"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
This is not the first time the girl has felt the urge to lay to lay an egg; but it is the first time that she cares about what happens to it. Before, there was never a chance of the eggs she had laid bearing any sort of fruit; in fact, many were so fragile and empty that they broke into a million indecipherable pieces as soon as they reached the ground. But this time, the mare knows that there may be a young life inside the shell, and she is not sure what to do about that fact. She doesn’t know if her eggs need to be incubated, and she’s quite certain sitting on one for the next however months it takes to hatch is not an option, for any number of reasons.
So that leaves the duo looking for an appropriate, warm place to stash an egg that has the potential to grow very large. How else will it hatch into a foal? Dagny is unsure of the mechanics, but she supposes she will learn them. Her golden brother follows dutifully behind her, quiet, eyes constantly on the lookout. Once, he was the flashier of the two of them, his naturally almost shimmery champagne pelt a solid light gold, framed by hazel-green eyes and a long spiraling horn. But then had come the quest, and his chestnut and white sister had become marked with blue and yellow, and then later had come the other things. The egg laying, and the wings, and the other thing. But she doesn’t have wings right now – Olivier can’t fly, and so Dagny often still walks beside her twin, eschewing flight for when she really needs it.
They’ve come to Tephra because of the volcano. Because volcanos are warm, so where better to leave it? They’ve made their way quietly onto the side of the volcano and wander up and down, looking for a place. It’s Ollie that finally spots one, a deep crater that looks like it will cradle a precious cargo, no matter its size. It also has a vent at the bottom and occasionally spews hot air – a perfect incubator. He shifts a few errant rocks out of the way with his horn, making the floor of the crevasse smooth and free of debrid, and steps away. The rest is her job.
So she does. It’s both easier and harder than the other times; there is weight to this egg, which makes it uncomfortable but yet easier to pass. She’s afraid of the drop, afraid when this egg shatters it won’t be empty shell that stares her in the face, but some sort of half-formed foal to haunt her dreams. But to her vast surprise when it drops there is a faint plopping sound, and she whirls around and blinks at the creamy egg in the divot. A tentative touch from her muzzle reveals that the shell is soft and leathery to the touch, not hard like the empty eggs had been at all. Weird. And it’s small, too small to be a foal, but the texture gives her hope it will grow.
She steps away from it with a last caress and he presses his body to hers, a kiss to her sweaty neck, and they watch the egg for probably an hour before turning to go back to the Kingdom proper.
Dagny & Olivier
I won't let you go; so don't let go of me no one can ever follow; no one can ever know
The heat is relentless, thick and full of moisture. The vegetation seems to be dripping with sweat themselves, yet they continue to flourish within the humidity. The smell of sulfur and brine fill the air, barely a breeze touching the deeper parts of Tephra, the sea wind blocked by the dense foliage. All around Beqanna, the summer heat has begun to ebb, the chilliness of autumn now lingering on the gentle winds, the environment changing as the world makes way for the cooler months; but Tephra does not change. The volcanic peninsulas are persistent and unwavering – it is an endless summer, wrought with smoke and ash, blanketed with a cloak intense heat and stagnant air. It is not an environment that is particularly dreamed of, but the residents have become accustomed to it – Warrick barely notices the fervid temperatures anymore. The only time he does is when he visits neighboring kingdoms and lands, forced to remember that Beqanna continues to change while he is not.
Not much gets by Warrick, especially when he takes to the skies. Today, however, he remains grounded, emerging from the underground grotto where he spends most of his nights with Tangerine, set on a swim in Tephra’s cool ocean. The moment he emerges, there is something different about the air, and the winged-stallion realizes he is not alone, nor is he accompanied by a friend. The Overseer moves forward purposely now, blue eyes scouring the base of the volcano for sources of the unfamiliar scents.
While most horses have begun to have their coats grow in anticipation for winter, Warrick’s auburn skin remains thin and sleek, shining almost red in the warm sunlight. The constant humidity (as well as his frequent swims in the ocean water) causes his black mane and tail to forever be damp and wavy, crisp with a mixture of salt and sweat, plastered against his neck. His blue legs, painted with the deep indigo of the night sky, pull him easily forward as he moves purposelessly, merely enjoying the sunlight as it filters through the trees and plays golden, intense patterns onto the broad of his back. He is not concerned as he moves closer, for Beqanna is in a time of peace and he doubts there is any ill-will from these strangers, especially when he finally sets eyes on the duo, who are standing peacefully together beneath the sun and the volcano’s warm hearth.
However, these two should not have made their way to the volcano without the guard stopping them. He snorts softly to not only make his presence known, but in exasperation - where is Longclaw?
