there will be scars, Da

[Erebor]

We are at war. There will be scars.

He is a perennial seeker of knowledge, constantly in search of things that might give an advantage to the Chamber. And in his present state, so (relatively) young and (mostly) untrained, there is little for him to do but wander and learn. His mother has agreed to allow him to join both the Chamber's castes, and he hopes his training will begin soon. But for now, he figures his best choice is to wander the wide world of Beqanna, meeting as many horses as possible and learning as much as possible.

He's inherited his mother's opinion of social pleasantries. His natural all-business attitude seems to have transferred over from her to him while he was in utero. He was born like iron, strong like steel and equally Spartan. He is a child born for battle, an instrument of the Chamber, and that is exactly as it should be. He is the first child in many years born solely for political gain. He is not a child of Warship and Straia; he is a Prince of the Chamber, born of her, born for her sake.

But now, today, he is in the Meadow. He is seeking anything that seems relevant to his home's interests, anything from new members, to knowledge of events elsewhere in Beqanna that he could bring back and share with his home. This is the first time that he has ventured to the Meadow alone, but he's never been scared of anything, let alone a simple trip. He's not the kind of stupid-brave that some princes of legend have been known to be; he's the kind of quiet, resolute brave that you hope everyone in the world will be. The kind that gets results, the kind that gets the job done, the kind on which the great achievements of the world have been built. And he expects nothing less from himself than absolute achievement. Not because he deserves it, but because the Chamber deserves it, and he will work to make it happen.

He stands on the edge of the meadow, scanning the horses assembled below. Some of them chat in tight knots, their heads bowed together. Some of them graze or lounge alone. It is early yet, and a thick layer of fog still hangs over the crisp morning, wisps and tendrils slipping silently between the trees, pricked by the tall grasses like knives.

The Chamber-prince is black like an iron spike in the soft grey morning. There is something rigid and regal about his small frame; he's no more than six months of age, but to look at him you'd think he's an old soul – or an old soldier. He is entirely black, solidly built, every inch his father's son. It's internally, in his mind, that he is his mother's child.

But he is a patient child, and as the sun climbs higher into the sky, he studies the horses of the Meadow, hoping to choose the one with the most strategic advantage.

He's not one to waste time on idle chatter.

Erebor

Native Prince of the Chamber

warship x straia

[Dá]

wolves in our own skin, we're savages.

If he was steel, then she was a wildfire (or the shy beginnings of one). He is the discipline of a soldier personified, and she is naked, clothed in dirt.

She serves herself quietly, and without the airs and graces that mark so many of the horses of Beqanna. She knows nothing of achievements, or glory, or fame. She is a watcher but mostly a wanderer, with only the vaguest of ties to the territories. Her adopted mama and her sister, stay mostly at home while she explores. She is looking for knowledge, much like the boy, but its not knowledge to benefit a place, but to benefit herself.

The morning is foggy but it is not unwelcome to the young dark filly. She takes a moment to admire it, and the faint outlines of horses moving through it. It's a beautiful sight and she could easily watch it for hours; she has no place to be.

That's when the voices begin rattling around in her head. If she wasn't so unflappable, she would think she was going mad. At the most, she's slightly concerned. But the voices do not bother her, really, they're quite pleasant and soothing. They say things like 'wonderful breeze' and 'look at how our sun is trying to break through the clouds'. They might as well be her own thoughts, as they sidle into her mind to nestle beside her thinkings.

They say things that don't make much sense too, about her father and people she has never known and probably will never know. She doesn't believe them, but they persist, and eventually they settle on telling her something she could never possibly know - the name and home of a stranger standing on the hill, gazing out at the assembled equines as if picking his most perfect prey.

It's a test, to prove that they are not voices of her own construction, that she is not crazy. She does not hesitate to approach the boy, so stoic and tall. He is imposing, but Dá thinks this is an admirable trait rather than something to worry about.

"You," she says, almost accusatorily. "You are Erebor, and you are from the Chamber." She falls silent, her brown eyes watching him with steady, patient calm. The voices whisper 'yes, yes', but other than that, it is mostly quiet.
DÁ

sorry this is poop

[Erebor]

We are at war. There will be scars.

He had been looking for a conversation partner among the horses assembled within the meadow, but the correct conversation partner had apparently found him instead. He spots the girl approaching before she speaks and turns to her, noting instantly the way she moves with purpose. It is the first time he's met someone truly his own age, but it only takes him a moment to suspect that she may be about as likely to act her age as he is.

