"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
oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
The flight is nearly a panicked one, but Brigade refuses to give into that.
Instead, his eyes remain steely, his youthful body streamlining as he shoots through the air as quickly as he can. His nose is stretched outward, the wind whipping at him as his overlarge white wings flare and beat at the air, carrying him faster than he has never dared to go. It stirs something wild in him—something that will be difficult to ignore—something that flares open in his chest as he goes.
It sharpens his features, makes them more severe, add a gravity to them.
It steels his nerves so that when he finally does land on the border of Tephra, he looks older than his two years. His grey eyes are overcast and calm, despite the exhaustion that nips at his heels and the fear of his father’s reaction. He needs a healer, he thinks, and he has heard that Loess has them. He has no idea the darkness that surrounds their being here. He has no idea that they are not there out of their own choice; he has no idea that they have been changed from hand to hand, passed around like things to be owned.
He simply knows that they are here and there are none in Tephra.
And he desperately needs someone who can heal his father’s wolf.
So without waiting he lifts his head and lets loose a low, throaty call—something nearly like the very howl of his father’s pack but equine enough to be recognized—and then he waits for what is to come.
@[Castile] - hi he needs a healer. he is willing to bargain.
02-22-2019, 09:04 PM (This post was last modified: 02-22-2019, 09:05 PM by Castile.)
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
Castile has already tasted the relief of a healer’s touch.
Tiphon’s magic wove through his veins and threaded among the fibers of his muscles. Every inch of pain ebbed, and the blood threatening to dribble from his nostrils dried. His first clear breath of air sent his head spinning. It had been months – or has it already been years? – since Castile was initially infected. It was nearly instantaneous. When Beqanna fell in the face of Carnage’s magic, so did Castile and so many others. He has heard the distant coughs and delirious chatters.
More and more of Beqanna is succumbing to this plague.
And as selfish as it is, that’s why Castile is keen to maintain a grip on the healers while he can. At least he can rub a balm across those infected here in Loess. At least he can provide his home a sense of comfort and relief.
But by pursuing this, Castile realizes that it’s only a matter of time until foreigners are crawling to his borders begging for a taste of freedom from their sickness. Heavy with expectation, he has remained sentinel. His eyes reach across the hills and springs, searching for the next wave of stragglers.
And one eventually arrives.
Castile doesn’t hesitate to meet him at the border. A scrutinizing gaze sweeps across the Pegasus when only a few feet separate them. The boy – anyone younger than him is considered as such – is exhausted from his flight, and it reads in his steely expression. ”Welcome,” he begins, although the truthfulness of it is fleeting. ”What brings you to Loess?” But his instincts tell him the reason why.
The boy is smeared with the scent of Tephra (Castile is familiar with the arid, smoky odor of the kingdom) which piques an interest. A refuge seeking help, perhaps? Relaxed with sunlight pressed against his backside, Castile patiently waits.
castile
@[brigade] I'm sorry this is so poopy :| next will be better
02-23-2019, 07:23 PM (This post was last modified: 02-25-2019, 11:43 AM by brigade.)
oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
Brigade has only a fraction of the patience that Castile exhibits.
He can feel the panic now, rising in his throat, pressing against him insistently as he watches the draconic stallion makes his way toward him. There is something about the other that screams of predator; something that reminds him that he is in the presence of someone more dangerous than even the pack of his father’s wolves waiting from him on the Tephran border. But that isn’t enough to dampen the panic for Red in his throat. It isn’t enough to sway him, and his somber grey eyes do not shift from the others.
“I need a healer,” he says, blunt as ever. He was never raised to understand the finer points of diplomacy. He was raised wild and fierce—within a kingdom but outside of its politics. He doesn’t understand the art of diplomacy or even understand the depths of danger he could be wading into. “My father’s wolf is hurt. I need a healer.” Perhaps it wasn’t what Castile would have thought would bring him here, but his family is not haunted by the plague—not yet. “I heard that there were healers living with the Loess borders.”
His voice is deep for his age and steady. There is no softness of his youth in his gaze. He is all edges and angles, the wings at his side pressed close and his face solemn, despite the storms that rage within him.
“My name is Brigade,” he offers, almost as an afterthought, his gaze flicking to the side before coming back to the King. “I don’t have much to offer in return, but I’m willing to bargain, if that’s what it takes.”
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
Castile is unyielding, as is Brigade, as their eyes lock and hold onto one another. Their contrasting reasons feud in a long moment of scrutiny as the distance between them closes with a final few steps. Brigade, as he eventually offers, immediately dives into his purpose for having arrived to the Loessian gate. Rumors have spread far and wide of the healers being harbored like slaves. While there haven’t been quite as many stragglers as he anticipated, Castile cannot deny the exuberance that electrifies him when he considers the predicament with a critical eye.
He expects a mother or father to be victimized by the plague, but instead Brigade suggests a wolf. The request hangs in the air, rendering Castile momentarily speechless as his brows stitch and furrow. Admittedly, he almost questions it and asks for a repeat, but his mind is already relaying it over and over again. ”A wolf?” Skepticism pours itself across his two words, saturating them in uncertainty as he tries to fathom a relationship with a canine. ”What worth do you place on this wolf’s life?” The question is enough confirmation that Loess, does indeed, possess healers. He isn’t so quick as to offer aid, playing with the idea first and weighing his options despite the urgency that underlies Brigade’s request. An injury would need help immediately, but there’s no fun in acquiescing so easily and quickly.
