I WILL ALWAYS FIND YOU
The summer sun broke through the pine canopy, but only just. Some might say the Chamber was eerie, unwelcoming. The Chamberlings were of a different opinion. Where others might skirt the edges of the wood in avoidance, they embraced the cool, needle-littered forest. Where the shadows cast themselves long across the lichen floor, his son lay his head to sleep. The caw of ravens overhead did not bode dire circumstance, they rang softly against the bark, forming a familiar backdrop to the otherwise stillness. Still. That was what the Chamber was to him, cool (relatively), calm, collected. The forest sported a dignity that the other realms just did not possess in his opinion.
As of late though, he had contributed to a ripple in the design, a thrum to the taught strings that fated his Kingdom. He had fathered a child, had assisted in creating new life to fill the borders. In doing so he had staked his claim to a partner, to a mate, to a confidant. Engelsfors. He walked with a noticeable since of pride, of belonging, not that he had felt an outcast before. The pairing had just solidified his sense of inclusion, creating a blood-tie to the Chamber. He raked the compost as he passed, sliding against the trees, his barrel touching each with a familiarity. There had been several newcomers and he sought to know them all in scent, his nares flared wide as he inhaled each bouquet.
He could easily find his more active herd mates now. Engelsfors was the easiest, her aroma like the twilight, of crisp evening air, and lover’s secrets. Vercingetorix is musky timber, morning dew and daybreak. Erebor’s scent had changed, becoming smoke and ash, an acrid crackling hearth, topped with certitude. Straia was distinctly pine, more so than the others, a tincture of feathers and carrion, with a stately measurement of something that made his nose tingle. He associated this with magic. Warship, smelled of the damp moss that lined the north side of the trees. Of endurance and hardships, discomfort and trials shouldered for others, for the Chamber. The metallic tang of blood. Kavi was change, transition. Fragile yellowed parchment, thick cursive ink, and floral incense.
The others, he was still learning, their fragrance had yet to take a permanent part in the perfume. He was sure with time, that wouldn’t be so, but for now the fact held. His nape stretched, thickset and sinewy towards some low hanging boughs. Auburn chops lip at the sap, a few stray hairs caught in its viscid trap.