Guided by a beating heart [any]

[Weir]

He peered over the ridge, looking down and out unto the Valley below. The hills were turning soft shades of yellow, the meadows lacked their luster devoid of wildflowers. The air once warm and perfumed, had turned crisp and chilled.

A cool autumn breeze kicked up, blowing his chestnut mane back into the wind. It was quiet here, peaceful, and beautiful. But still, too still. The evergreens retained their wardrobe, while the others lost their leaves in clumps of yellow, orange and brown. Breeding season was once again upon them, and Weir had done his duty to steer clear of the herd mares. It was not his intentions to fill the lands with children he could not stick around for, whom he could not properly raise and bestow his knowledge on. It was silly really, in his mind, the random coupling that took place during the madness. Children born, and then forgotten left empty, and to their own devices to fill the void. He snorted, chomping dry grasses as he looked at the world from near a birds eye view. Perhaps he had just grown bitter, never really having time for love. He had places to go and people to see, his life was full of other things. 

He made his way, slowly, cautiously down the hillside, a thin trail had been worn into the earth from frequent use. He watched a rabbit peer out its hole, nose twitching seemingly unafraid as he made his descent...

[Ramiel]

He lingers in the treeline, unwilling to commit to the sunlight just yet.

It’s been a trying few months to say the least. As spring slipped into hot, humid summer, he had slipped into a new role as well. He had ventured into the final frontier of space, had battled for his life in a pit of quicksand. He had been chased by plague and langoliers and the end of everything, and now, he is a different boy for it. How could he not be changed by it all, though? He is a keeper of a secret few know, a secret that feels like the weight of every dead soul upon his back. They call to him without words, beckoning him to visit their Other Beach. They are a pull he finds hard to resist, sometimes.

Ramiel would have gone back, too. He would have bludgeoned the cliff walls until his shoulders bled with the effort to get to the ghost world again. Fortunately, he knows it isn’t necessary, not anymore. The dead realm is a portal easily reached these days. But something keeps him from returning. Fear? No, he thinks. I’ve seen the ultimate destruction, have waded through the boiling ocean. I know where I’ll go when I die. This life is not the end. He doesn’t fear death anymore, but maybe he fears life. Or rather, all the lives that were cut short – the potential for life. He pictures all of their faces pressing together; he imagines the ghosts clamoring for answers that he cannot give. What can he say to them to make it okay? How can he relate when blood still pulses in his living veins on the Other Side?

He closes his eyes as he thinks on it all. The quest has made him more pensive than he was even before. Questions he hadn’t thought he’d ever need to consider now fill the majority of his days as he searches for answers. He’s still young (closer to adulthood than childhood, though) but his sense of responsibility already rivals any adult.

The black two year-old has the dead and the living to take care of, after all.

Movement stirs somewhere in the near distance and his eyes fly open. His honey-gold gaze lands on the retreating form of an unfamiliar stallion. With a sigh, Ramiel leaves the comfort of the shadows and moves towards the man. “Good afternoon, sir.” He doesn’t hesitate in his politeness, despite not knowing the roan horse descending into the kingdom. His mother had told him to be cautious of strangers, to call out before approaching. But this is his home and he cannot allow himself to feel fear within its borders. If anything, he smiles a little brighter. “I’m Ramiel.” The trail curls away ahead of the pair, well-worn and centrally-leading. If this man is a new recruit, the young stallion means to lead him down and into the Dale proper. “Who are you?”

r a m i e l

what a day to begin again

[Weir]

He had been contemplating whether or not the rabbit had been a rabbit at all, perhaps it was a hare. This was a very important thing to know you see. One couldn't spend their lives calling a rabbit a hare and a hare a rabbit now could they?

It was out of his peripheral that he spied the youngling. He gave a shake of his head and neck, his mane flapping side to side in answer. A coal colored colt come to keep him company he supposed. The youngster offered words of greeting and his moniker, the roan stallion listened with interest. It was however, not an apparent interest. Though he did in fact lend his ear to the lad, he kept his amber gaze on the trail. It was prudent for one to watch where they were going, especially on a downward slope.

