I was quiet, but I was not blind.

[Foster]

Foster

"We are only as blind as we want to be"

The blood had finally dried on top of his dark coat, matted within his mane and his tail like the mud that had been stuck to him not long ago. The wound had blinded him, just like the memory, yet still the stallion walked on. The blood had been sliding down his muzzle like rain, leaving a sticky residue upon his black coat, yet now, the thick, coarse mane stuck to his face, hiding the cloudy eye from sight. It was almost as if it were hiding him from what was bound to come, like an omen of sorts, yet still, he marched on. Even with the impending blind eye and the blood on his coat, Foster had never been a fighter, within his herd, he had grown as a nice soul, caring for one another and treating everyone equally, yet with the current breeding season, tensions rose to the forefront. He wasn't cut out for his herd, not when the stallions fought like brutes and treated the mares as property. The testosterone was too much, too overbearing within his herd. And where there were mares, there was always violence. His wound was not only a symbol of which a fight had broken out, but rather a symbol of how close a brooding stallion had gotten to him. It was a stranger, no less; an intruder within his herd that had come into their land. Anger lashed out as his kind soul tried to defend them, yet to no avail. 

I was not worthy.

 He had become ashamed of himself, forgotten within the herd like the previous pasture they had traveled through. With his large, intimidating size, the Shire should have been able to defend his herd, his family. Yet his heart got the best of him, his footing was clumsy, and he was forgotten. It was evident he was not worthy enough to be with them. His strength had been frozen into nothing in that moment between taking another's life. He wasn't his father. He wasn't a monster. He was a gentle giant. He was Foster. I am me.

He attempted to raise his spirits, raising his head in a confident stance, his mane blowing around him with oncoming autumn breeze. The only thing that refused to move, was the omen resting upon the left side of his face. Over his journey, he had learned to ignore the pain, keeping his mind off of the throbbing eye with the thoughts of all he had done wrong. The pain was the last thing on his mind, as he was now what one would call, an outcast. He wasn't made for his herd any longer. Maybe he wasn't made for any herd. He had failed one, what was to ensure that he didn't fail another, yet he was trying. Even as he walked, he attempted to move with a more dominant stance, yet the large stallion stepped over fallen logs, stepped over the flowers that were beginning to die. Even with his large feet, he managed to maneuver so he crushed nothing except the leaves that were beginning to fall. His loyalty was so strong. So very strong. Yet if it came between killing another or deserting everything he knew to save a life, he would have to take the latter. He was built for violence, though. He knew this. His father had tried to shape a stallion to be feared along with all of his half-brothers, a stallion that the mares could not say no to, but he was a disgrace. His eyes were kind, his personality even kinder, but kind wasn't what made a herd. It wasn't what made them strong. 

So he continued to walk in a fluid motion. If he never stopped walking, he would be fine with that.  If his eye never stopped throbbing, he would be fine with that. If he was given the chance to make a new home, he would be fine with that. Yet it wasn't in his interest any longer. He would let fate decide, even as he walked on with the facade of confidence into the Field of destiny. 

I just hope the blood doesn't stray strangers away.

With that thought, the gentle giant walked on.

[Engelsfors]

even  a n g e l s  fall

The magic thrummed beneath my feet sat the chamber, whispered truths, told lies and spun a glorious web of tales. I stand within the pines at night, Vercingetorix not far from my heel, silently watching my earthen knight scout the borders. There was contentment etched upon my face, something, something I thought never would engrave my polished gold features ever, Not in this existence anyway. Oh, but one can be so very wrong, and my mother dearest. She, she was dreadfully wrong.

My golden limbs arch, an ache to stretch, to run, to let my willowy form bound through the crunchy leaves. There was just so much room in the chamber to walk, to stroll. but through the path between field and chamber, I could open up. Long, arching legs propelling me forward. Like a sharp glimmer of gold through the burnt out trees, I flicker. I come to the field with an open mind, a mind focused solely on the chamber, solely on the future. It was something, years ago, I was not sure that I would ever feel. Contentment in life, contentment where I was -- oh but I could always strive for me, everyone could strive for me. That is why, even though the Chamber pulsed with new life, I was here, in the field. Trying to pick out the ones that stood out.

And this one, he definitely stood out.

The claret clung to my nostrils, a memory strokes my mind with tentative fingers yet I shake it off -- now is not the time for diving into recollection. I had done far too much of that whilst pregnant with Vercingentorix, and it will be something I will not do, with this pregnancy. Killdare, that man, that glorious, glorious man. The thought is gold and silver upon my mind, cherished, treasured, something I hold onto dearly, even as the scent of blood knocks me, I continue onward, clutching at the memory with secure hands.

I see him then, as I break from the shadows of the trees. A vessel of a man, torn up, bleeding. My nostrils pique, my lips part and I allow my salmon tongue to dampen my dry lips. The twang of metallic upon the air, mixed well with the earthy, moist scents of autumn. I remember the bittersweet taste, but pocket that memory also. Instead, my gilt frame marches through the colourful field, straight to the bleeding man. I outstretch my muzzle, as if attempting aid, but a smooth smirk dances upon my lips.

'You'll attract unwanted attention, bleeding everywhere.' I say, my tone bittersweet, woven black magic and sultry appeal. Creamy tresses dance upon my neck as I weave a few steps ever closer. 'If you look this bad, I'd hate to see how the other looks.' there, a dark chuckle, smooth and like lace, adorns the air with a coil of breath. My smirk does not leave, it never does, but my silver tone returns, all debonair, all sophistication. 'I'm Engelsfors. And you are?'

engelsfors

advisor of the chamber