this is the light that shines; Lagertha, any

[Ramiel]

ghost king of the dale >>

The air is like lead in his chest, heavy and grounding. He seems to sink with the weight of it. Or perhaps it is the softness of the earth, the loamy give of the dirt as his hooves slide beneath it. This land is so different than the one he calls home – wild and clustered and thick. Or perhaps it is the reason he’s come, the threat of war settling like a burden upon his back. They’ve all felt the tingle of it on their necks; they’ve all tasted the bitter fear of the unknown sliding down their throats. Or perhaps it is something else entirely. Because War isn’t the only entity astride him today. Death is there, too, a constant presence digging its heels into Ramiel’s sides. He is its keeper and conduit all at once (much like Death is his; this is a mutual arrangement, after all), and it is not a responsibility he takes lightly.

Whatever the reasoning, he is heavy in body and soul when he arrives at the jungle.

His golden eyes dart through the trees, searching, even while he remains otherwise stationary. If any lessons linger in his memory from childhood (which most of them do), it is the lesson of respect. Respect for authority. Respect for tradition. Respect for boundaries. This last one has gone the way of herds in recent years, of course, but not to him, never to him. He had been glad to see that his own sister hadn’t forgotten either, the last time she had visited the Dale several months prior. And though she would always be the exception to the rule (the one he trusted more than anyone), he was happy to see she carried their own traditions with her, even as ensnared in the Sisterhood as she was.

When he remembers that meeting, the grey king is brought back to the present quite jarringly. He had given Joscelin his answer then, but she hadn’t been able to give him much in return. And since, the Amazonians have been uncharacteristically silent. Standing at their gates now, it’s hard to believe they are capable of it. Birds flit through the canopies, loud in wing and song as they go about their avian struggle for survival. Branches sway in the hot, summer breeze, rubbing and clicking as they dance with each other. It is chaos in a way he’s never experienced before, never imagined in his strangest dreams (and he’s known strange dreams). He thinks it is the exact parallel of war and ultimate place to prepare for it - which works out well for the allies.

Ramiel waits with a new grim and gritty determination. All of the pieces are falling into place (pieces which are fitting together better than he’d believed they would). All of the first wounds have healed, leaving scars to remind the survivors what they are fighting for. He thinks of the Gates, then, wonders if their entity has recovered from the scorching. He thinks of his brother and the promise he made him on the milky-lit shores of the afterlife. To fight for his nephew lost to the Chamber. To push back the darkness, to buck against the hands that would try to smother the light. The Dale is in. It is time to let the rest of the world know it.

 

ramiel

[prague]

i was filled with poison,
but blessed with beauty and rage

There are few things that stir the lioness as easily as the scent of Forbidden Dale.


Prague has never really gotten over the grudge she harbored in her heart after Covet murdered Coca-cola - when you're a young Queen and looking for a mentor, a friend (and eventually a crush) you cannot handle that type of news. The silver lioness had thus only made one exception of liking the Dale - when Murphy ruled because she was just so hard not to like and believe me the old gray tried not to like her. The silver lioness had been following this ghostly man for some time, she felt him approaching before he ever thought about crossing their borders. His intentions seem harmless but she is not one to pry, much. She had been in hiding as of late, she wanted all the others (especially the Chamber) to think Lagertha had no magician and once again she was missing. It was working. Prague had put a mental barrier up for the Ravens and often shapeshifted into another if she must be present for something. She has been the bird flitting through the canopy all this time, her beady eyes watching him as he stops and with hours passing and no one coming she decides to approach. Her form changes to a python, slinking down the tree - her split tongue feeling his warmth as her scales inch closer. She reaches the bottom and shifts into a silver lion then within steps a bay mare of a smaller stature, arabian. She moves up towards the man, "What can the Jungle possibly do for someone from the Dale?" she says, spitefully and realizing that if she's going to appear as someone else - she must play the part much to her dismay, "Maeve, who are you?" although Prague knows there is rumor that a ghostly King rules the Dale she is simply a peon, a peasant if you will.

p r a g u e

[Lagertha]

I am iron and I forge myself

Breakdowns in communication were bound to happen with so many pieces in flux. It was better that they happen now, so they can fix it, than later, on the battlefield. That would be the worst-worst case scenario, in a whole plethora of poor possibilities. The lack was through no fault of either Ramiel or Lagertha’s, it seems Joscelin has gone missing, and that is an absence that the Iron Queen has felt quite keenly. Along with Anguisette and Tantalize and Sunday. At least Rhy is always there.

She’s been waiting for him - well, maybe not Ramiel, exactly - but someone from the Dale. Someone who would take an interest in what the rest of the world is doing. The dark gray mare patrols the borders daily, looking for anything that might be amiss. Today, she hopes she finds only good news. Ramiel’s scent slowly drifts her way, a fresher, more masculine smell that cuts through the heat and heavy loam of the Jungle. She finds the lighter gray stallion guarded by an unknown bay mare - no, wait. The mare smells like Prague. Her nostrils flare as she tries to suss out the situation before she has to say anything. Unsure of what the magician has up her sleeve, Lagertha chooses to keep quiet for the moment, and luckily (for all included), she manages to catch the name that Prague offers up.

“Ramiel,” she says with a slightly relieved look on her face. “I was starting to think you’d disappeared too.” Her gaze then turns to the disguised magician and without skipping a beat, introduces the stallion. “Maeve, this is King Ramiel. He is a trusted ally.” That is to say, that Lagertha trusts him. She trusts him as she would trust Vanquish, for though they are different they all seem to be cut of the same honorable cloth. Some might say that the Khaleesi is the least trustworthy of their little group… but that’s her own little dirty secret.

“Come in, Ramiel, we have much to talk about.” With that, she turns to lead the trio into the protected silence of the Jungle, and waits to see what Prague will do next, and what Ramiel has to say.  

Lagertha

warrior queen of the amazons

[its shitty, but its up. sorry for the wait!]