Like a Thorn to the Holy Ones [any]

[magnus]

Old. He certainly was that, although the succession of his years was not exactly what you would call normal. Born to the Amazon Queen and raised amongst the female warriors in the jungle. Rising to Lord in the Chamber where his father served as King. Leaving to become General of the Gates and then its King. Abdicating the throne and leaving to fight in the Dale army. Murdered and then brought back to life by dark magic decades later. Almost a century had passed since he was born, but his body had been preserved by the time underneath the ocean waves. He was, to the naked eye, a stallion in his prime. Albeit a stallion who had seen a lot during his years, which was obvious enough by the scars that riddled his body. He was a handsome stallion, but he was also a weathered one.

His body was no longer perfect.

“You were correct about that. The Field is a fine starting place if you are looking for a home.” One ear perked a little at the use of ‘sir,’ and one corner of his lacerated lips rose in the corner. Magnus was not without a temper, but he did not stir easily—at least not visually. Years of practice had taught him how to hold black rage back. Not that a little bit of jesting would draw forth his ire. The buckskin stallion was well equipped to handle a little bit of humor, especially if meant a strong stallion joining the army ranks.

Eying the other stallion for a second, he remained silent. He enjoyed recruiting for many reasons (namely, he found it a worthwhile use of his time to help people be matched to the right home) but he also knew as well as any that it was a two-way street. He did not extend an invitation to someone who he thought would bring harm to his home just to swell their numbers; he would only recruit someone who would be a right fit. “So, tenderfoot,” he emphasizes the word, gold-flecked eyes flickering with good humor, “what are you looking for in a home? That is, if you are looking at all.” He could play the game just as well as the other; and if Nymphetamine was going to go about calling him old, he may as well turn the tables.