Questions were to be expected from the young, and he did not mind to answer. Who are you? and no doubt he would require a name from the stranger. The roan gave a soft chuckle, his gait was that of a Sunday driver. Here to see the sights, and not necessarily all too concerned on when he would arrive at his destination. "My mother chose Weir as my calling, young Ramiel." He provided a name for his face, the two meandering down the hillside slowly."I had the pleasure to be offered housing at the Dale from an Elysteria, do you know the one?" He was sure the colt knew the one, but it provided conversation and a bit of learning for both.

He was of the opinion that the young were often overlooked. He found them far smarter than they were given credit for, and honest. If ever you needed a valid insight on yourself or another, all one need do is ask the nearest yearling. They often had an inconspicuous way of listening and observing, even when they were meant not to. It was humorous really, and oddly convenient. He made a point to be amicable with youth, to an extent, but really he was a rather pleasant fellow. It never seemed too much of a stretch to join them at their games, or take the time to learn about them. Their likes, their dislikes. Children needed that, some small shred of importance in a world much bigger than them, all too often out to consume them.

"And which is yours? Your mother that is?" He asked while he stopped and stooped. His muzzle lowering to the ground to inspect a glossy beetle that was hurriedly scuttling across their path. A curious creature he was if nothing else.

[Ramiel]

The stranger’s greeting is more of a half-hearted acknowledgement. It’s a curiosity that he merely flicks an ear towards Ramiel. The growing boy is used to immediate interest, used to near whiplash as one horse was called out by another. He doesn’t realize that those reactions were due to the quiet nature of the place, a desperate desire for social exchanges which had been lacking. He has grown up in a time of serenity, certainly, but also a time of loneliness for many.

But he’s not offended by Weir’s commitment to his walk. He notices the man’s concentration on where he places his feet and figures he’s simply being safe. The trails out this far can definitely be tricky. Deep ravines slice into the mountainsides, formed by thousands of years of trickling water. One can lose their footing (or their foot, or their life, even) if they aren’t careful. Ramiel takes the roan’s easy reaction as being a welcome to join him, and he moves up just behind and to the side of him. “Yes, I know Elysteria. She and my mother are good friends.” A hare chooses to dart out from its burrow at that moment, crossing the trail just ahead of the traveling pair. It leaps fearlessly off into the unknown, long legs springing it into the darkness of the forest. Ramiel admires its heedless courage and wonders how much blind faith it had taken for Weir to join them.

“I’m glad you took her up on her offer, Weir. I think you'll like it here.” He glances sidelong at the stallion, smiling. The Dale is always hungry for new blood – what kingdom isn’t, truly – but what it really needs is strong blood. Newcomers could be easily led to the Dale, but few of them fulfilled their pledge to it. Few of them stayed long enough to leave roots or a lasting impression. It’s disheartening, but Ramiel is starting to realize that it is the nature of the beast. He hopes Weir will find the mountains as inspiring as he does; he hopes that the man will see the quiet as peace and a place to prosper. The Dale can be whatever anyone wants it to be (a home, a workplace, a forever) as long as they have the vision for it.

“Talulah is my mother. She’s the strange, metal one you can see a mile off.” A grin pulls at his lips then, a last refuge of childhood mischief. Only recently has he realized that his mother is possibly unique in appearance. Her cold-as-stone skin had cradled him as a colt – he hadn’t known anything else – but now he understands it to be different rather than the norm. He still loves her of course, but he will take any opportunity he can to poke fun at her, too. It’s what all children do to their parents. “What about yours’? Are you from Beqanna?” The greying boy knows that there is a world outside, but he’s never met anyone from it. Watching Weir watch a beetle, his endless inquisitiveness is visibly piqued. They have a great deal of curiosity in common, it seems.

r a m i e l

what a day to begin again

[Weir]

A nod passes over his dial as he is peering at the beetle,its hard shell is a shiny green. Indeed the boy knew Elysteria, but Weir had figured he had so this was little surprise. Again another rabbit darts along the fields, or was it a hare? Weir would need to sort out this predicament if he was to keep any shred of his sanity. The wildlife was quite bold here, having grown accustomed to little threat posed by their equine neighbors he assumed.The child then describes his mother, A Tallulah he says, made of metal. Weir thinks he may know of the one, having caught a few glimpses of her from a bit of a distance. It was true she was terribly hard to miss, being covered in shining silver and all. Weir had not put forth much effort to say hello, for she had disappeared between the trees too fast, and he hadn't felt up to a game of chase. He figured he would meet the few inhabitants that he was told made this Dale their home, all in due time of course.