”Better yet,” he rephrases, ”What are you willing to do for your wolf’s life?” The beast isn’t his, but the relationship must be there if it spurred him here. He doesn’t have much to offer, he admits, but Castile questions the validity. How meaningful is a life to Brigade? A step inches him closer, but barely. His curiosity keeps him in company even as his gaze finally dances away and soars across the surrounding landscape. His mind reels, but he doesn’t yet land on a solitary idea. Castile bides his time, combatting Brigade’s urgency with nonchalance. ”You guessed one thing right. I won’t give you a healer for free.”
And then he flashes a jagged smile, his mismatched eye alight with a fire in his soul.
oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
Brigade is so used to the idea of wolves being part of his family that he doesn’t expect the skepticism. He doesn’t expect the disbelief that washes across the King’s face, and he bristles beneath it. His wine dark ears lay flat against his poll as he lifts his antlered head slightly higher, stormy eyes going steely beneath the scrutiny. “A wolf,” he grinds out between his teeth, each syllable sharp and punctuated as he stares at the dragon with all of the arrogant confidence of a two year old stallion.
“The wolf doesn’t matter to you and neither does it matter what it means to me,” he says with an equal amount of grit, feeling his stomach tighten as he wades deeper and deeper into the interaction. He should have flown further to the Cove. Should have gone anywhere but the shortest distance possible.
But he knows Red doesn’t have forever and he can’t waste time flying there and walking the healer back.
Still he rolls his shoulder, irritated that he has to play Castile’s game, enter into this negotiation, when all he wants are solutions. “I am willing to do enough,” he says simply, knowing that he has precious little to offer the king before him. He has no power, no sway, nothing with which to bargain.
Nothing, that is, but himself.
“You have need of soldiers, I am assuming.” He casts his glance around them, straightening his youthful shoulders, his chin still lifted, his grey eyes still stormy. “I can offer you the strength of my back if that’s what it takes.” He feels the bite of desperation again as he thinks of his father’s biting anger, the panic that he had never seen in Daemron. He thinks of the maned wolf crumpled on the ground.
“I don’t have time so you either accept or I leave to find a more willing host.”
Loess may have the most healers, but they didn’t have a stranglehold on them.
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
”Temper, temper,” Castile teases with a lightened tone of voice, his eyes flickering precariously. A malevolent, jagged smile curls the edges of his mouth, almost daring Brigade. ”You should be a little nicer if you want what I have,” it doesn’t need to be reiterated again. Healers are tucked into the bosom of Loess, standing idle and waiting to be utilized for those ill with the plague. ”I think I would like to even hear the magic word.” He is toying with Brigade, prodding him with thorned words to warrant a reaction. Whether he succumbs is yet to be seen.
What is made apparent, despite the exchanged banter, is the seriousness and dedication that Brigade has to the wolf. He is steadfast in his demands, his expression steely even when aggravation simmers underneath. Honorable, Castile muses.
He knows what he wants the moment it’s offered, but still Castile glances away thoughtfully. Underneath his metallic forelock, his eyes narrow. His lips purse and his body deeply hums, eating away the seconds to keep the boy on edge. Only when it seems the offer will go unanswered does he turn his head back to the wine-red male. ”I accept.” The words abruptly break the silence. ”You will belong to Loess, as a soldier. You will follow whatever order I give you.” It sounds simple, maybe even sounds like common sense to many. Alas, Castile ensures not having someone among their ranks that will only take up space and air.
A resigning step aside opens Loess to Brigade, creating a clear path to the rocky hills and scattered cacti. ”I expect the healer to return promptly, and I will let you know how long your sentence will be,” no one will escape his grasp, not prematurely at least.
And with a smug grin, he adds, ”Welcome home, Brigade,” knowing that it isn’t what he truly wants.
oh, this my weapon, this my loam. this my blood, this my bone.
Even when he had thrown out the words, he had felt them sink like an anchor in his belly.
He had felt them take root and he had known that the dragon King would accept before he had.
There was something like a terrible kind of premonition that had let her see the ending before this moment had begun and although he had never felt terribly rooted to Tephra, he cannot stop the ache that spreads in his belly now when he realizes he has severed his tie to it. He was no longer a child, but there is enough youth in him to feel the sting of leaving, to feel that homesickness in his very bones.
But he is proud enough to stand by his word.
Proud enough that he doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t rise to it when Castile throws it out before him. He just regards him with his stormy eyes, setting his jaw and clenching his teeth. “Fine,” he finally utters. “You have my word. I will serve your kingdom as long as the wolf makes it.” It is am important clause that he offers, an important one because he has no intention to serve Loess if the healer doesn’t actually work.
But he cannot hope for that.
He has to hope that it works.
“I hope your healers are talented enough to make it a fast journey.” A ruffling of his feathers. “It would be fastest if you had one with wings. Otherwise it is a long trip back to Tephra on foot.”
He takes a step forward, closing the distance between himself and the other stallion. He regards him for a moment, measuring him up before he exhales, resigning himself to the cage he has created.
“I can’t wait to settle in,” a sharp smile. “I’ll be back soon.”
@[Castile]
I'm happy to have Castile send Leliana to Tephra or if you want to send Tiphon - whichever you prefer. <3
I figured we could end this thread here and then start another one with Daemron / Red.
