Nova Peak pen-channas

”ai! ye ontaner qalme.” she snorted at his hail. 

just as he marveled at her descent …

(a dignified word for it, really—moreso picturesque of a debutante’s presence on the staircase during her courtier ball. her own was more suited to the depiction of a woman with too much wine in her bloodstream scrambling down a fire escape)

she marveled at his effortless ascent to reach her at her folly. ”kan,” she nickered, gleaning a proper look at the make of him, to be sure that her eyes confirmed what her ears contemplated; that she was not the only of her race to abide this region. an enduring lot, their architects, giving them lives so long they grew bored of their own climes throughout the extent of it. 

as sure as the valar spun them from himself, this horselord was as his dialect imparted. mearas, true as she. unlike the common roughcast inalda-roccor, his height and sculpture complemented hers, and their coats remained bright even against dirt, selfsame.  ”verime ehtelë—Á tule ninna. n- tára.” she openly appraised the moontulle of him as he sidled alongside to ballast her, wonderingly so—wary by virtue of his sex, but seized by a glint of charm despite herself. she hid it swiftly beneath an illegible countenance that cast about them with vigilance, watching for the larger rocks that were prone to slough from the mountain to the forests below. 

she yearned to know if there were more of them—of their kind, but did not speak of it. the impending calamity of their meet had made short work of her observations. ”át auca” the mare snorted with mirth and chiding in twain, counter-balancing herself using the extension of his ply neck and stifle to guide them both to the fidelity of footholds. her sweating coat shivered against his cooler touch. ”... ar hantan tyen ar sa.” she said regardfully as they navigated the scree.

after a time, they were both on unshifting earth, to her private relief. cleaving herself from him, and finding curious reluctance in doing so, she turned to gently brush his muzzle, blowing air against the silvern stallion's nares in proper greeting and gratitude. 

almárëa’s tired legs shuddered from her labors, and they longed to fold under her on the masonry presently supporting them, but she was restless for the high plains that had guarded her well during nights. fatigue would find her in the mouth of death if she attempted its trek, but she felt she had no other choice.

”tye péle- ana -lda lopsi ebmórilanta.”  she would not bid anymore philanthropies from him (the first unbidden, in the first place!). how he came to be in this strange region was a question that tread imperious and desperate on her tongue, but her mouth had grown dry from the hours and sun and the idea of discussion grew less appealing. 

though he, no less.

”enhantan ... ?” she wordlessly implored after his naming, though by any convention should have known it. his ancestral right, but the mearas had halved many generations ago during petty wars and phallic narcissism.