly at his haunches. “My name is Magnus.” There is a calmness to his stance, a friendly openness, but he observes every move. “What brings you to Tephra today?”
MAGNUS | I don't belong to anyone, but everybody knows my name
@[Heartfire]
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