“Hello, welcome to Tephra.” he says to the champagne colored stallion and the brightly-winged woman, coming to a halt with a slight rustling of his own navy wings to his sides. “I am Warrick. I don’t believe we’ve met.” It is quite possible that either Wound or Amorette could have invited these two back to Tephra with them, so the Overseer is not quick to judge their purpose. Many new faces have joined the tropical, ashen peninsula, and with winter on the horizon, many more will join so that their children will grow beneath the warmth of the sun instead of the dreaded snow. He realizes, for a moment, he has forgotten to properly introduce himself. Yes, his name is Warrick, but he has still not grown accustomed to calling himself what he truly is. “I am the Overseer.”
It still feels strange on his tongue.
Warrick
@[Dagny and Olivier]
okay so kinda already love them. no shame.
At the sound of an approach, both twins turn, a synchronized pivot that brings them around to face the stallion together, two bright pairs of eyes focusing on the bay-and-navy pegasus that walks towards them. For a moment they are still, frozen; and then he takes a step forward and sideways, placing himself somewhat between Dagny and the other. She runs a light touch down his side, a soothing touch, and leans into him, once again glad to have no wings at this particular moment. She had experimented with keeping her wings on, and carrying them around like most pegasi, but had found them cumbersome and also they prevented her from sliding her skin against his skin, which was simply unacceptable. It is worth the energy and discomfort to grow another pair when she needs them, as the magic allows.
Dagny smiles at the stranger, lifting her head to lay it across her twin’s back so as to see him despite Olivier’s attempt to stay between them. It is a leisurely, practiced motion that indicates she is used to having him stand between her and danger. “Hello Warrick,” she replies in a bright voice, interested to see his brown framed in blue much as her own is – though probably he was not transformed into some sort of blue toy in a not-dream and torn to pieces by some demonoid child. In her experience, most colorful Beqanna denizens are colorful naturally, not as remnants from a long-ago nightmare-inducing Quest. “My name is Dagny, and this is my brother Olivier.”
She pauses, an ear twitching in anticipation, and sure enough his much lower voice is there to fill her silence. “We’d like to stay awhile, if that’s alright.” Neither mentions the egg she has just laid upon the side of the volcano, because the best way to protect a hidden object is to keep it a secret. They will keep close to keep an eye on it, but best not to mention it unless it is otherwise remarked upon. The girl fantasizes that some youngling might stumble across it and dream of dragons, and wouldn’t that be exciting?
She nibbles on Ollie’s mane for a moment, he has slowly begun to relax, but she suspects his tense muscles will stay ready for action until the man standing across from them gives his agreement to their staying. Dagny pulls back a step and slides her face and neck under her twin’s, small enough to fit neatly beneath his arched neck, and asks, “The Overseer – is that like a King?” She tilts her head just a notch and blinks at him, curious ice blue eyes even bolder against the blue that circles them.
Dagny & Olivier
I won't let you go; so don't let go of me no one can ever follow; no one can ever know
They turn towards him, synchronized in their movements as well as the curious (cautious?) expressions on their unfamiliar faces. The pair reminds him of Svedka and Solace (his own children - twins - who share only their looks and love for each other in common, everything else had been vastly different) in the way that they stand close to each other, obviously comfortable in each others presence. The man - a bright gold that is almost reflective in Tephra’s intense sunlight - quickly turns so that he is between Warrick and the vibrant mare; a gesture in which the winged-stallion did not find offense. Instead, he merely lowers his head a bit in a wordless attempt to show he is truly welcoming of their presence on his peninsula. The woman is the one to speak first, casually placing her chin on the spine of the golden unicorn, the blue around her eyes drawing Warrick’s attention. “Dagny, Olivier,” he greets them with a nod of his head, the darkness of his black forelock falling into the indigo of his eyes with the movement. “Welcome. I see you have already made yourself acquainted with our volcano.” He smiles warmly at the pair, lifting his head slightly with a quiet rustle of his cobalt feathers tucked neatly to his auburn sides, the smell of sun and wind and smoke rising from the movement.
A lower, quieter voice responds back - it is the stallion, Olivier - and Warrick’s gentle gaze shifts to him. The Overseer snorts softly in interest, his brows rising as he takes a unassuming step towards the duo. “If you have found Tephra to your liking, you are more than welcome to reside on its shores and beneath the volcano’s warmth. You would have not found yourself here if Tephra had not been calling to you.” The bay and indigo stallion smiles warmly, noticing the bond between the two as Dagny thoughtlessly grooms Olivier. The gesture is endearing and he finds that he perhaps already likes them - despite being mere strangers. There is something about them that he finds curious, but not in a way that he would assume they meant him or Tephra any harm. His quick-to-trust personality has been his downfall before, though, but he cannot bring himself to become a paranoid and untrusting man - it is not in his soul.
