Accept the fires from which I came ;;

He moves with a renewed sense of purpose, ragged hide rippling over a hunger-lean frame. Long has he been absent from the throne of Scythia … but no more. His eyes are bright in their sunken hollows, determination once again flickering in their depths. When he had left to wander once again, hooves following his nomadic heart, the world of Hoof Prince had come to a grinding, deathly halt. The newborn kingdom whose throne he had fought tooth and hoof to obtain had floundered beneath the ever-darkening gaze of dormancy. Now he can feel the earth turning once again, life suddenly infused into its dips and hollows, the motionless planet once again set to motion. He was a King – the silver crown shifts in its tangled mess, as if his thoughts are heard by the inanimate object – and it was high time he reclaimed what was his. To live the life of a layperson when he is anything but would be throwing away all that he has overcome thus far.

His contemplations turn suddenly to Avarice, the fiery-eyed daughter of a woman he once thought himself in love with. Would she forgive him his absence? He can only hope, for the crown and the throne, he has come to learn, would mean next to nothing without her at his side. He smiles fondly when his mind’s eye finds that comforting image of her, the delight and wonder on her face during that first storm they had created together …

And suddenly, unmistakably, her shrill call rings out across the near-empty kingdom, a figment of his imagination suddenly a reality. Flames erupt along his limbs, licking harmlessly about his flesh and without another thought he is galloping across the browning fields, her siren’s call drawing him to her. Another call tears its way across the quiet realm and this time his own voice pierces the distance between them, a rumbling cry of loneliness, sorrow, regret, and most of all, happiness. He was finally home.

He finds her then, sweating limbs cresting a small hillock and those golden eyes lock on her matching ones. The patchwork King cannot help the smile that breaks sin-stained lips at the sight of her and for a moment he is the man who has long been in the desert, now suddenly come upon a wondrous oasis. He pauses a dozen or so feet from her, somewhat unsure of the state of her welcome but trembling appendages refuse to allow him to remain still for long and he finally closes the distance between them. Huffing softly, he curls that great, thick neck about her own, pressing his warmed chest into her, reveling in the simple contact. And there is but one word on his lips.

“Avarice ...”