Lithe pistons stride mechanically, almost, over the be-shadowed, wet earth, flicking up verdant flecks of the velvety carpet, carrying their master quickly over the terrain he knows so well. Kind and bright orbs, ever curious and young, observe modestly with gentle knowing his majestic surrounds. From the ropey emerald vines twisting gently through rainforest trees, cramped boughs reaching through the thick canopy to the bleak, looming rain clouds, bursts of colour, purples, pinks, red and yellows, in the form of exotic blooms breaking up the mass of dark, deep green. Even the loam beneath him explodes with life, with little mushrooms and delicate plants reaching up from the moss covered ground. Everything has the delicious scent of wet earth, and the tall stallion cannot help indulging in a hearty inhalation, drinking it in with his crescent nares. In the distance, even through the sound of the rain, he can hear quite clearly the sound of the rushing falls as they cascade daringly into their waiting pool, boldly conquering the rocks, tumbling merrily over the jagged ledges of dark grey stone. The noise is so soothing to the chestnut bronc, and he finds he makes his way to the softly whispering falls without even thinking, his limbs seeming to move of their own accord to guide him effortlessly over, under and through any obstacle that parts him from his destination.

A visit to the mysterious serenity of the falls is just what the King needs, his mind in need of a rest after the sheer mental beating this war is inflicting upon him. He finds himself worrying his life into the very ground, in fact, so he deemed things quite bad enough and resolved to throw the whole bloody mess out of the window for just one rainy afternoon. One sweet afternoon to drop the weight of his world off of his young shoulders and forget, just for a few refreshing hours, that he is the Aquan King, and that the fate of so many have been changed by his doings, and those lives remain his to decide. It is such a heavy responsibility, and truthfully, Balorin didn't always know how to handle it. All this on top of his long buried heartache, all this surmounting itself in his head - it can simply come to be too much for a young King, still, after two long years, finding his comfort upon the throne.

Soon Balorin's trusty flints bring him to the very crux of the falls, and he pulls to a stop in time to have his large hooves lapped at by the constantly disturbed pool at the waterfall's large basin. The glassy clear water tempts him forth and, not being one to resist the call of the Aqua, he embarks into the chilly depths with a satisfied grin on his mug. A look of relaxation, an expression of finally found contentedness, as the merry pool laps and cajoles about his large frame, turning his rain spotted chestnut coat a dark auburn with its touch. He wades all the way down into the basin, even wetting his dark copped locks, until he is submerged almost completely, only his regal head remaining peaked above the water. He can almost feel the rhythm of water beneath the surface, gently caressing his tired bodice, swiftly soothing the pains of stress and fear and salving his mental wounds with the light balm of it unassuming pressure. He emits a single, long sigh, his breath blowing out like all the negativity escaping his body to skip harmlessly across the surface of the slightly rippling water. His slim chestnut harks fall drowsily back, closer to his crest, as the pure rapture of the pool engulfs him while he lets himself drift off in to sleepy bliss with the rain gently pattering upon his noble profile; slowly soaking what remained above.

His serenity is short lived unfortunately, for the sudden sound of splashing makes one lazy ear jump to attention, his nares quivering suspiciously. A conscious sniff of the oxi reveals that the King has company, male company, and so with a disappointed frown and a mumble of disbelief he collects his powerful long pistons beneath his wading bulk and pushed himself out of the deep. Cool water rushes off his body to tumble and trickle back into the crystalline pool, his legs moving as nimbly as ever through the aqua, his movements splitting the pool and sending large rhythmic waves from his form. He comes to the shallows and rocks himself up into a slow two beat, his twin peaks locked on the position of his secret companion, and his sharp almond optics roving for the sight of him. Quite suddenly he spies the stark outline of a young buck, and, wondering how he had ever missed the bright gold of his pelt, he sends a strong nicker of greeting to the bronc, his zenith pulled up high to enforce his status, his wet tresses clung to his physique, and his coat dark and dripping. He may be soaking wet and not looking his royal best, but he is still the King, and he would present himself as such to whoever he came across. After all, should the stallion respond, he should know first who he speaks with.

The copper King watches the frame of the young stag turn to stone, well, a shivering stone, in panic, watching with slight alarm himself as the startled colt's pools draw wide with apprehension. Balorin, had he possessed eyebrows, would be raising them right now as the gilded princeling seems to collect himself rather suddenly, upon seeing him approach as more than just a scary noise, flicking his pale locks back over his crest, huffing out his chest and pulling his stance to attention. From the looks of the respectful position the colt had suddenly adopted, Balorin assumed that his identity had been recognised. What an experience for the young fellow to meet the King, thought Balorin, though he hoped the colt would not be too star struck. Really, the chestnut bronco was no higher in his own mind than any other being that walked the earth. He had pleasures and fears too, just like any other, and the only real difference is that Balorin bore the weight of responsibility for the lives and freedoms of his subjects every single day. Such a mighty burden it is, though he bears it proudly and with great reverence, that the young King is truly grateful for days such as these, ones where he is granted a break. Where he can prop the world off his shoulders, onto the merciful ground, and get lost in an afternoon of pretending, where he is a normal stallion, and someone else has the fate of the world strapped across their back. Times, like he had intended today, where he might enjoy a simple relaxing dip and a waterfall massage; but even his own relaxation, however simple, can be vexed by the unexpected presence of an innocent explorer. Before the tall King has the time to address the colt, words come tumbling like frightened rabbits from a burrow from the maw of the young buck, and the King finds his blood turning to ice with uncomfortable rapidity in his veins.

"I--I have met your Queen! She was very kind, and very lovely; she helped me find food and water. Her name was..." A pause in which Balorin's heart seemed to cease beating, freezing painfully within his barrel, his breath stopped in his throat, until... "Parchia! Her name was Parchia---I think." Burst forth her name from the lips of the golden colt, having said it as if he hoped to build some repour with his sovereign. Balorin's alert harks rock back to lay in their graves momentarily, his nares twitch slightly while his blood instantaneously defrosts inside him and sees fit to jump into a full tilt boil. Every hair on the ruby hide of the stallion's lithe figurine shifts to stand as his skin crawls with a horrendous prickle playing over it. The feelings of sudden fury and despair fight for a stranglehold on his emotions, and the thorns of a love long lost entwine his hotly throbbing heart. Then, the ache, the unaccountable physical pain that rushes through your nerves as something evil you have tried to bury claws it's way through you, shredding your insides, making you want to cry and scream and kick and moan and make a childish ass of yourself just to feel better. To feel different. But the stallion just had to stand, his muscles locked rigid and burning underneath his fiery hide, because he should not have ever known the mare, though he knew her better than any other ever had for many beautiful months that felt like mere moments. Well, he had thought he knew her.

"Parchia you say, boy? I'm afraid you're mistaken." He replies bluntly, the lustre gone from his pools and his hide streaming off its wetness as rage and hurt boil menacingly beneath. It hurt even to utter her name, and he instantly felt as if he wanted to cleanse his tongue of it, though he settled for another inane twitch of his kissers and an agitated crack of his banner across his damp flanks. "I have no Queen, you should know that. You are an Aquan aren't you?" He continues, changing the subject firmly with a sharp demand to his nervous audience of one, his voice one of hard command. He did not wish to think about her, that mare, ever again, let alone talk about her with some whelp that had quite ruined his day. He wanted to pretend that she never existed to him and that's that. No bold little brat who dared to utter her name so casually before him would destroy his resolve. He eyes the colt harshly with orbs thoroughly cleansed of their patience and compassion, thinking that he would not be held accountable by anyone, being the King as he was, should the colt unwisely loose her title again.