life's a game made for everyone[ any;desert competition]

[Weir]

The roan stalked across the dunes, having made his way across the plains from the Dale. He had caught wind that the Deserts were to be hosting games of sorts. Challenges, perhaps may be a better word now that he considered it. One for diplomats, one for fighters, and one for those with talents. He could only imagine the sort of gathering that might bring, what sort of folk might show. He could hardly resist. And so, he traversed the lands, the weather rather agreeable on the way here. Now though, he found it most uncomfortable. He was plodding along, considering turning back, when a nice breeze kicked up out of no where. His neck and dial raised up as if questioning, ears flicking trying to catch what sounds he could. The air tingled, that tell-tell feeling, like the one when your foot falls asleep. To some unpleasant, to Weir, excitement, knowledge, science. Some of his most favorite things.

This renewed the weary traveler, and he resumed his walk finally cresting over that last blasted sand hill. His amber eyes fell upon a most unusual gathering, horses of all shapes, sorts, colors dotted the dirt. He couldn't wait to meet them, all of them if he could. He had to get in there, chat, observe, take note. He whistled on his way down, descending the sand slope rather carefully. Full concentration now ol boy, he told himself for good measure. He slipped but a few times, having been most unaccustomed to traveling over sand. Deserts weren't his favorite. Hot, dry, the lay of the land sticking to you, gathering up in places he wasn't sure to speak of. Remaining there far past their welcome. No he had only visited one in the past, the entire situation unsatisfactory. Ah, but it couldn't be helped, when he felt that tug he had to go. Surely something needing attention.

Finally, finding his way to what seemed flatter land, he nickered a friendly call. Drawing ever near to the center, closing in on an oasis. What luck, he thought, helping himself to a cool drink. He was there for some time, guzzling, guzzling. How he managed such a consumption without being sick was truly a feat. Finally, though he lifted his dial, amber eyes taking in the sights. Maw dripping with water, without a care.

[Camrynn]

so you wanna play with magic?

Above all things, Camrynn likes control.

And in the entirety of her long life, it's been a rare thing for her not to be in control. Even time itself bends to her will, to her magic. The few exceptions have, generally speaking, been those whose power is absolutely equivalent to her own: other magic users like Eight, Evrae, Anaxarete, Yael, and Jason. They can do everything she can do, and so it seems almost asinine to expect to have control over them. She is fascinated by them, and seeks kinship with them, and so seeks them out.

She is far less comfortable with a single horse being able to thwart and manipulate what she considers to be her magic.

Oh yes, she'd known when he had come to Beqanna. She'd felt him like a disturbance in the force, a stranger so impossibly strange. And when she'd looked a little deeper, she'd learned what power he possessed, and she had instantly made a point to stay far away from him. She wanted no part of losing control over her own magic. She wanted nothing to do with a stallion who could twist her magic to his own ends, with little ability on her part to control it. In short, she did not want to lose control – not to a stallion who was not otherwise equally powerful, at least.

She had wanted none of this, true enough, but it had found her anyway.

It was finding her even now, as it walked across the sand dunes within her kingdom. It was finding her more and more with every step, driving closer and closer to the range where it would be able to twist her magic. Slipping down her sand-hills, drinking at her oasis. Here, in the heart of the Deserts.

Secluded far away, Camrynn flicks her tail in annoyance. She did not want anything to do with Weir, but he was here, in the Deserts, for the competition, and it seems that her other diplomats are busy elsewhere and it falls to her to greet him. She grits her teeth. She is not accustomed to doing things she doesn't want to do, least of all this.

She decides against appearing next to him. In fact, she decides that the best course of action is to simply refrain from using magic at all when around him. If she doesn't do anything with her power, he can't twist it around on her. And so she does something she hasn't done in a very long time: she walks.

She walks from the far out dunes, using her magic to keep herself cool and pristine as usual, dimming it only when she comes to the range where she suspects his magic manipulation works. Gnashing her teeth once more, she puts on her best queenly face and moves to greet him.

Even without her magic, she is beautiful. Pure black, free of any markings or scars. Shapely, tall but not too tall, she seems to shimmer in the Desert heat. Across her chest a gilded crook and flail stand out proud against the black. On her left cheek a trail of diamonds and other precious stones traces down like a necklace. And her eyes – well, normally they'd be some dramatic shade of rainbow, but today they're a color they've never been: the color she was born with, a shifting rainbow that is all colors and no colors all at once.

And so she stands at the oasis beside him, her magic dormant like a coiled snake, which she will resist the urge to use for the duration that he is nearby. Hiding her emotions with a timeless mastery, she offers the roan a small smile. "Welcome to the Deserts. I'm Queen Camrynn." Her voice is like liquid velvet, smooth and rich as chocolate. "Have you come for the mocks?"

CAMRYNN

co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery

[Weir]

He had been waiting some time since he arrived to be greeted, but really it wasn't a concern of Weir's. The roan stood at the drinking pool of the oasis, maw having dried ages ago, people watching so to speak. He had felt rather stuck, trying to decide which horses to approach, and just as he had almost made a decision someone else entered.

Streams of equine filtered in past the Deserts borders, each so different from the last. There were some there with multi colored canvases, some had abilities that were visible to the eye, others still seemed rather ordinary. No one was ever ordinary, not to Weir. Still some had the tingling sensation that magic carriers possesed, one female with ravens doing her bidding. Another takes the form of the bird itself, though he was sure she had wings to begin with, perhaps the two were friends.

