The last few years have not gone exactly to plan.
As the storm-grey stallion stands, mimicking the sky above, he muses on all of it. His face is drawn and pensive as he looks out across the Dale, his eyes dipping into the creases of the hills and tracing the tree-line beyond. Few horses break his line of sight. Too few, he thinks, the corners of his mouth dropping into a grimace. He is responsible for filling his kingdom and keeping its members safe and happy. He is responsible for the lot of them, and right now, it’s too easy of a task. Of course, what he isn’t responsible for is fulfilling the obligations of others.
The Amazon princess had finally made her appearance several days ago, still smelling like exotic flowers and rich earth – proving that she had stayed in the place of her birth far longer than she was supposed to. But Dalten hadn’t been with her. That brother was still as elusive as ever, despite Ramiel’s interest in meeting another sibling. They are grown men now and still total strangers. It’s an uncomfortable truth that makes the grey stallion unsure what expectations Dalten will hold, if he ever shows. He wants to ask his father for guidance on the matter (after all, it had been Tiphon’s deal in the first place) but even their angel has taken a leave of absence.
From the corner of his eye, he sees a slow-crawl movement. Ramiel turns, bemused when he sees Weir tracking something close to the ground. He can’t see what it is from this distance, and wanting to escape his trouble thoughts (because Weir is always good for both sage wisdom and a laugh) he makes his way over to the roan. He doesn’t make it far before he sees another closing in on the center of the Dale. The stranger looks vaguely familiar – like Ramiel’s own reflection, he realizes later – but he follows Weir and his turtle friend (for a short distance) to the man’s side.
The magic-manipulator greets the grey stallion first, in his unique way. He comments on the weather and his own hygiene, and Ramiel grins at the other. Electricity sparks at the grey’s feet, a preview of the storm that will surely befall them any moment – a riotous welcome for the new comer. The young king doesn’t need to ask who he is. Their similarities are written in the lines of their faces and conformation. “Dalten,” he says, his grin falling into an easier smile. He wonders if his brother will stay; he will never replace Joscelin, but maybe he will fill the hole of her loss to the Jungle. “I’m Ramiel, and this is Weir,” he indicates the roan stallion with a tilt of his head. “Welcome to the Dale.”
r a m i e l
what a day to begin again