His arrival was not heralded with the flight of crows cawing into the air, nor did the earth darken in his wake. For all intent and purpose, the ebon man was surprisingly lackluster and average; he was no hulking behemoth, nor elegant dancer. He moved with the weary stride of one who had traveled long and bore heavy burdens, with his crowned head low and his thick neck flecked with sweat as he moved through the heat of midday. He was seemingly innocuous, another weary, normal, traveler out during the peak of the sun's reign.
To believe that was foolish.
It was true that he was weary, but he was in no way average nor so beat-down as his posture would suggest. Perhaps it would be a wise warning if the world harkened his passing, for with the hatred simmering in his heart and the calloused intellect behind his haunting eyes he was one whom should be trusted less than the serpent laying in the pathway. It was merely suiting that he bore the guise of a traveler worn thin by the hard world, it was far less conspicuous than charging in screaming his fury and wrath to the heavens above, demanding retribution for the sins wrought upon him. It was also necessary for the man he wished to become in this new land, for his old name, while unknown, might reveal all too readily his purpose and nature to those well-versed in ancient histories and cultures long forgotten. So as he walked, the Pretender mulled over various names he hoarded like precious coins within his mind, each name bearing a different personality, different physical traits that he could no longer access, but could very well use the mannerisms included with them.
He did not choose to dwell upon the past once his choice was made, but in the silence and solitude of his walk there was little else for his ever-active mind to indulge in. He did not want to remember the choking, dead air of his tomb, of bursting from the soil screaming in pain and terror. He did not want to remember the stone behemoth that drove him from the place of his rebirth, and eventually from the land therein.
Yet his thoughts would not be denied.
Bitter air, so dry and stale it may have very well been dust in his lungs, tickling with a feather-light touch that left him coughing upon his first inhale. Darkness so deep that he feared he had gone blind, that not even closing his eyes changed the shapeless blackness surrounding him with it's oppressive presence. He reeled in confusion, struggling to breathe, to understand what was going on.
And then earth began to fall-No. He balked at the memory, at the taste of fear and terror still fresh upon his tongue and heart even after months away from his prison. It was not enough time from his re-emergence into the world to dull the razor blade edge of that memory, nor the ones following in it's wake. With an iron will forged by a childhood of political and cutthroat lessons, Ammon wrestled his mind to submission to bask in the stillness as the trauma once more sank into the depths of his mind, a leviathan that would emerge again but for now allowed him victory. Ammon's gaze finally lifted to look upon his surroundings, upon the flat plains of gently swaying grass and sweet-smelling air. He was not so hardened that he could not appreciate the beauty of the land, and his confinement had granted him a sense of appreciation he had lacked before. One never knew how precious the world was until it was almost taken away.
It was rare for the onyx stallion to be caught unawares, so when he heard the soft rustle of grasses parting and the crunch of soil under hoof, he flicked back an ear, the only sign acknowledging the presence of another. Yet his heartbeat sped, irrational terror arising in his breast. What if it was him, the beast from hell that plagued him like no other, that burned him with just a glance and made the beat of his heart shift and contract in agony? Swallowing his fear, the secret-keeper turned his proud skull, laying unsettling eyes upon his new company, relief surging through him as his terror was set aside. This was not the one he feared, simply another. Such emotion did not show upon his features, his face carved of onyx for all the expression it bore.
"Thou tread the earth with heavy hooves, thus thou do not seek to unsettle one such as me. Perchance can I be of service to thee?"
You do not know the first note of the music that moves me
Truth be told, Tor's footfalls were never quiet. It was far too hard to silence hooves larger than the size of an average man's face; but he was never concerned with silence.
Traversing the plains, he sought out one - a small beacon of white light and black spots. But she was absent from the Plains, and for some reason this unnerved him more than before. Why? Why was he even seeking her out in the first place?