Which is to say, not terribly.

He watches her with a level gaze as she comes nearer, and when she speaks, he flicks his ears to listen. The iron boy doesn't fear the fire; metal doesn't melt so easily, not the tempered kind that Erebor is made of. The fire girl names him, and places him within the Chamber, and he is instantly interested. He is subtly more aware of his surroundings, sensing to see whether, perhaps, this is some kind of elaborate trap. But the meadow is quiet around them, no other horses are coming his way, and nothing that he can see lingers within the shadows of the trees.

And so, in the split second it's taken him to determine his continued safety, he decides to be charming to the girl.

His lips split into a small smile. "I thought I'd be a little older before I'd have a reputation." His voice has a slight edge of hesitation to it, and he's not quite radiating perfect warmth, the smooth and silky delivery the way a true charmer would. He's honed his skills of charm quite well, but it's not his true nature; he can put it on like a cloak, the dashing smile, the handsome prince act, but at the core it's just a veneer over the cold, hard metal of the soldier. It's just another way to get his way. And as such it's something he must work at, must practice. And as of now he's good, but he is not great.

"You know my name. Tell me, what should I call you?" He is curious to know how she knew him, why she was here, where home might be (he's always looking for those that he can bring back to the Chamber). But for now he is the disciplined soldier, his posture straight , tall, and proud, and his silence absolute as he waits for his new acquaintance (although perhaps he's the only one in the conversation who finds that acquaintance new).

Erebor

Native Prince of the Chamber

warship x straia

I liked it ^_^ I don't especially like mine >_>

[Dá]

wolves in our own skin, we're savages.

The voices had been right.

The statue boy seems suspicious, perhaps on-guard, and Dá tilts her head and glances around the Meadow also. What had he been expecting, an entire host of highly-trained kidnappers to jump out from behind the sweet briars? That was awfully arrogant of him. With an amused smile she turns back to him.

He speaks, and oh, isn't he charming? Dá has never lusted over fairytales. She has never found their structured, well-mannered ways to be anything other than boring. There's an entire world out there, outside of the constraints of crown-bound property and royal bloodlines, after all.

"Everyone knows you," she says innocently, although her eyes are dark. "The newest prince." If it sounds like a weak excuse, it's because it is. Dá is far from a practiced deceiver; she favours mischief rather than manipulation, at least for now.

Dear boy, it's not the melting you should be wary of.

"They say you're going to be great," the wild girl says easily, although her hint of a smile betrays a level of playfulness in her words. This the voices had not said, but it doesn't mean it can't be true. Doesn't every boy long to be his father? "Will you?"

What started off as a simple test has changed, now. The voices are a secondary concern (perhaps they had even planned this, but the small dark filly does not have the desire to think about that right now). Erebor has her full attention now. He is so restrained, cast in cold metal, and her fire jumps hungrily in her chest - no, not to melt. To destroy.

"You can call me Dá."

DÁ

[Erebor]

We are at war. There will be scars.

He has pride in almost endless amounts, but it is not the kind of pride that goes before a fall. It is the kind of pride that enables one to keep one's head up, not the kind of pride that makes one look down one's nose.

When the girl speaks of everyone knowing him, his eyes narrow and he knows that she's not right. There are too few horses here for everyone to know him; perhaps someday he'd come close to the battle-prowess of his father and grandfather before him, and on that day maybe he'd be worthy of the whispers that this girl was trying to attribute. But this isn't that day, and her words aren't the truth. It may be true that he is the newest prince – he hasn't heard of any other male children of rulers born this season – but that doesn't make any of the rest of it true.

But he's willing to humor her nonetheless, because he believes it's polite to humor those who you've just met. And so he watches her with calm eyes and a small smile, neutral, listening, accepting everything she says without agreeing or disagreeing. His is a practiced pleasantness, but at the end of the day it is just as young as Da's manipulation, and just as likely to fall a little bit short.

He feels her fire, but to him it feels like intensity. It feels like every word she speaks is a laser, trying desperately to bore into his skin, to reach inside and tap chinks into his careful armor. He does not know of her gift; he does not know that perhaps she could do so much more to him if she wished to. He simply knows that, for now, his own defenses are more than enough.

