05-02-2015, 09:56 AM
We are at war. There will be scars.
The rain does not bother Erebor.He is a soldier, a dauntless, fearless, ceaseless servant of his Chamber home, and little thing like a thunderstorm has never (and will never) stop him from carrying out his duty. He is still young, just a touch over yearling age, but he is already far older than his years, both in appearance and in demeanor.
He arrives at the field early, speaking with many horses, and finding none of them suitable for the Chamber. It is hard these days, when one must speak with so many to find the right one. But he is determined, and he carries on throughout the day. And when the night comes, when the clouds roll in, when thunder plays its drum and lightning dances to the beat, Erebor stands hidden in the shadows, determined that he will not go home unsuccessful.
It is right as he decides this that he hears the soft sucking of hooves in the mud. He is thoroughly soaked by this point, but he does not worry about it; a little wetness is nothing to the Chamber prince; no doubt he could take far worse and still stay standing. But the sound piques his interest, he flicks his ears toward it, straining to see the stranger in the darkness. He can catch outlines, glimpses, of a stallion as black as he is. But more importantly, between what he sees and what he hears, he has enough to follor.
He moves gracefully, elegantly, with a crisp, military bearing. He is not the first one to seek the stallion out in the night, and he mentally marks it, noting just how desperate things must be for all of them that they find themselves here so late. He nods briskly to each, his eyes settling on the only one who does not already smell of a kingdom, the stallion who had arrived in the field in such a hurry.
"Lovely evening." he greets them all, a hint of irony coloring his rich voice. "Pleasure to meet you all, I'm Erebor." His voice is older, deep for a yearling, more the voice that you'd expect from a stallion. And he is tall for his age as well, his coat a rich deep black virtually unbroken by white markings. Even in this driving rain, even standing, there is something military about his bearing. He is like a cadet, or a soldier, always standing at attention. This rain does not dull him; he is as sharp as ever.
Like all the rest of them, he does not immediately state his kingdom affiliation. If they were to all show their cards and declare themselves, they'd be an interesting lot indeed – a Lady, a Prince, and a King – but here, now, they are simply silent companions, here courting a fourth, a still-nameless stallion who could be prince or king or so many other things.
"You have our names." the boy speaks again, his voice confident, respectful for but not deferential. "What's yours?"
Erebor
Native Prince of the Chamber
warship x straia