Such a realization soured in his throat, ombre ears - having previously been perked alertly forward, which was very unlike him - slipped back to rest against the crown of his horns. The heavy weight of his eyes pulled on the mottled skin, the dark of his bags even more opaque than the days before. He felt as weary as he looked, but he didn't even know the source of his own exhaustion.
Instead, he was hyper-aware of the sticky seed pods finding perch within the fur of his hocks, tangling and creating even more of a mess than was already there. He felt the prickling of the brambles and goatsheads, and his patience wore more and more thin.
He was so distracted that he nearly stumbled into a stallion black as the night. Stopping dead in his tracks, eyes the color of bruised plums rose to meet the awkwardly vacant and expressionless ones of Ammon's.
One ear twitched forward, and while Tor's own eyes regarded the stallion for a brief moment, his Triennial eye stayed surprisingly clasped shut. Unusual, for it was almost more curious than Tor on most days..
Thoughts aside, Tor cleared his throat and for a brief moment, acted like he had some semblence of manners. "Pardon me almost bumping into you," he offered, and took a step backwards to afford more space. A step that, according to him was average, but in comparison to anyone else was large.
"Curious, but were you raised to always speak in such a way?" It was a genuine question from the massive beast of a stallion, and a fairly innocuous question at that. Granted, it wasn't stated in an especially tactful way, but that statement aside..
"To answer you, no, I wasn't seeking you out. Just wandering the Plains, as you were." He failed to mention why he was, and really did not care to admit who he was looking for. The massive Warden should not harbor any semblance of feelings for such a mare.. and he did not quite know what he felt for Araxes. All he really knew was that he had this burning need to protect the little bird he had found among a nest full of bats.
But for once, he wasn't able to find her. Instead, he found Ammon.
The behemoth that had nearly bowled over the much smaller black stag was truly monsterous; teeth-like protrusions jutted from his chest in a seam, tightly closed yet the wrinkles of skin around them bore sign that they were not static as they appeared to be. His stature was massive, towering far over Ammon's form, and while robust and well-groomed, there were signs of wear and travel evident; burrs clung to dirty and dusty fetlocks, weariness sagged the skin beneath the stallion's eyes. They were signs the raven himself mirrored, although his were fallacies to wear as the foundation of a new persona, the white stud before him for all Ammon could see bore them true. "Thou art forgiven." He replied, although his features remained obscurely empty, his words carried weight and weariness, to match his posture and guise.
However, the stallion's question hit upon a nerve pulsating and raw within Ammon, and one of those silky-black ears pinned back against his thick mane, grief surging up his throat and catching him by surprise. Of course, the black stag did not let slip to the other man precisely what his words did to him, that such an innocuous question caused his breath to catch in his throat and his knees to weaken. It hurt, truly a hurt he felt only once before, to be faced with so blunt a reminder of his own antiquity, that he was as foreign to the world as it was to him. "Aye, t'was the dialect of mine culture to speak thus. This land bears a strange tongue, I know it not." He spoke honestly, for that was hardly a secret, and not one Ammon could veil as his own voice betrayed him. He mocked himself for it, although the mammoth stud's words drew his attention, and the secret-keeper's mind smirked in amusement. Did he truly think the raven would fall for such a pathetic attempt at deceit? The land around them was vast, flat and open, a myriad of endless pathways one might take and avoid another, yet the brute had almost barreled right over Ammon, and claimed he did not seek the black stag out?
"Queer, that. Perchance Fate sought to entwine our threads for this day." He inclined his head, finally turning to face the larger stallion fully. "Mine name is Vasher Narvisson, rogue errant and weary walker. What of thee, what name might I call to thine visage?" Finally a sign of emotion, a crinkle at the corner of white eyes as if in amusement, a sentiment not wholly an act. Yet whilst 'Vasher' meant it in camaraderie, Ammon mocked the brute's lie. "And mayhap since thou art wandering these plains same as I, we shalt travel as one. Where about lies thine destination?" He questioned, his pinned back ear flicking forward once more, his ebon features yet unchanged save the wrinkle about the edges of his eyes, his posture however did shift; hoof cocked and his weight shifted, taking on a far more restful, lax posture than the alert stiffness he had held prior, all to keep the larger stud at ease.