And so he turns his charming smile on her once more. "Da." he tests out the name on his lips. "Elegant and simple." he observes, his voice unflappable. "Tell me Da, what do they say about you?" He asks, knowing that he hasn’t answered her question (comment?) about his greatness, and knowing that he doesn't care. He's endeavoring to be charming, and he doesn't feel like digging into whatever strange obsession she may have with him. It's time to turn the spotlight back on her, and maybe understand a little more about what makes her tick in the process.

Erebor

Native Prince of the Chamber

warship x straia

[Dá]

wolves in our own skin, we're savages.

He knows he's being played with, his eyes narrowing, and Dá simply smiles sweetly in return. Of course not everyone would know of his existence, even if he was of 'important' birth.

It's always pleasant when someone is reminded how insignifcant they are, be they Prince or wanderer. He decides not to answer (wise decision, my liege she thinks) and the dark filly decides to let it go. It would be far too easy to roll her eyes at him and remark how dull he is, but she doesn't. He's probably fully aware he has the conversational abilities of a rock, and although she is disappointed with his lack of willingness to play along, it does not bother her truly. He has at least some brains.

She considers her failings a lesson learnt in pleasantries.

He compliments her name and she tilts her head a fraction, graciously accepting. It is a rather pleasing name in her opinion. "Thank you," she says. "I thought of it myself."

He questions what they say about her and she smiles briefly, considering her answer. Of course, 'they' wouldn't say anything about her, for she was hardly anything to remark about. She's a nobody, after all, a wild girl living on the fringes of society. She wouldn't have it any other way.

"Why don't you ask them? My account would probably be biased, anyway." she pauses, and looks out across the Meadow. "What brings you here today? I came to see if the knapweed were blooming." she motions with her head to the tall, purple flowers. "And they are."

The knapweed were indeed beautiful, and she had been looking forward to their flowers, but that was only one facet of the reason for coming here.

DÁ

[Erebor]

We are at war. There will be scars.

Don't take it personally, Da. It's not your fault that the spirits picked such a difficult mark. In his own way Erebor is almost impossibly straight-laced, so clean-cut that it almost blows the mind to think of it. He is proud without being haughty. He is strong without being overconfident. He is so many good things that he's forgotten how to let himself be a horse, how to make friends and frolic and play with the others who are his age. He's chosen instead to skip that step, to hop over to adulthood and the serious life. No doubt he’ll regret it when he inevitably grows old and finds himself alone.

Alone, but at the epicenter of a very powerful Chamber of Evil.

He may not be proud in the traditional way, he may be surprisingly immune to Da's delusions of grandeur, but that doesn't stop him from having ambition.

His smile never wavers as she speaks. It plays with his black lips, tender and delicate as a flame. He is watching her just as she watches him, the two of them circling each other like predators. They are gladiators, and although she's got an advantage in her witchcraft, it’s still so nascent that they are, for all intents and purposes, completely evenly matched.

He ignores her direct response because he simply doesn't have an especially good comeback to it right now. Instead, he jumps on her last sentence, letting it pull him into a pensive gaze across the vast openness of the meadow. The smile fades gently from his lips, replaced with a delicate consideration.

Face neutral, he gives her an answer he thinks suitable. "I came out here to meet new horses, and to learn about them." Really it's almost entirely true. He pauses, still largely unsmiling, teetering on the knife's edge before toppling headlong into his often-suppressed curiosity.

"Knapweed." he says, his voice half as though he can't believe it, and half as though he's tossing the name around in his mouth. He considers the riot of nature all around them and tries (and not for the first time, either) to understand who she might be, and how she had known him.

Rudely, awkwardly he skips over the questions she's asked and what she's said in favor of what he wants to talk about. "Tell me, Da, how did you know my name?" his voice is rich, even just a touch suave, very pleasant to listen to. And he is learning how to use it to his best advantage.

Erebor

Native Prince of the Chamber

warship x straia

[Dá]

wolves in our own skin, we're savages.

Yes, a playful game often seems like a battle to the little mouse. To him, it's mighty gladiators circling each other, to her, it's a mischievous game that he probably doesn't know that he's playing. He is steadfast and solid, if a bit slow, and she is flame-quick, adaptable, albeit aimless.

