it is not the mountain we conquer, but ourselves
Fiero misses his mother, Joelle. If he knew what had become of her, if he knew that she had been murdered, perhaps, the beast that lie within his blood would have destroyed him just as it had his other relatives. He and his sister had been too young to understand back then - back before the Mother Tree. Back when he was a prince of sorts. His parents had gone, and try as he might, Fiero couldn’t stop his sister from leaving either. For a time Fiero remained in Heaven’s Gates. He mourned them silently, hiding his sadness with service to his mother’s kingdom. Perhaps, that was a trick he picked up from his sire, but Fiero had only ever been a sliver of the soldier and protector that Magnus was.
Or, rather, is.
Fiero picks up the familiar scent again just as the trees seem to visibly shudder. Fiero steels himself, calming the overwhelming desire to scamper away. He is more fight than flight, but he's rather taken aback to see a gangly filly appear, as genius as she may be.
He tilts his head in question, before a low, throaty chuckle escapes him.
‘She talks a lot.’ He decides silently amidst thoughts of how she doesn't quite look like a witch, despite her materialization from the copse. Witches are all cloaked in darkness and mystery, something the young mare before him lacks.
“Neat trick.” He says, his muscles lessening their choking grip on his bones. Still, he is a little uncomfortable, because she is so different from what he expected. “Fiero.” he answers simply. He could tell her more. He could tell her that he has been gone for what seems like eternities. He could tell her that he knew his dead father was here somewhere, but he doesn’t.
Or, rather, is.
Fiero picks up the familiar scent again just as the trees seem to visibly shudder. Fiero steels himself, calming the overwhelming desire to scamper away. He is more fight than flight, but he's rather taken aback to see a gangly filly appear, as genius as she may be.
He tilts his head in question, before a low, throaty chuckle escapes him.
‘She talks a lot.’ He decides silently amidst thoughts of how she doesn't quite look like a witch, despite her materialization from the copse. Witches are all cloaked in darkness and mystery, something the young mare before him lacks.
“Neat trick.” He says, his muscles lessening their choking grip on his bones. Still, he is a little uncomfortable, because she is so different from what he expected. “Fiero.” he answers simply. He could tell her more. He could tell her that he has been gone for what seems like eternities. He could tell her that he knew his dead father was here somewhere, but he doesn’t.