and all their words for glory
well they always sounded empty
well they always sounded empty
His ears flatten immediately against his head at the painted's words. Flower picker? Really? The words irk him indeed, but they're nothing compared to the plain and simple fact that the pair have trespassed upon Delumine, which he has committed himself to protecting... Not to mention the vulgar behavior displayed instantly by the stallion.
Ulric then shifts closer, mirroring the painted's own actions as he glowers at him through narrowed eyes, uncaring the vast difference in their sizes. Before he can even begin to utter what might possibly be something he'd come to regret later on, however, another voice sounds from behind him, a soothing balm to the tension that had formed in the air about them. One ear ticks to the side as the warrior regards yet another painted man; this one clearly from the Dawn Court, although Ulric has never laid eyes upon him.
When he speaks, Ulric considers his words, but his attention is soon snapped back to the wading paint when he confirms Ipomoea's assumption. He knew little about Solterra othe rthan the fact it was an endless, blistering desert, and he struggled to imagine living a life in such a place. If a garden was what they wished to create, so be it - Ulric was far from the type to drive them away for something so simple and necessary - but rest assured he would see them away from Delumine as soon as they were finished.
Heaving a ragged breath, Ulric prys his gaze from the winged stallion and instead settles it upon the ebony mare who carries a curious marking. Moving forward, the roan stepped down into the bank, the mud squelching beneath his hooves as he approached. "I don't suppose we would," he remarks, "So let us help."
Ulric then shifts closer, mirroring the painted's own actions as he glowers at him through narrowed eyes, uncaring the vast difference in their sizes. Before he can even begin to utter what might possibly be something he'd come to regret later on, however, another voice sounds from behind him, a soothing balm to the tension that had formed in the air about them. One ear ticks to the side as the warrior regards yet another painted man; this one clearly from the Dawn Court, although Ulric has never laid eyes upon him.
When he speaks, Ulric considers his words, but his attention is soon snapped back to the wading paint when he confirms Ipomoea's assumption. He knew little about Solterra othe rthan the fact it was an endless, blistering desert, and he struggled to imagine living a life in such a place. If a garden was what they wished to create, so be it - Ulric was far from the type to drive them away for something so simple and necessary - but rest assured he would see them away from Delumine as soon as they were finished.
Heaving a ragged breath, Ulric prys his gaze from the winged stallion and instead settles it upon the ebony mare who carries a curious marking. Moving forward, the roan stepped down into the bank, the mud squelching beneath his hooves as he approached. "I don't suppose we would," he remarks, "So let us help."
HISTORY HAS ITS EYES ON YOU
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all contact is permitted and encouraged