They are similar though, they'll both end up alone, her in her palace of weeds and broken stones and he in his fortress of horse-bodies and imaginary crowns. Hers will be forged from her unwillingness to make connections or loyalties, the fact that she does to her heart's content and no more than that. She is a spider, or a weasel, and he is an ox.

"Knowledge is power," she comments, with a pleasant, polite smile. "Have you discovered much so far?" Of course, she just couldn't care less about the friends he had made.

"Yes. Knapweed." she says, with a playful tilt of her head. "Do you not know your wildflowers?" What a sad existence he must lead to know more about his kingdom than of the world. Then again, he probably does not give much thought to the beauty in which he lives; he is probably more focused on keeping up with his kingdom-mates.

Da considers his question for a moment. She plays briefly with the idea of telling him a lie, but the truth seems more appealing. It's as unbelievable as any lie, at any rate. "The trees told me." she says, with an innocent smile.

DÁ

[Erebor]

We are at war. There will be scars.

"Knowledge is power." he agrees, with a small, wry smile. On this they can agree – on this everyone can agree. He might not have the whispers that she has, he might not have her flame-quick nature, he might be the misguided explorer who tromps through the forest, trying desperately to catalog its million varieties of plants and animals while constantly missing the forest for its trees – but at the end of the day, he'll still know things.

And as they have said, knowledge is power.

The trees, she says, and he doesn't immediately judge her one way or the other. There is something about this girl, a strange tingle in the air that makes him feel as though they're not quite on even footing. Not that it bothers him – he accepts those with powers as easily as you please. To him, they're just like anything else in Beqanna, a natural product of the earth no matter how intensely unnatural the results may be. He can try to anticipate their whims, try to understand their capacities, but in the end what is it for? In the end they'll always be able to power their way through, no matter what. And so it's to him and his lot to survive as best they can, to do as they're able, and to always make do.

The silence hangs between them for a moment before he rather gracelessly picks up a part of the conversation that suddenly jumps into his mind. "I know nothing of wildflowers. They don't grow much in the Chamber, not after the volcanos." his voice is tentative, almost pensive. He looks at her, his face handsome in the shadows of the forest that rings the meadow. "I don't know what knapweed is, or any of the others." he pauses for just a moment on the edge of speech. He knows what he wants to ask, but at the same time he feels himself hesitate. He isn't sure that he trusts this girl to be a good teacher – in fact, he's very sure that he doesn’t trust this girl with anything. But if not her, then who? He needs to learn about everything, about plants and trees and wildflowers. And this girl knows her knapweed.

"Will you teach me their names? The Knapweed and the…whatever else is growing around here?" he offers a half-smile, charming on his handsome face, although he has yet to learn that he is handsome and does not understand what it might mean. "The trees don't seem interested in teaching me."

Erebor

Native Prince of the Chamber

warship x straia

[Dá]

wolves in our own skin, we're savages.

Dá watches him with a smile as he processes her answer. He has picked up on the crackle, the give in the laws of nature as they bend and swirl around her. But the small girl is not aware of this, all she knows is that this time he does not contest her knowledge. Dá doesn't know what he is thinking, but that's the fun of it, isn't it? If everything went the way you spun it the world would be a very dull place to weave webs.

The quiet between them is a gap through which birdsong and nature-music rushes in; and the girl is not in a hurry to puncture this sweet beloved relief. It makes a change from the repulsive lip-flapping, the slurps and smacks and slimy swishes of conversation.

He speaks again, of kingdoms she has no interest in and volcanoes, which are markedly more interesting. Volcanoes! The melting pot of life and creation. Creation/destruction and everything in between; from the ashes the phoenix shall rise etc. etc. and so on into infinity. She has never seen a volcano before, but she has heard about them. She has heard trees scream as they melt and burn, and the chirruping of saplings as they push their way through layers of hyper-fertile volcanic ash.

"Oh they will, eventually." she says, with a pleased smile. "Does much grow there, now?" He speaks again and hesitates, and Dá watches him patiently, expectantly. His smile is barely there but ever-so-charming, and the small girl returns one of her own, calm and collected as ever. There is no time for admiring physical bodies when there is work to be done; plants to be seen, forests to be wandered through. No, his appearance does not even register with her.

He speaks of the trees, and Dá raises a brow. "Can't imagine why," she says dryly, humourlessly.

"Show me the volcano," she says. "Show me and I'll teach you the names of every flower we come across."

DÁ