HEAR WHAT IT SPOKE
UNDERNEATH
The air is still but full of lazy tension, the way a peach sits in the sun and fills with rot, waiting for the slightest bit of pressure-- a breeze or a gentle touch-- to explode.
The air is quiet but not silent. (But then there is no such thing as silence anymore, not with your blood blood always beat beating in your ears, not with all those creaky doors that line the inside of your skull. Not with the sound of yearning whimpering hungrily, doglike, into the void, craving salt water and flesh and the primordial soup that binds you and the word you use- love- even in the place where words fail) There are few guards today, and the heat has made them lazy. They don't walk around on patrol, or do much of anything at all other than stand there in the shade of the palm trees, eyelids heavy.
Eik has been coming here for several days and nights now, lingering far enough away that it takes almost no effort to deflect any attention on himself with just a twist of his magic. He quickly learned that the day shifts are much smaller than the night. Perhaps they thought no one would be foolish enough to attempt a theft in broad daylight. And under different circumstances, this would probably be true. But the weight of the regime has driven many to desperation, and there are few differences between a desperate man and a fool.
The grey spreads his magic out like a blanket over the oasis. He probes at the minds of the dozing guards, and has a fairly precise understanding of where exactly each of them stands. There is another quietly approaching-- Eik turns to face the stranger with ears pressed to his skull.
If he is surprised by who he sees, it does not register on his face. His ears still twist back uncertainly, but they are no longer flattened. "Mathias." Eik's only encounters with the other stallion had been at the time of the blizzard, and those encounters had not left the best impression. He had not even thought of the man since Seraphina's death, although to be fair there were many he did not think of. Grief and anger did not leave much room for consideration.
Two water pouches (empty) are slung across his back-- his intent here is not exactly a mystery. The former emissary tenses, ready to spring and silence the other man if he makes any motion to summon the guards. Hunger has carved away at his body and thirst lends a dull sheen to his eyes, but there is still strength in the muscle that remains and the bones so carefully built for war. He could hurt, if he needed to.
He could even kill.
@
Time makes fools of us all
