There is a change in the air that as tangible as the soil beneath his feet.
Something is off. Something has happened, though he’s not sure, exactly, what has occurred. In time, he’ll learn of his brother’s passing. All too soon, Ramiel will be met with the tidal wave that is his father’s grief and his mother’s sudden disappearance. He’ll have to deal with the raw emotion ripping apart Tiphon and the furtive, darting eyes of Talulah. His life and the life of his family will be forever changed.
But for now, he walks in the moonlight with only minimal worry morphing the lines of his face. Spring is a bright and cacophonous mirror of the greater changes working their way throughout Beqanna. He’s only recently called his own kingdom together to inform them of some of these changes. And while apprehension moves like a snake within his gut, Ramiel thinks that they are as prepared as they can be. The Dale is less noisy than the lands surrounding it, after all. What they need more than anything is bodies to fill it. But having spent a few years as the monarch, he’s not interested in quantity as much as he is looking for quality. So many have come and gone already in the past four years; loyalty and a sense of responsibility are more important than the amount of horses claiming to possess either.
As Ramiel moves deeper into the Field, a few potential horses catch his eye, even at this late hour. They stand alone, these potentials, looking about themselves either bleakly or with a brash courage pitted against the night. There is no in-between to the expressions they wear. It makes the charcoal stallion wonder which face he’d wear if he ever found himself here. Would pity or a thin fear draw in the best recruiters? He’s not sure, but he’s also no good at small talk, so he moves on. It’s not until he thinks he’s seen it all - that everyone else has retired for the night and maybe he should too - that he spots the group. Four of them surround a rather striking mare. He doesn’t doubt that they’ve already given their respective spiels, already filled her head with visions of power and intrigue. Perhaps she’s already made her decision.
He joins them anyway.
It’s much easier for him to slip into the conversation than to start it. His golden eyes search for a familiar face, (how much easier it would be if he’d known one of them) but they are all strangers. Strange strangers, at that. A rust-winged mare seems to know everyone here, and one of the paint mares sports an unusual accouterment. Ramiel blinks several times at the serpent squeezing itself around her neck. The sight makes him more uncomfortable than he already is, but years of diplomacy shield his emotions from his face. He simply stands as far as he can from the Jungle woman and her snake.
“Good evening all,” he says, his voice smooth and polished. The greying stallion finishes his assessment of the others before resting his metallic gaze on the woman of the hour. She’s even more striking this close, with her vibrant eyes and curving horns. He thinks he can see some amount of heaviness pulling at her. He wonders if it’s the horns and their newness; he is sure it is something else. “I’m Ramiel, of the Dale.” The others have already mostly given their names. The Valley woman, Gallows, has already asked what Malis wants. The answer could be simple or far more complex than the winged mare had anticipated. He thinks Malis will be lying if she chooses to give the first. Surely secrets lie in eyes with such depth. Whether she chooses to divulge them will be telling. He hopes there are dark and meaty truths waiting on her tongue, but he doesn’t want to hear them, not yet. Save them for the Dale if she chooses to follow him back; they certainly need more shadows in their ranks.
Ramiel
ghost king of the dale