His wandering mind is reigned in though, as his amber eyes continue to scan the sands. A new sight affixed to his gaze, a black mare approaches. Solidly black, her skin not tainted with a miscolor or markings, except for those that dis not come about in a natural manner. A crook and flail adorn her breast, and a line of precious stones adorn her visage tracing down her neck. She is all things beautiful, and Weir feels an unfamiliar sensation, his heart alight with a fire. How lovely she was, dark against the golden sands, walking straight towards him.

He clears his throat, an all too familiar hurumphing to ensue,
"Queen Camrynn,"he dips his dial, ever mindful and courteous of pleasantries. Well, most of the time."I have indeed come for the mocks, I am Weir from the Dale."he responds, mesmerized by the color of her eyes. What an interesting color, he thinks, stretching his neck to perhaps peer too closely. "Eyes are the windows to the soul they say,"he begins to speak, still trying to get a good look, "They say the patterns of our iris' crypts and furrows are correlated to our charter traits."He blinks his own, honey hued orbs, pulling back from his intrusive inspection.


"An excellent turn out if I do say so, you must be rather pleased."His gaze seems to fall too often, and linger too long. The roan himself hadn't yet noticed the significance of that, but he would.

Eclectic Vagabond of the Dale

[Camrynn]

so you wanna play with magic?

Almost from the moment she walks up to him, she starts to see something she'd hoped never to see. Well, that's not strictly true; she loves to be adored, and she enjoys it when stallions fall over themselves in front of her. But she doesn't want him to feel that way about her, because such feelings lead to an unwanted closeness. She wishes she could use her powers, wishes she could reach out and brush the thought from his mind.

He offers his pleasantries, and she nods politely in return. But then he does something she isn't expecting. He leans in close, too close, studying her eyes. She wants to pull away, but she forces herself to stand, to take his examination with grace. After all, if he's busy looking at her eyes, he isn't thinking about the magic that sits like a coiled snake in her belly. Sleeping, but ready to strike at any moment.

She blinks at him as he watches, prattling on about windows to the soul, and crypts and furrows and charter traits. She doesn't know if she believes him. After all, she's never needed a window to the soul. She makes her own windows, her own doors – she goes in and takes what she needs, deconstructing and reconstructing, learning whatever she needs to learn and doing whatever she finds necessary with that knowledge.

He pulls back, and she refuses to show her relief.

"Yes, we are pleased." she answers, her voice rich like honey. "It's a pleasure to have Beqanna's finest gathered here in our humble little kingdom." she says the last part with a wry smile and gentle humor, although she (and, she thinks, the kingdom) are anything but humble. "It's taking us time to start the mocks proper. Logistics are a nightmare with this big of a crowd." Humor colors her words again.

She debates turning around and leaving then. She debates turning tail and running away, asking her little band of Merry Men (and Women, to be fair) to dispose of Weir. She considers it, and not for the first time. But she rules it out, as she has so many times before. Her little band does an excellent job with so much of the work that she needs done, but she isn't quite sure they're ready for a task of this delicacy. Not only would an incursion into the Dale be too much of a risk, but even attacking him here is impossible; she won't allow any bloodshed during the mocks, it's simply too important that the Deserts make the event a rousing success. And generally speaking, deaths tend to put a damper on the entire thing.

Deaths, and being impolite. Which, unfortunately for her, she knows means talking to Weir. And being friendly. And potentially even being charming. "And how do you find the Deserts so far? The warmth grows on you, I promise." She can't help it – she is flirtatious by nature, and even when she's out of her element, even when she's hiding her magic, even when she's trying desperately to get away from him, she can't help but be who she is. She can't help how smooth her voice is. She can't help her wry humor. She can't help it, and it's going to get her in such a beautiful pickle.

CAMRYNN

co-queen of the deserts, magical, mother of badassery

[Weir]

He watches her, amber gaze hanging on her intently, though not rudely. Nor in a perverse sense, simply taking in all that she was.  The curve of her chassis, a never ending darkness encasing her form. The angle of her regal dial, he thought it was the ideal confirmation. Her slender but toned limbs, no doubt chiseled from strolling through the sands. However, his admiration is clipped to a halt as Camrynn begins to speak, and he is reminded that he has not given his name. (Not that she needed him to) ”I do beg pardon, I am Weir from the Dale.” He dips his head, a universal acknowledgement.

Her smooth voice fills his ears, a polite but true answer to give him, though he notes the ‘we.’ That reminds him, he had heard there were two mares ruling this Kingdom in the sands. One was obviously not present at this particular meeting, though Weir could not say he was disappointed. As far as Beqanna’s finest, that remained to be seen, though he had witnessed a few tricks himself already. It was the ones who were not quick to make a display of themselves that intrigued Weir. Those would likely be the ones he would pursue conversation with, though he would rather speak to each one of them if he could. Empty cups needed filling, and he found himself with an exhausting amount of dry cups.”Ah, of course. I did hear mention that two Queens ruled over these lands.  I am quite curious to see what skills the others possess.” His response was light, conversational, his russet ears flicked in the calm breeze.

Her next vocals bring questions to his auds, and he was not the sort to dislike them. He enjoyed them even, very much so, questions were for learning. ”The Deserts are, mmm.”He seemed to contemplate the question, mull it over in his mind. ”Quite hot and dry, as are most. However, I was so lucky the wind kicked up a bit when it did, most refreshing. I had a thought to turn and abandon this quest. Someone’s got their head on around here though, most astute to provide the comfort.” He took a moment to regard the groups of others, the nearby surroundings including the black Queen herself, before continuing. ”I find it most beautiful.”

Eclectic Vagabond of the Dale