"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
My god the change of scenery was refreshing. Everywhere there’d been sand and enough siennas, ochres, and rusts to make you go colorblind. I’d almost forgotten just exactly what blue could look like, or how many greens there actually were. But I know better. There’s blue in the ice, green in the needles of the trees I never knew existed, that pale, pale grey of the sky that haunts me as I make my way easily into the Field for the first time. I know colors because I am color: a deep, rich, haunting green like the echoes of a silent forest with soft, warm, dark blue to trim my neck and spill out over my hind legs. Even my quaint hooves are pops of inky navy over bright white as they break through the upper crest of leftover winter snow.
My life is a contradiction.
Born in the hot sands, but with a gift that relies on water. Half predator, half prey. Once magic, now I am nothing but flesh and blood. Up until this point, I have only lived one life. One short, wholly uneventful life. And now? Now I begin a new one. It dawns on me that I’ve failed in asking the right questions of my parents before traveling to this place. Again, I remind myself, they couldn’t answer them anyways. I’m blessed (I suppose) that I even had parents around to talk to. Whereas so many others have had only one, or perhaps even none at all. I’m ignorant, fresh - and it shows as apprehension on the slender lines of my face.
I will run the streets and hostile lands, I will touch the rain with all I have
I will breathe the air, to scream it loud. My feet will never touch the ground.
Camelia has been blessed. She knows without a doubt that her life has been one of the nicer ones in Beqanna, and it certainly could have gone terribly wrong. She’s been gifted with loving parents (Finnley with his wisdom and wanderlust, Kaelie with her thought and teaching). She’s been loved by a soulmate (Mast, her childhood friend she used to play tag with whom she still considers her heart tied to). She’s been blessed by two children (Finner with his acute similarities to his grandfather, Topsail with her beautiful chaos). She has loved and been loved.
Her feet carry her into the Field with ease. It’s a rugged winter day, but Camelia finds it beautiful nonetheless. There is fresh snow dusting the ground, and it’s light and fluffy against her heels. Although the sky is a monotone gray, the deep green of the pine trees and the stark brown of the leafless trunks balance out the color. Camelia scans the clearing, her eyes looking for wanderers who are not already in conversation with some recruiter. With the appearance of more and more lands, there are also more opponents vying for attention.
The sight of a brightly-colored mare walking across the Field catches Camelia’s attention. She’s a splash of color and life against an otherwise white and gray world. It reminds the dunskin of spring and it brings a soft smile to her graying lips. So the Tephra mare makes her way toward her, excitement thrumming quietly in her veins.
She comes to a respectable halt, her eyes reaching to seek out the emotion in the other mare’s face. “Hi, I’m Camelia.” Names are always a good place to start. “You look like a beautiful dash of spring.” She smiles widely, and it’s like the sun coming out. She doesn’t mean to sound rude, if it comes out as such, but Camelia finds herself falling in love with the mare’s bright colors. “How’d you get such pretty colors?”
I won’t be eaten alive after all. Quite the opposite, really, and I can’t deny that in my heart I’m cracking from the pressure of what’s to come. It only makes it that much easier when Camelia introduces herself - someone else to share the burden of awkward first encounters. “I’m my father’s daughter.” I joke, trying on a laugh to match her warm smile. If only she knew just how true that statement was. The wolf within me has been quiet for some time, but it doesn’t mean I’ve never felt it. Does Camelia know the battle that rages inside of me? Can she see it in the harmless blue of my eyes, in the friendly color of my coat?
Of course not. No one ever did.
But I’m trying, always trying, to be something I’m not. “I’m Circinae, Circy for short, and I guess you know what I’m doing here.” I offer, trying my best not to waste her time. She’d seen something in me, or else she wouldn’t have bothered coming over to make small talk. Or - maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. No doubt she gains something by bringing me home. But I don’t begrudge her task, there always has to be a means to an end. I’m just not sure I like being a number. “Would you tell me a bit about your home, before we leave?” I ask, bright ears flicking towards her. I’m a bit of a realist, so the latter end of the question should come as no surprise to her. She was the only one who’d even bothered to talk to me. Winner by default.
