We are at war. There will be scars.
He has just plain rotten luck when it comes to recruiting. Not that he has trouble with the process itself – on the contrary, he seems to be pretty successful. Rather, he has trouble meeting his own criteria for eligibility. For the longest time, he was too young. Now he's the proper age, but not the proper color. It's so much harder to recruit when you're an impossible color like wine red.Harder, yes, but not impossible. He hopes.
He pauses on the edge of the field, letting his brown eyes (which seem to have skipped the color changing that had ravaged the rest of him) slip across each horse in turn. He pauses when he spots a pair, a mother and her child, perched along the edge of the field. As he watches, he notices another stallion heading for them, and decides to make sure that they'll have options. This stallion hardly looks like the force claiming type, but Erebor knows that looks can be deceiving.
The wine red stallion moves with purposeful grace. He's always had a strong gait, and now that he's finally grown into his legs that stride has come into its own. He crosses the distance easily enough, arriving at the little gathering just in time to hear the other stallion introduce himself. Unwilling to interrupt, he offers a small nod to the mare and her foal, and again to Weir. He is quiet still, although his appearance would almost no doubt attract attention. His eyes are brown, but that is the only thing about him that is any kind of normal. He is wine-red, a dark and masculine kind of red. His mane and tail are dark forest green and dark navy blue, intermingled in large stripes. The consistency of both his coat and his mane and tail are the same as you'd expect from any wild horse; it's only their color that is off (and oh boy is it off, no horse has these colors in nature).
Erebor has no qualm with the length of the other stallion's monologue. Sure, given the chance he'd have rather it be shorter. It's not efficient to take so long. But Erebor is a diplomatic creature first and foremost, and so he simply waits for Weir to describe the dragonflies, before finally shifting to the matter at hand and discussing his home. Or, at least, Erebor assumes it's his home, as the man practically reeks of Dale. Erebor can't say for sure – to him, saying you've "just come from" a place doesn't exactly imply that place is your home.
"Good morning ma'am, sir." He nods to each in turn. His voice is strong but pleasant. Even here, more or less relaxed, Erebor has the bearing of a cadet. He always looks as though he's a hair shy of standing at attention. He doesn't mean it to do so, but it inevitably enhances his fine features. Even with the wine-red coat, Erebor is still quite handsome. "I'm Erebor, from the Chamber." he pauses for just a moment, offering them a small smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, miss…?" he trails off in a way that makes his words a question, a smooth way of asking for her name.
Erebor
Native Prince of the Chamber
warship x straia