Even without his well-earned gifts, no one has ever taken Belgarath to be ‘weak.’ Small-minded, arrogant, a bully, mean, bastard, idiot, asshole, and mother-fucker are just a few of the names he’s been called. But the tongues of women and their protectors draw little blood from the dappled stallion. And in the end, he usually wins anyway, whether it’s through fear and intimidation (my, how that demon ice comes in handy), or through brute force. When size and power are wielded well, there is little that he cannot do.
Except for magic. Bel can’t do that magic thing.
That’s probably for the best. He would be monstrously unbearable with it.
She may be small, but she does nothing to hide her approach, and well before the small palomino (rather fetching, really, the way the brow-beating sun glints off her golden skin- a different glint than the sun off his white horn) he turns to see who is coming. So he resumes peering up at the sides of the mountains, staying silent until she says something. “I’m looking for a clear path. Nothing worse than getting up and then finding that you can’t get back down.” He would know – he once lived on Mourning Mountain. Dying up on those wind-torn, skinny little walkways was not a fate he wanted for any of his herd. You know, back when he cared about such a thing.
“Belgarath,” he says by way of introduction, his voice deep and resonant and a tad gravelly. “You, oh wise one?”
Because who doesn’t like a little bit of banter in the morning?
belgarath
Ha I always forget he has a horn now