The Lost Islands
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Peak

The Prime Minister

Khar'pern

The Codebreaker

Ashteroth

The General

Marceline

The Companions
None None None

The Thinkers

Naydra
Titan

The Politicians

Ararat
Axelle
Hollis
Mae
Nashira
Serenity

The Warriors

Clarity
Kaeja
Lysimache
Starling

The Trinkets

Beloved
Cato
Cullen
Güneşlenmek
Isengrim
Jigsaw
Kazimir
Octavius
Starscream
Yıldırım

PRIME MINISTER'S DECREE

"None." - Leader

The Offspring

Diccon (Cicada x Khar'pern)

Rules

• The Vulcan Peak is where homeless mares come to live as a sisterhood. Stallions may not live here except as captives or companions for the Leaders.

• Warriors keep mainly to fighting, Thinkers keep mainly to raiding, and Politicians may do both, neither, or act as diplomats. Members may issue their own battles and raids, but should generally consult the General, Codebreaker or Prime Minister for permission.

• All major decisions are determined by vote, but the Prime Minister maintains order within the Peak and has the final say.

• Elections for leadership positions will be held every TLI summer, provided the qualifying criteria are met.

• You can find detailed information about how the Peak works on the Rules page.
I don't want you to be afraid
Posted on March 11, 2022 at 09:12:47 PM by oswald


i got an hour or so, take my hand and let it go
call me up anytime, c'mon baby, cry

At six months old, Oswald was told by his mother that he needed to begin spending time alone. She was never very far from him (mostly just out of eyesight, but always in hearing distance) unlike when she’d raised both Klara and Maia. When Klara had been six months, Oswin had lost a battle to the Lagoon boss and offered herself as captive among the seaside bachelors, not to be released until she won her freedom in a fight. She had met Klara at the edge of the Lagoon a time or two a week, but had otherwise been rather… absent from Klara’s life and too focused on her duties as Peak General to be a very present mother. She had done a little better with Maia…

But Oswin couldn’t find it in herself to fully leave Oswald. She worried she might be babying him, but honestly she was just so fascinated with the vigor he faced life with. She loved watching him learn and adjust lessons so that his lack of sight was never once a setback. He was growing into a strong, large young colt and she was so very proud of the stallion he was becoming.

She was very aware that despite how badly she wanted to stay by his side, it was her duty to teach him to be independent of her. Oswin promised him a visit to whichever island he wanted to go to by the end of the week if he spent a few hours away from her and in his own company and the company of others.

And so, Oswald, the big gangly six-month old draft colt (who was already the size of some small horses) was off by himself, nose dropped to the ground as he smelled things, dark red tail flagged at his hind. It was then he heard the distant noises of rumbling hooves, followed shortly by the lovely sound of laughter. He lifted his blocky white-face and put his nose in the air, sniffing the directions to figure out where it was coming from. Laughter was a good, happy noise, which meant wherever the laughter was coming from was somewhere he was curious to seek.

Once he caught the scent of a familiar, unfamiliar member of the Peak (one he’d never personally met, but smelled on occasion as his mother constantly whispered the names and roles of Peak mares to him), he was even happier to trot off toward her. Oswald had been relatively safe in the confines of the Peak and didn’t yet understand the gravity of what horrible things other horses had gone through.

The current of the water source she was near tickled the hair in his ears as he pulled his bouncy trot to a halt, lowered his head, stretched his neck and carefully clicked his gums at her - his baby teeth were starting to grow in - signaling that he understood his subordinate, weaker place to her and hoping she’d accept a foal’s company. He picked up his head and walked a few careful steps, listening to how loud the stream got and how strong her scent was before he knew it was an adequate space to stop. Polite, as ever. He had an image to uphold as the Prime Minister’s son.

“Whatcha doin? Can I join you?”

Alright, so one day he would look rather majestic and well put together and he’d speak with a trembling voice that’d come from somewhere deep in his broad chest. But his youth showed through even in his maturity with his squeaky voice and blunt question.


the prime minister's son
tyr x oswin; sooty red roan splash, completely blind

image (c) pacificnoir@da



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