the path to enlightenment
A R I S H O K
is paved with ignorance
Crystalline droplets more valuable in this land than the most flawless of gemstones dribble from his chin as Arishok's thickly muscled crest elevates his skull once again. The thirst of his body is quenched, but the thirst of his spirit seems to have awakened in its passage, burning deep within his chest as if his heart were comprised of embers. He is vaguely surprised to discover that he has company; as he turns to contemplate the arid land once more, the form of a black-and-white female of his own kind now dominates his vision instead. The uncertainty lasts only an instant, however, and quickly transitions to the calm collection that defines Arishok. His expression unreadable, his crimson-tipped ears collect the sound of her voice, and assembling the meaning of her words.
"It is I who belongs to the land, basran. This desert sings to me."
Though his intense gaze regards the stranger, the ashen stallion's expression remains guarded. There is no welcome offered, no greeting; in his homeland there would have been little use for such niceties. Those who were allowed to remain and not attacked outright knew themselves as welcome, and without a name to offer, what would have been the purpose of a greeting? One's station was often evident just by their appearance; if not, it was quickly discovered. Arishok stood firm and tall, neither giving ground nor taking it. He was a figurehead, and more...he was the embodiment of his people, the whole. Some may have called him a leader, and though he considered the term shallow (and offensive), it was not too far from the truth.
With these thoughts the hole in his chest suddenly seems to burn deeper; as the flesh singes around the edges, Arishok's mask falls away briefly. There is a depth of sorrow to his expression now as he turns away, his eyes travelling the endless miles of sand.
"It is not yet home."
He states simply, a contradiction to the complexity of emotions roiling beneath his tone. By the customs of this land, the dunes were 'his', his claim staked and all those who ventured across its invisible boundaries subject to his reign. Yet a king could not rule over an empty kingdom; until the sands were populated with shokaad and ariaad, it was merely a convenient and familiar place to return to, and nothing more.
And he, without a body and soul to govern, was no Arishok.
a bloodstained gray stallion
standing proud at 16.2 hands and
following the ways of his warlander ancestors
for nine years and counting
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