At this little tidbit he breathes a long solid breath of hot hair down at the creature before them. It hurriedly finishes its march, disappearing somewhere in the grasses on the other side."Cotinus nitida" He states, lifting his chestnut head from the ground, as if the colt had asked, or even understood what he was even talking about."I do believe I have seen her, a time or a few. We have never been introduced however,tell me, was she foaled that way? The shining metal skin?" He wondered, his thoughts leaking out his maw to become spoken word. He continued on, resuming his leisurely pace, making prolonged work of what may have otherwise been a short walk. Without waiting terribly long he again speaks,"Yes of course, I find it pleasant enough here. It is much a ghost town to be sure."He tacks on rather matter-of-fact."I do not believe I have met this 'angel' I was told of by the bay mare who led me here. Is it true? Is he a divine being, or merely one of those pegasus types?"He was ever the skeptic. Weir liked facts, he liked seeing things with his own two eyes. Things either were or they were not, and one mustn't do around spouting incorrect information.  He steps over a few roots that have strayed rather far from their tree, rolling up about the earth in places, before sinking down beneath its surface once more.

[Ramiel]

Ramiel is forced to halt many times as they continue their descent into the Dale. The list of curiosities for Weir seems endless, but the first few times the red roan stops, it catches the colt off guard. It doesn’t bother him, of course. If he had suddenly found himself a resident of a new home, he surely would do the same inspections of its flora and fauna. They are greatly alike in this, he thinks, smiling bemusedly at each pit-stop.

The beetle Weir studies on one such stop is not as amused. It scuttles off when the relatively towering creature breaths on its back, leaving tracks on the dusty trail. Still concentrating on the space where the now-absent creature was, Weir speaks words that Ramiel doesn’t know. He had just asked after the place of his birth, however – perhaps that was the name of it? Tilting his head in confusion, he asks, “is that what your homeland was called?” But the way his companion regards the beetle, Ramiel doesn’t think it is. Realization dawns on his face before he adds, “or is that your name for the insect? We call them summer beetles.”

They meander on slowly, working their way progressively towards the flat meadows of the Dale. At a sudden break in the trees, the view opens up below them. The kingdom is laid out before them: sweeping fields split in half by the glinting river, foothills that rise along the edges, giving way to the rugged mountain slopes. Winter has taken its toll on the greenery of the place, stripping it of its vibrancy but not its beauty. The colors are simply muted this time of year. The land is a palette of soft greys and blues and browns made lighter by the midday sun falling across it.

For once, Ramiel initiates a stop in order to take it all in. He looks over to Weir, wondering if the sight stirred him in a newfound way. He wonders if the man equates it to home just yet, or if time would have to create an attachment to the place he has pledged himself. How different it must be to walk into a land rather than be raised up in it. Weir has more questions about his mother, and the grey boy is all too happy to oblige. “It spread on her as the years went by. Back then, it was a hindrance as it was much thicker than it is today. Sometimes it froze her limbs or head, sometimes her entire body.” Talulah has told him the horrifying stories of her alien skin, how she had been frozen in place for two long years before the prison of her own body relented. He stops himself before he reveals all of it to Weir, not knowing if his mother would want it to be common knowledge.

Talk turns from one of his parents to the other, and on the matter of his father, Ramiel doesn’t hold back. Everyone knows of Tiphon’s otherworldly presence, how he is divine among mortals (and immortals, he supposes). “Oh yes. He is very much an angel.” On this, the boy is certain. He’s seen Tiphon appear and disappear, has seen him glow with the brightness of the sun and grow wings as ethereal as you would imagine an angel’s would be. To him, though, he’s simply a father. “He’s rather our guardian.” His gold eyes glance at the roan again. Was magic as diverse in his old world as it is here? “Did horses have powers where you came from or is this a change?” A circling turkey vulture catches his attention. He follows its arcing progression in the sky for a moment before turning back to Weir. “Do you have any gifts yourself?”

r a m i e l

what a day to begin again

[Weir]

This continues on as the pair approach the meadows. The friendly chatter seemed welcome, by the young black and Weir was pleased. He did so love it when children liked to talk with him. Releasing the name of the beetle from his thoughts, he peeks at Ramiel, who seems confused. A question sparking from his lips on what exactly that meant, was that what the beetle was called? Was that his homeland? His homeland! Why Weir, as often occurred they would all come to know, had become very distracted. A hurrpmmhing clearing of his throat followed his own realization of this. How very silly of him. “Oh, no, no,no, that is the beetle’s name. The land I was foaled in is named Gregor Valley, forgive me. I got rather caught up". He extends an apology without haste.

