atlas,
The stranger does not seem adverse to his arrival, so Atlas relaxes slightly. The wind is picking up the pale golden threads of his mane-- a more tarnished yellow than the truly spun gold of his tail-- and making a gilded, stormy mess of them. His anxiety about being rude is replaced by shy nervousness, and he feels a gentle flush coming to his features, though he is confident... sort of... that the reddening in his cheeks can be blamed upon the growing sharpness of the wind.
His trepidation soothes completely when the stallion assures him his presence is not unwanted. Atlas bows his head in a subversive gesture, all at once feeling rather pathetic. "Ah," he says lamely, unsure of how else to start his speaking, "I know I frequently come here to quiet my thoughts. I simply did not want to complicate yours, should that be the case." No sooner were the words clear of his lips then he was mentally kicking himself. Everything he said sounded timorous, simple, and whingy. He let his eyes fall over the cliffside in hopes something interesting would materialize from the blackening sea, something to save this handsome stranger from the tedious experience of his company.
Asterion. It was an important name for an important individual, though Atlas had only seen the ruler from afar. The king's presence, however, always warmed Atlas, as he was a simple-looking being, but in the right light, it appeared as if the first stars of nightfall were painted on his coat.
The stranger's easy name drop of probably the most important horse in the region made Atlas even more nervous. Either his new acquaintance was one prepared to throw around big names to make himself sound significant-- and Atlas strongly doubted this was the case-- or he was, himself, actually a presence in Terrastella and the world of Novus as a whole. "I've never met the king," Atlas confided, again stupidly unaware of why he said it, "but then, I've not been in Terrastella long."
The distant splashing of the dolphin filled the quiet beat between his words and the strangers. You are always welcome here. The sentiment warmed him and picked his spirits up a bit. He lifted his head and returned the stranger's smile. "I've always felt that, in truth," he confides, feeling comforted. "The people of this land of Dusk have been nothing short of welcoming, even to a distant stranger, like me."
Atlas was feeling good, feeling like this evening may not be as socially stressful and doomed as he'd chalked it up to be when he first caught sight of the stranger on the hillock...
...then he went and introduced himself.
Rhone.
Atlas's eyes widened as he swallowed a noise of surprise. Of course. Of course.
Of course, he knew Rhone-- knew of him, at least. Atlas was a simple scribe, a broker of knowledge. He started with drafting bills of sale for items and goods for an auctioneer; occasionally he would be called upon to transcribe meetings between business owners. He frequented the marketplace, recording inventories or acting as a go-for for larger merchants. He was oft complimented on his penmanship.
It was not a small circle of individuals, the one he ran (or maybe drifted would be a better descriptor) in, but it was not terribly large, either; still, he knew anyone who hoped to get anything official, anything publishable, wanted Rhone's seal of approval.
Rhone, the Champion of Wisdom. Standing and welcoming him, an impoverished stranger, to the land where Rhone was the appointed scholarly lead.
Atlas wished he could wither and die.
Still, he was already here, already knee-deep in this encounter. He couldn't just pop the chute and bail now. "I-I'm Atlas," he managed with only the hint of a stutter. "It's an honor to meet you, my Lord." He wondered if he should bow.
"Atlas" | @Rhone | ofc this was at a point before we knew Asterion was Asteri-gone :c
His trepidation soothes completely when the stallion assures him his presence is not unwanted. Atlas bows his head in a subversive gesture, all at once feeling rather pathetic. "Ah," he says lamely, unsure of how else to start his speaking, "I know I frequently come here to quiet my thoughts. I simply did not want to complicate yours, should that be the case." No sooner were the words clear of his lips then he was mentally kicking himself. Everything he said sounded timorous, simple, and whingy. He let his eyes fall over the cliffside in hopes something interesting would materialize from the blackening sea, something to save this handsome stranger from the tedious experience of his company.
Asterion. It was an important name for an important individual, though Atlas had only seen the ruler from afar. The king's presence, however, always warmed Atlas, as he was a simple-looking being, but in the right light, it appeared as if the first stars of nightfall were painted on his coat.
The stranger's easy name drop of probably the most important horse in the region made Atlas even more nervous. Either his new acquaintance was one prepared to throw around big names to make himself sound significant-- and Atlas strongly doubted this was the case-- or he was, himself, actually a presence in Terrastella and the world of Novus as a whole. "I've never met the king," Atlas confided, again stupidly unaware of why he said it, "but then, I've not been in Terrastella long."
The distant splashing of the dolphin filled the quiet beat between his words and the strangers. You are always welcome here. The sentiment warmed him and picked his spirits up a bit. He lifted his head and returned the stranger's smile. "I've always felt that, in truth," he confides, feeling comforted. "The people of this land of Dusk have been nothing short of welcoming, even to a distant stranger, like me."
Atlas was feeling good, feeling like this evening may not be as socially stressful and doomed as he'd chalked it up to be when he first caught sight of the stranger on the hillock...
...then he went and introduced himself.
Rhone.
Atlas's eyes widened as he swallowed a noise of surprise. Of course. Of course.
Of course, he knew Rhone-- knew of him, at least. Atlas was a simple scribe, a broker of knowledge. He started with drafting bills of sale for items and goods for an auctioneer; occasionally he would be called upon to transcribe meetings between business owners. He frequented the marketplace, recording inventories or acting as a go-for for larger merchants. He was oft complimented on his penmanship.
It was not a small circle of individuals, the one he ran (or maybe drifted would be a better descriptor) in, but it was not terribly large, either; still, he knew anyone who hoped to get anything official, anything publishable, wanted Rhone's seal of approval.
Rhone, the Champion of Wisdom. Standing and welcoming him, an impoverished stranger, to the land where Rhone was the appointed scholarly lead.
Atlas wished he could wither and die.
Still, he was already here, already knee-deep in this encounter. He couldn't just pop the chute and bail now. "I-I'm Atlas," he managed with only the hint of a stutter. "It's an honor to meet you, my Lord." He wondered if he should bow.
"Atlas" | @
