this is the howling at the moon, exemplary, any

[Ramiel]

ghost king of the dale >>

In the quiet moments, he worries.

The Dale is certainly quiet today, as autumn stretches its fingers across the treetops, leaving a kaleidoscope of color to spread as far as the eye can see. The sun gilds the warm palette until it seems like heaven itself has descended into their valley. It is beautiful in a way that makes one’s heart constrict from the absolute splendor. One should count himself undeniably lucky to witness such a view, but Ramiel seems to look beyond it. From his vantage point on a hill high above the river, he watches the silent scene and worries.

Talk of war is all he ever hears on the breeze. It is like an ever-tightening noose the collective citizens of Beqanna have worn around their necks for too long. For Ramiel, it had been a loop he’d stretched his neck into willingly the day of his coronation. He’d had naïve dreams of soon rending it off and throwing it from the highest peak. Once gone, it would be buried too far down to ever surface again. But of course, that had been years ago. He’d been only a boy, then. Now he is a different man altogether.

He knows that it is inevitable, but he is bitter all the more for this reason. The ghost-king is intimately familiar with death (which this war will certainly lead to). He knows that it doesn’t take its victims easily, knows that life is wrenched like a spine from a back with little care for the one who’d stood tall because of it. Death takes what it wants, when it wants, with no ear for protestations against it. Sometimes he thinks he can hear Death coming for them in the night, and His footsteps sound like the langoliers. The CLANKING and CRASHING fills his head, fills his memories, fills his dreams.

When he wakes at night, covered in a thin layer of sweat, he prefers the silence.

But here and now, in the golden light slowly leaking away into the grey of winter, he wishes he heard more. He longs for the laughter of children splashing in the shallows. He yearns to hear Ea’s stony voice clashing against the hills, telling him she was ready to be soft and sweet for him, for the Dale. He craves the crunch of the leaves under his hooves as he races Joscelin or walks alongside Weir. He wants to hear life in all of its trials and tribulations – anything but the silence before the storm.

It isn’t long before he gets his wish.

Gentle footsteps sound behind him. “Hello,” Ramiel says before turning, his voice easy and untroubled. For his kingdom-mates, he has to be strong. He has to keep any signs of doubt or worry scrubbed from his face. Even if the future strains him; even if the bugles of battle play a discordant duet in his head alongside the clanking of the langoliers. So when he meets the other’s gaze, he is the same unflappable stallion he always is. His is bright and alert and eager for conversation. He is not worried. He is still worried.

ramiel

[Astara]

Astara flinched slightly when the unknown stallion said, "Hello." She'd come upon him unexpectedly, though in truth, her approach had not been too careful. Only a few days ago had she arrived in the Dale, guided by the friendly mare Zara. Astara, however, was most often anything but friendly. She was cold, agitated most times--but not without a cause, a daily pain.

She'd lost her herd to many disasters, and one day, she lost her mother as well. Suddenly, her life had become nothing of what she imagined: a life of loneliness and grief. She wanted a cure from it, hoped she would one day find it--but not yet. Until then, she'd be snide, or find even more misery trying to hold back how she felt.

Astara remained quiet for a moment or two after the stallion spoke, finding her curiosities awakened. He was very different, in ways she could see and ways she could only sense, from any other horse she had met. The mare remained behind him, her legs and body stiff, having not a clue it was the king of the land she happened to stumble upon.

"Hello..." she returns slowly. "It's not often I come upon another in my path here."

The Dale is empty, quiet, but Astara doesn't know why. Given her hard nature, it suits her, but maybe not all.

[Ramiel]

He doesn’t know who he expects it to be when he turns around, but he certainly doesn’t think it will be a stranger. Not when he’s been so vigilant. Not when he’s searched every nook and cranny for signs of new life, new members to fill the kingdom that is so prone to sinking into silence. How can he have missed a crossing over their borders?

But he has.

“Oh,” he exhales his surprise when he finds the black and white face peering back at him. And while he might have missed her entrance, Ramiel is still glad she is here. She looks nothing like their enemy should, nothing like the dark, soulless creatures he imagines the Chamber churns out on the regular (but of course that is exactly who they would send in, a harmless, silent maiden who would arouse no suspicions). Fortunately for Astara, the grey stallion is not an inherently suspicious creature. Wary, sure (he has to be, his people’s lives depend on it), but he prefers to see the good in everyone. He is the son of an angel, after all.

“Me neither,” he replies, looking past the mare to the trail stretching behind her. It is not a well-worn path. The multitude of deer are the only animals that usually frequent the barely-marked trail, but he thought it was important to explore it all – scout out as many entry points and overlooks in the kingdom as possible. His metallic gaze shifts back to the woman’s, a light smile playing on his face. Company is always welcome, even if he is unsure as to its origins.

She is stiff and hesitant, though, and it arouses a thread of alarm in his gut. Why else would a stranger corner a foreign king during times of war? He tries to swallow his doubts, but the question presses on his mind. Now is not the time to let such questions linger unanswered. “Are you new here or just passing through? It’s always wonderful to see new faces around, if it is your intent.” Hopefully, he thinks to himself, not letting himself consider the alternative. “I’m Ramiel, how about you?”

R A M I E L

this is a man pulling at his iron chains

[Astara]

The more he speaks, the more Astara feels her muscles loosen. Though even a slight amount of trust is far from achieved in the stallion, his presently calm and agreeable behavior makes it easy for her to feel at ease. "I suppose I am both," Astara replies, with a natural haughty tone she tries to control. "Though I cannot say which one will end up being more true than the other."

She lifts and drops her left foreleg, as if proclaiming her freedom to choose, no matter what the law of the land she may be in. Truly Astara thought little about such things, though had she known who stood before her, she would have feigned less defiance. The stallion then tells her his name is Ramiel, to which the mare grants secret approval.

A strong name...

"I am Astara," she replies lively to his question. "Though I hold to you no obligation to remember it in the days that pass... for maybe, I am just passing through, but I do like it here. Beauty and solitude is what I often find."

But the more she stares at him, the more the spotted mare no longer believes he's a simple, lonely stallion. Suddenly she notices his appearance is quite unlike what she's seen in their kind before... or at least, her kind. Twitching an ear, Astara puts her cleverness to work.

"Ramiel... how could you have such a strong name and yet wander alone?" she asks, believing by this question, she'll get many more answered.