Peering out from beneath the neck of Olivier, Warrick lowers his head to catch her eye (blue as ice, or perhaps the Tephran sky, peering into the depths of the ocean blue of his own), and he cannot help the way he tilts his head to match hers. “It is only a name that I use to remind myself I am the one who takes care of this country - if you see me as a king, then that is what I am. If you see me as a friend, then that is what I am. I am whatever it is I need to be.” He smiles, thinking about how often his residents refer to him as their king, or their compatriot, or any number of titles that gives them hope and comfort. He is all of these things.
Warrick
@[Dagny and Olivier]
For real, they're super cute!
03-07-2018, 07:14 PM (This post was last modified: 03-07-2018, 07:15 PM by Dagny and Olivier.)
True to his sister’s assumption, the gold twin relaxes as the older stallion gives them permission to stay, seemingly with no real requirements behind the agreement. He is soothed by his twin’s touch, leaning into her side as he contemplates the words of the other. Was Tephra calling to them? Certainly the warmth of the semi-active volcano had been calling to them, a lure as the best place to lay an egg. Not a problem most of them usually faced, he was sure; most horses bore live offspring. But Dagny would never be “most horses”, and thus here they are. He is happy to stay silent for now, after nodding at Warrick, and allowing his twin to carry the conversation.
Dagny has often carried the conversation, over the course of their lives. As foals in the Tundra, she had been the one who flitted from place to place, stallion to visitor, and engaged them in conversation on every topic under the sun. Olivier was the one who faithfully trained with their father every morning, waking at dawn and leaving Dagny settled into whatever comfortable nest they had spent the night in as the man and the boy ran laps and practiced fighting techniques.
She blinks at his words, turning them over in her head, and smiles at him again. Briefly, she has wondered if they should have gone to father. Ischia is, by all accounts, also a relatively warm place. But her gut had led them here, because jungles were dangerous places. Wild animals and lots of places to be stepped on and not in her imagination a great place for an egg. The side of an active volcano, on the other hand? Probably pretty isolated. But… “Does it erupt often?” she glances over her shoulder at the volcano, a slight frown marring the expression now. Not that it matters – how would she move it now?
“I think I like King,” it sounds like a sudden change of subject, but you get used to it around Dagny. “Overseer sounds so…grim.” They grew up with Kings and Queens, not this amalgamate of random other titles that New Beqanna has adopted.
Dagny & Olivier
I won't let you go; so don't let go of me no one can ever follow; no one can ever know
Warrick’s blue gaze flickers to the volcano above them as she mentions it, admiring the warm stone and earth that surrounds them. He chuckles softly to himself, a simple hum in his throat, at the thought. He had never seen it erupt to the point where lava took the country by force, but the volcano spews and drips the molten magma slowly and effortlessly - a constant reminder of the power brewing beneath the surface. “Not in my time,” he tells her honestly, looking up to the volcano for a few moments more before lowering his gaze to hers, wondering if perhaps he had just brought concern to their eyes. “But I’ve been told it hasn’t erupted since its creation.” He offers them a warm smile. The bay stallion had never found reason to live in fear of the volcano’s power and what could be an uncontrollable tragedy, but the warning rumbles and moans from the deep, molten rock would surely give them time to escape before it would engulf them.
Dagny quickly muses on towards something else, though Warrick does not mind the change in conversation. He rather enjoys skipping back and forth while conversing and easily keeps up with the swift change. His gaze flickers to her as she comments on his title, one side of his mouth twitching upwards into a smile. “Then call me king,” he responds with a tip of his chin upwards, warmth in his cerulean eyes. “though it is only a title - I don’t find myself to be a king in royalty or in power.” His face is thoughtful, thinking of what normally comes to mind when the word ‘king’ is spoken - he is surely none of those adjectives that are fabricated from the single word, and he quietly hopes that despite this, he will still be able to keep Tephra safe, protected, and growing. The title of Overseer did sound rather grim, he silently agrees, but the title had come with a face - Offspring’s - and Warrick couldn’t bear to take away what the great black stallion had created for Tephra, even though he uses the title of Overseer loosely.
“Shall we descend together?” he asks them both suddenly. The small group is not far up the volcano’s side, but enough that there is a slight slope towards inland - where grassland sways golden in the winter’s wind that has grown warm in Tephra’s temperatures, and where streams run hot in rivulets through it.
