fire burn auburn on the mountain side \ any

[Errant]

when my time comes around lay me gently in the cold dark earth “Same to you,” Errant replies, nodding his head. He’d expected, when the stallion had been the first to greet him, that the stranger would be a friendly sort, and he is glad not to be disappointed. While the Brotherhood is far from being a humorless place, the men currently in residence do seem to be a more somber sort. Their only exception is their wildly unbalanced king, but he will soon be taken care of. “We’re currently in a state of transition, but our purpose remains the same.” (Let Mountain here of that rumor, and wonder where it started). “We’re a stallion-only kingdom, obviously, and consider loyalty and bravery to be the most lauded aspects of brotherhood. As a result, we are also a band of warriors, though if fighting is not to your taste we are always in need of diplomats as well.” Someone to temper their blunt tongues, anyway, at least to the public eye. Men of the Tundra tend not to shy away from difficult subjects. “And if neither suits your fancy enough to make It your life’s work, you are still welcome to live as a Brother and hone whatever skills you do find useful. ” There had been a place for everyone, whether they aligned with the two caste model or not, when Errant had first ruled. He intends to be sure that it returns again regardless of their current king. “How does that sound?” Rather than display his own magic, Errant tends to keep it bound tightly in his chest. It has a tendency to wander toward the heat when left unchecked, and Errant’s iron will is not fond of happenings without his knowledge. So he does not engage in flashy displays or gaudy appearances (he doesn’t even bother to read minds unless there are thoughts directed toward him). His sole exception to magic is on the battlefield, and he bears the scars to prove it. Because of this, he does not sense the approaching mare as anything mroethan she is, and he turns toward her with curious grey eyes. He does not immediately recognize the black mare with her gold markings, but when she mentions the Desert he places her. She is Cammie, the horse that Scorch intended to place in the competition for the Deserts crown. Having never seen her disguised as a bay filly he does not suspect anything from her sudden transformation, and so he offers her a polite smile “Hello Camrynn,” he says, nodding a head that is not quite as blocky as his younger sisters. He considers asking how she has fared in the competition for the Crown of the Deserts, but now is not the time. The Tundra will need to know, sooner or later. Today, he settles for later. e r r a n t no grave can hold my body down i'll crawl home to her