There is more to the stallion, than Noam feels privy to unravel.
He does not share well with others. Nonetheless, make sense of the patchwork keeping his mind together. This occurrence is strange, stranger than all his travels – perhaps he is finally losing it. Breaking at invisible seams and slipping here – a bit too much there. He should have left to search for Alam, but now – now it seems too excessive. And he starts to convince himself that the night will yield better results.
The stallion speaks of a different Solterra. Noam has only known Solterra in red ink, a gathering of the unsung. Of shifting rulers, and a relentless underbelly – feeding off old powers. They ensnare their prized possessions with a vice grip.
Through these base desires of man over man, kingdom over tribe, Noam could ascertain the allure of power and wealth. Not to any intimate degree, only so far as the blade attached to his arrows – or the radius of a sword.
Noam spots the smile forming on the stallion’s pale lips. He cannot say he recognizes the gesture entirely. Only that it reminds the sparrow – quite suddenly, vividly, of the soldiers and their smiles. Dead men walking into battle ill equipped. Tired and hungry – he could still taste the fear lingering behind his chest. Becoming tight, as it ached and coiled around his throat.
Old lions wander off to die, eh?
The saying eludes him – for now.
As a means to prevent memories from regressing – these reveries from picking speed, he offers quickly, “Tell me… Which Solterra do you speak of?”
A frown escapes his façade, pinching between his brows. Eyes vacant, lost – in the rise of that buzzing hum that begins to heighten. Staring off into that endless horizon above the sands. When the sweat against his hide finally chills with the wind.
Do you only hunt slave traders? Or is it whoever is worth a bounty?
“I didn’t realize it mattered.” Noam releases his gaze. Takes in those gold irises that accompany the ghost, and wonders if they will shine again with vigor. What sort of stallion resides beyond them? A concession of defeat hangs upon those lips – the lion-heart worn down and pulverized into dust.
What remains of him?
“Who’s asking?”
Noam refrains from pointing out his efficiency. Considering Mata Hari’s lack of faith in said abilities. He hesitates now that the sound, that sound continues to hum behind his eyes. He wanted to voice that they didn’t suffer long, and they didn’t feel much before the final blow – usually. There were always a few, who went out of their way kicking and screaming to the final breath.
