Experience has brought him away from the Volcano today, meandering between the many bodies of the field with a less than a kingly presence with each step of his navy colored legs. His wings are folded neatly against his sides, each feather saturated with the smell of smoke and ash. He comes here to be unnoticed, to hide beneath the small talk that so often surrounds the area, keen on melting into the background and merely observing in silence - perhaps to find relaxation beneath the autumnal sun and to be alone with his neverending thoughts.

Everything you have, I had first.
Are there not wolves at your door?
Your rule has been long, your throne unchallenged...the pressure of ruling should be another’s burden, someone younger.

Someone that will thrust Tephra into greatness.

The Overseer snorts sharply, the cobalt-tipped color of his ears flicking back into the tangled mass of his mane. There is a curve of his neck, muscles flexing as he visibly bristles beneath the clear, autumn sun. His stature keeps others from striding up to him - it is clear that the King is in no mood for the usual pleasantries that ages ago once were so natural to him.

He has grown idle beneath the crown, becoming a weak ruler that flourished on the idea that there is goodness in each soul he came in contact with. He realizes now the foolishness of his endeavors; harboring forgotten souls and misplaced families has only brought disease into Tephra, as well as betrayal and fear.

No longer.

Nearest to him there is a woman that catches the dark oceanic of his irises, grazing idly in the morning mist. She seems well written, much like how he assumes he appears as an older and versed stallion among the chitter and chatter of the busy field. She is close enough that her presence is not begging for attention, and he is far enough away that there would be no impoliteness if he simply continued walking. But the King stops with a heavy sigh, his cerulean gaze flickering out over the sunlit field.

“I never thought I would find myself here again.”

His voice is passive, and it could easily be mistaken for him talking to himself. Part of him believes that the woman wouldn’t respond or acknowledge him at all (he is certain he would not have responded to anyone if they had found the courage to direct a comment towards him), but part of him remains curious about the maroon-colored stains that marred the speckled grey of her coat and the way she remains further from everyone else, just as he does.

The grey woman is idle in her posture; studious yet at the same time not at all entertained by his presence. There is a certain weight that seems to fall across the broad plane of his shoulders, settling into the dark navy of his gaze. He is burdened (a feeling that he has come to welcome as normalcy) and it shows, restlessly stirring in the way he manages to hold his heavy head high as he continues to stare out into the golden grasses of the field, musefully remembering the moments he had spent here many years ago - when things had been different.

So very different.

Warrick snorts thoughtfully, his steely gaze flickering towards her casually as her voice draws him from his reverie, blue-tipped ears shifting towards her. There is a semblance of a laugh within his exhaling of breath as well as a slight nod of his head. “Perhaps we are, then. I am Warrick,” he replies amusedly, his voice thick with years upon years of exposure to the ash and smoke of his home, the deep throatiness of his baritone strong yet broken by sulfuric air. He says nothing else for the moment, his stoic gaze leaving the strong lines of her face to glance back towards the open field, inhaling deeply.

A rumbling sigh follows, rattling from his cobalt lips with a weariness and an exertion that has unwantedly become all too familiar to him. After a moment, he idly says to her: “The tides are changing and I must change with it.” He could feel it in his bones, deep within his soul; the moon and stars are shifting, pulling him towards the emptiness of sea and the ravaging waves that boil tempestuously in the beyond. “Peace in Tephra cannot be secured without an iron fist.” He’s learned the hard way - too long has the benefit of the doubt saved those who deserve death; too long has he sat by while wolves slink into his home and sink their teeth into the soft flesh of his family and his people.

“I need an iron fist.”

It is then that his gaze finally falls back to her. It is an offer, though it is not a question.

An assumption, really, that she would know exactly what he is searching for.