It is not long before the boy himself causes a break to ensure. He is looking off out into the tree line. Weir raises his dial as well, looking out, his amber eyes floating across each line. The river snaked its way through the foothills, a backdrop of mountains receded off into the sky. The blues becoming merged with the perfect gradient, blending one into the other, unknown where they left off or began. “It is a sight to see.” He says looking down at the grounds before them. “Rich with plants and animals, an excellent habitat my boy.” His words are fond, he did seem to like it here. With his slow goings, and inquisitive nature, it was safe to say he would be spending quite the span of time here. “Much to see, but we’ll have to work on the little to do, I think.” A smile wraps itself across his maw.

As they go, Ramiel provides more talk, information on his mother. That one with the metal skin, remarkable, he thinks as the specifics reach him. “Froze her limbs!” he said rather excitedly, one might not ever be able to discern the fellows true age, if basing solely on antics alone. “Sounds dreadfully uncomfortable. No way to itch a buttock, absolutely dreadful yes.” He nods as if he were agreeing with himself. “Yes he is indeed an Angel? Why, I’ll have to have a look to be sure.” His response to confirmation that the King is in fact divine.  The talk turns, and he chuckles. “Ah, yes there are indeed horses with powers in my homeland. Though not as many as are here I do not think.” He appears puzzled, thoughtful. “Few are born with traits in my homeland, in my family only 5 so far, but that is out of many. Aunts, Uncles, nephews, so yes indeed very few. “ He stops and looks at Ramiel with a smirk. “Ah, yes sly devil you.” He fake berates the colt, a smile on his lips and laughter in his voice. “I do have a gift indeed, a touchy trait to be sure. I am privileged to manipulate the outcome of others magic. If I am in the vicinity that is, though it must correlate. I could not for example change a flood to a fire. A fog, rain, clouds, of course. The body is made of about 50% water, if I was of the notion, I could swell ones body, drown them from the inside.” He stopped, realizing the discussion had turned a bit dark. “I would be hard pressed to do that though, my boy, don’t you have a worry.” He added very seriously.

Eclectic Vagabond of the Dale

[Ramiel]

He had been a quiet boy. Not because he didn’t like to converse with others, but because he preferred to listen and learn from them. He liked the spaces in between the words, too. He liked watching expressions change as they lit up with passion or confusion or remorse. Every conversation he had been on the receiving end of was a learning experience. But lately, perhaps with his ever-advancing march towards adulthood, he finds that he enjoys speaking as well. There is so much to share now (now that he’s lived through adventures and overcome death). He has perspective; he is forming his own views and opinions, and he is glad to send them into open ears. Weir becomes a recipient of his newfound voice, and he is thankful that he is willing to listen.

Continus nitida - not the stallion’s homeland, but the name of the beetle. It would be a strange name for a land, Ramiel thinks, but no stranger than Beqanna, either. The man proves full of surprising knowledge, and the colt logs the information away. He learns the actual name of the place Weir journeyed from – a Gregor Valley – and he shakes his head a little. So much to learn and only a lifetime to learn it all in. How many other lands exist outside of their relatively small realm? Is Beqanna only a tiny fraction of the world as a whole, surrounded by other fractions they visit only on their furthest jaunts? It’s mind-boggling and also a bit scary to consider.

“No worries,” the boy says in regards to the mix up. “I wager you’re rather familiar with valleys then, but this is ours.” He nods as the view opens up. Weir doesn’t have to look or take it all in, but he does, and Ramiel smiles. In the midst of Carnage’s quest, in the most tangled, messy parts, he had thought he might never see the Dale spread out before him again. He had thought of the glossy river when he had thirsted, had wished for the shade of the mountains when he burned under the last sunset of the world. Seeing it now, a great relief pulses in his throat and he swallows nostalgia at the memory. Weir forces him from his reminiscing when he comments on the activity, as he has to agree.

