some things never change; open

[Engelsfors]

	There is nothing more homely, safe, like the scent of pine and earth. The Chamber has become to me, like a second skin, like the need to breathe air, the want for the earthy dirt beneath my feet, the crunch of pine needles. I need the chamber, like the sun needs the sky, the moon needs the night. And it has become part of me, like the twigs and the burrs that braid my gossamer mane. The idle afternoon is blissful, the sunlight comes like spires through the thickened summer foliage, pierces through the darkness of the boundary, and kisses my golden coat with a gentle touch. Warmth, it knits between my sinew and bone and fills me with the sense of satisfaction that not only have I a home, but a purpose, a meaning to life. Something my mother had never truly had (of which she claimed much, but knew was not true.) My crown lifts, hearing the swirling of the deadened leaves, the scent of another soon flutters against my nostrils. I inhale, deeply, and mixed with the familiar scent of pine is something new, yet something old, worn. My hindlegs spur me on, my powerful haunches pushing me out of the copse of trees at a steady canter, rhythmic and smooth. Sapphire eyes look about the clearing, finding not a single shadow cast, then my eyes find him, war torn and scarred, a multi-toned shadow amongst the earthy bark. A proverbial brow is lifted and a glimmer of curiosity and intrigue sparkles in my gemstone eyes. I sidle up towards him, flinty hooves breaking a crescendo against the needled earth. I whicker, a voice as darkly seductive as the smooth shadows, swirled with a brewing pot of magic. Sultry and smooth. 'You're different...' I remark, eyes gliding over his form. Torn and ragged in places, he showed a great deal of strife. I breathe the steed in, nostrils piquing at the salty scent that sticks to him, the worn crimson that smells stagnant. Flesh, once stripped from bone. He was a walking contradiction, and this, this intrigued me. 'You have reasons for being here, haven't you?' My gilt ears swivel atop my crown, gossamer threads languid against my neck as I weave a few steps around him perhaps considered predatory, but more so just a curious examination. He knew something, this stranger, for he strolled and broke the boundary as if it did not exist, and the chamber, oh, the chamber knows him like she had known Anaxarete's entrance.. A smooth, debonair smile, all diplomacy, all black magic, weaves itself at my lips. 'I'm Engelsfors.'