You do not know the first note of the music that moves me
Dark eyes regarded the smaller stallion curiously, noting the evident lack of emotion within his words. Was that normal for him, just like the archaic speech? Tor assumed so, to be honest.. but knew that was probably not couth to further push such a subject. The large cream and plum stallion was too aware of the tell-tale signs of agitation already surging through the other one's form - the easiest indicator being his ears. Probably more tell-tale than the eyes themselves, if Tor was fair.
"I'm sure you'll make do with your speech currently is. You're no harder to understand to me than I am to you, after all," he mused curiously, a slight pull at the edge of his soft pink lips. A lazy ear flicked upwards at the black stag's words. "Your name is as proper as your speech, I'm afraid I won't be able to pronounce it quiet so well," he chuckled, and gave a courtesy nod to the smaller stallion.
"Tor," he spoke simply, both ears inching forward towards the stallion curiously. "I come from the Day Court of Solterra. Where do you call home, ... Vasheer?" He ended the sentence quite unsure if he was even pronouncing the stallion's name correctly... in fact, he was quite sure he butchered it.
Upon his suggestion, Tor's shoulders rolled. "If you'd like, you can join me I assume," he commented off-handedly. It was within those moments and without prompting that the Triennial Eye snaked open, the lids peeling opened lazily right as Tor turned his gaze. But while Tor faced the direction that he intended to head, the Eye gazed eerily back at 'Vasher.' Its gaze was unsettling, pupil dilating erratically.
"I..." he trailed off, musing briefly. "Really don't know where I'm heading? I was looking for a black and white horse with wings behind her ears," he mused, and promptly chuckled. "I last saw her here, and she likes collecting herbs, so I figured I might actually find her here again."
Slowly regaining his gait - although at a much slower pace, surely - he wandered aimlessly through the crisp field. "Tell me, why are you here again?" he said, glancing back towards the stallion he assumed was following him. "I don't think I've yet to see you wandering around these lands," he mused, half to himself.. half to the void stallion.
Action. Thoughts. "Speech."
@Ammon, if Tor's Triennial Eye makes contact with Ammon's gaze for a couple seconds, it will give him a single, moderately startling statement:
"Powerful."
Despite his lesser use of emotion, of inflection in his tone, 'Vasher' was a friendlier Face than Ammon was by nature, and it made him feel rather rusty in using it... but it was the only Face which would not require magic he was now lacking. Vasher had been a boy lost long ago, a broken mother's whispered hope to her black-borne son 'fore he was taken away. It was a Face he sparingly used, for to use it felt too much like an admittance that he was not who he was, that he disliked what he was.
Ammon flicked an ear at the stallion's own name, a soft snort escaping him as the massive stallion butchered his new name. "Vash-ehr. Thou art close, however, thou drew out the 'e' too far." He corrected, mulling over before making a subtle chewing motion. "I have no place you call home, Tor." He mimicked the stallion's cadence, though his lip curled slightly. "And thine speech is like curdled milk to the tongue." It lacked eloquence, it was a rough-hewn axe compared to a slender rapier, and another reminder that he was as archaic as his words.
He moved to follow Tor, though when he glanced to the stallion there was something.... off, a flash of red on his head that drew his eyes before Tor turned away. It snared his interest, but he bid his time as there was no way to see what that had been without making a fool of himself. He was silent as Tor described the mare of his interest, spoke not on it as he truly held no interest for it, though at the direct question he flicked an ear, mulling over his words carefully. "I awoke here." It was the plain and earnest truth, though he would not say quite how long he had been asleep. "Thou hath not seen me wander 'ere these lands as I've not wandered them but a day." He chuckled low.
"What of thee, Tor, where doth thou call home, for thou doth not smell of this plain but of baked soil and spice." He arched a brow, ghoulish eyes focused on the larger stallion.