“A sight that should be earned, definitely. Are you a man of words or action, Weir? Will you join a caste?” The grey boy thinks he knows, but he has been surprised by reality before. The trail widens as the find its base, the slope suddenly very steep as it connects to the meadow by a dip in the ground. The trees pull back like a curtain once they reach flat ground. He admits to his mother’s trouble with her skin (shining, yes, but also sharp and blinding) and watches the roan’s reaction. Weir thinks of a problem Ramiel has never considered, and he lets out a bark of a laugh. Surely itching was the least of her concerns!

He then says that he will need to look at Tiphon to know if he is an angel or an imposter. “Seeing is believing, as they say.” The two-year old thinks Weir will appreciate clichés, for some reason, and he feels oddly proud to have supplied one of his own. He even sneaks a peek to see if the man has noticed, as if he wants to be able to impress this already knowledgeable man. He shares more with the younger horse, and Ramiel soaks it all in. So Beqanna isn’t unique for its traits, only its variety, perhaps. Interesting. Weir confirms that he is hiding one of his own, and he looks at him openly this time. Manipulating the magic of others…how specific! Talk turns to changing floods and fire and drowning, and Ramiel’s golden gaze widens. It may be rather specific, but it’s undeniably powerful. “That is very impressive. And useful.” He flicks his gold and black tail once, thinking of the uses for such a trait. “There are several magicians sitting on the thrones of the other kingdoms, plus several running around besides. Maybe you could talk one into letting you practice.” He says, smiling because he doesn’t think any magician would want him within a hundred miles.

r a m i e l

what a day to begin again

[Weir]

As they walk and talk Weir finds himself rather enjoying their little hike. The boy shows him the lay of the land, and provides ample conversation. Just the thing to pass the day, as he has a look at the Valley.  True he was familiar with them, perhaps that is why he followed Elysteria in the first place. The lands would be similar of course, to that of his own home. As similar as they could be, without being the same, of course.  Because you see, they were not the same, and you would do very well to remember.

He thinks the discussion turns rather serious on the boys part. He is forwardly asked if he would join a caste. Would he? Dare he? Well, he knew he ought lend his hand, earn his keep.  Usually he did, in different ways. Depending on where exactly he had travelled off to. Sometimes he was a teacher, the youth entrusted to him for learning. You can imagine how touch or go the opinions on his lessons might be. Weir could be an acquired taste at times, for those who had no desire to know more than what was at the tip of their nose. Of course, he could too be exciting, to babes who sought to know the world. To grasp on to that which was bigger than themselves. There was a whole world out there, waiting to be discovered.  Other times he was a man of a different type of language. The one of politics. Of treaties,  and alliances. Friends and foes, discussion and decision . Adding his little obscure tidbits until a consensus was reached, ones that could forever make or break an existence. Still there was a time when he had been a leader, a fighter.  Herds often sought this type of commitment from him, he was useful in a pinch. Well, if that pinch happened to be your lack of good favor from a magician. Or anyone who held a ‘magic’. ”I would be happy to help, what needs doing my fine young friend?”

What an oddly important question to ask. Especially, to a child, but as he has said many a time. If you want to know the true nature of things, ask a child.

He was giddy with the boys response. Seeing is believing. It is something he may have even said himself. How astute, he thinks as he smiles and nods in response.

The knowledge of his gifts being past to what seemed open, and eager ears. What was this? Talk of magicians? ”Well I thank you Ramiel. It is indeed a powerful gift, if one can wield it well. I must say though sometimes it is much a hindrance rather than a help. Magic is a tricky thing. Changing the course of it, it’s nature. Well it can be certain to cause the opposite reaction if one isn’t careful. It is good to be traited child, but it is also good to remember what that use does in the end. Who did it help? Who did it harm? Is the outcome worth it end the end, and are you ready to take it that far?” What deep words to impart on a young black boy. What a statement that could take years to fully discuss, to really let set in.

”I would be pleased to meet these rulers though. I am afraid though very few have any inclination to keep my company for long. How about you? Some sort have metal manipulation?” He wouldn't even be surprised.

Eclectic Vagabond of the Dale