"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
01-05-2018, 04:30 PM (This post was last modified: 01-16-2018, 06:33 PM by Trissy.)
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
Well, despite the eventfulness of her arrival (darling Heda and her jealous streak was quite exciting she must admit), Trissy has been enjoying her time exploring her new home. She has already weaseled her way up to the peaks of the mountains, and made a point of finding the most difficult routes. Her muscles complained at the work she demanded of them, having grown soft since her time in the Beyond, but she simply gritted her teeth in reply.
All in all, she finds herself falling in love with the land. In places, it appeals to her feral nature, especially along the long paths of the canyon basins where her steps echo softly off the walls. In others, it shows her new sides to her character, ones that she may never have discovered alone in the Beyond. Ivar, of course, is always a sight for her sore eyes, and she seeks him out occasionally, restless in her wait for Torture's arrival.
She is relaxing for now, having finished climbing up a particularly steep rock wall to reach the crest of one of the small mountains of the kingdom. Sweat stains her black hide, rising in billows of steam into the crisp winter air. Without much investigation, the mare finds some trees beneath which to lay, and she does so now, pulling melodically at strands of long grass and consuming them placidly.
Not every day calls for sinful tramps with lustful men, after all.
With her small but hardy legs nestled neatly beneath her trim barrel, the Arab contents herself with some light dozing peppered with mindless nibbles of the sweet green grass. Guilt stabs in her stomach every once in a while, reminding her that she could be doing so much more with her time - but then again, she has no true duties in this land as of yet. She had spent decades living in harsh, bleak conditions until now; so today, she deserves to relax.
Ichor doesn’t bother with much of the events that unfold in Loess.
How can she? They don’t pertain to her. Ivar has his collection and she exists as part of it. A small odd part but part of it nonetheless. To the point that she roams the land during the night when she is most active and tends to forgo the day in favor of uselessness and napping.
It is her moth nature that makes her weak in the face of sunlight unless she buries herself in the depths of a hot spring but sometimes that seems to give a horse or two a fright to encounter the moth-mare staring up at them from the deeps of a heated pool with her only gills a-flutter. So she’s given up on that. Best not to frighten his pretties and his subjects alike lest she lose the only home she’s ever known besides the wide swatch of river that cut through the meadow.
Winter is upon them, making others restless and rendering her next to useless. She is mostly moth after all from the bottom of her six legs (four in the front and two in the back) to the tips of the antennae sprouting from the top of her somewhat equine head. Throw in a moth’s proboscis that can unfurl from her mouth, the flaking scales that comprise her skin and the large wings of an atlas moth that clamp tight to her sides and she is one hell of a sight to see! That is without mention of the large compound eyes set in that long horse face or the gills that seem at odds with the rest of her.
Gills that came from her lamprey-horse mother.
The rest - all the moth bits and pieces, those came from her moth-horse father whom she bore more than just a passing resemblance to. Ichor was but a smaller more feminine version of him spat from the slick hairless loins of the lamprey-mother who gave her nothing but love and the gills to remember her by. But to think of her family is to think sad thoughts and Ichor banishes those from her brain as best as she can because she has felt the loss of them - lots of sisters, mostly, and her parents, as keen as the prick of a thorn in her skin.
So winter leaves her sluggish on the slopes of Ivar’s immense but sparsely populated home. Except that she is roused from her near frozen stasis by need which translates itself into hunger. So off Ichor goes in search of nourishment but finds a pretty black mare nestled beneath the trees in a good bit of grass that Ichor cannot eat - her mouth is not designed like theirs to masticate the grass into food. She needs flowers to suckle from and had hoped that she might find a late bloom or two amidst the grass but disappointment is the beast that claws at her gut even as she chokes out an apology to the unknown black mare.
“Sorry to have disturbed you.” and she begins to back up in all manner of haste.
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
In a way, Trissy wishes she could be less involved in Ivar's drama - then again, her innards gnaw and gnash on her bones when idleness takes hold. A schemer - a more cunning derivative of the dreamer - that's what she is. Yet even those with the best schemes often find themselves craving an afternoon of gentility and quiet. It's inevitable.
They are different in other ways, however. Trissy was utterly plain, without magic or ability - despite having been born from two ancient queens, there is nothing left of their legacy to bring over with her into this reality. Peccatrice Dea had been normal, too, an Arabian whose most mark on Trissy's character was a risque, watch-and-find-out kind of attitude. And from Kotaro, not the immortality, but the stoicism. All in all, however, their combination had resulted in nothing but what had now become a little black herd mare - for now.
At the sound of an unusual cadence of hoofsteps, Trissy's eyes flutter open. Her head snaps up from its perch on her curled knees at the sight of the mare, who utters an apology and hastily retreats. Groggy from her nap, the little mare almost falls in her rush to stand and stop the beautiful creature from leaving - although familiar with magic, this certainly peaked her interest.
"Wait!" Her low voice thrums out. "Don't leave." It's her way of saying 'I was just about to get up anyhow.' Eyes blinking to clear out the fog of her dreams, Trissy takes a step closer to the gorgeous creature. She smells female, and equine clearly, but fainter - as if she stood leagues away, instead of feet.
"I'm Trissy," Offers the black mare, raising her eyes from the six legs and orange wings to the moth's face. Endlessly interesting, and Trissy hadn't nearly close to enough time to admire. A kind of awe-filled smile curls her usually somber lips; perhaps female company softens her. "What's your name?.. Are you one of Ivar's, too?"
