Eaglecrest: In light of your silence ; For Vanphaen

For as appealing as he, Odin, is to the eye - he is conniving. This king, this master of his, has named it as such in a right manner ; perhaps unknowingly. Everything, every motion of him, every quirk of that fine-boned tail upon the solid line of his rigid spine, is calculated in a stature of unnamed things. Smiling now, he drops his head and brow to the taller stallion but does not reply, lurking upon the silence as if a minion (such a word, such a word) to it’s calling, waiting for the rearing of it’s muted cry. He is unaware, of course, of his master’s belonging with this fair creature (this Briar, his Laloma) but it is left unsaid, so he is left with the lack of knowing ; clueless in the rapture of her delicate curse-hood. If he knew, perhaps he would take a different path than so declared previously but he does not, so he cannot change his ways. Indeed, his nostrils are taken by her scent (furled about Vanphaen as if in after-thought) and he breaths deeply, chest rising and falling with rapid percussion. Ears, they prick momentarily against the angled curve of his charmed poll, he glancing to the taller with a mild curiosity upon his eye. But as such does only interest him for so long, he looks away again, a quiet smile shaping the word of his lip into speech ; “Odin, preferred.”

A pause becomes their company, resting at their flank and heaving thigh. His eyes, those peculiar rue, are unkempt in their venture of the crest-land. A smirk for them alone creeping against his tongue, hidden by the heavy curtain of his ashen mane (like the ash of fire, cradled by earth and flame) he lingers beside the Eagle-Lord and is the irregularity of charm-hood. But the quiet deepens, spaced by the heavy curve of shoulder into muscular breast, into clarity and he speaks, again.

“What would you have me do, Vanphaen?”

Around his tongue, the name finds true vulgarity.