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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    Soldier keep on marching on; Ilma
    #1

    With so little purpose to direct his life, the passage of time has become largely meaningless. Days blur into months and months into years. He’s not quite certain any longer how much time has passed since the Tundra had been lost forever to the memories of the dead and forgotten, but he knows it has been a very long time. At least, to others, it would seem like lifetimes ago. To Hurricane, it pales in comparison to the endless expanse his life has been and will always be.

    But just as the days begin to blur into one another, so too do his memories. Shifting and melding in his mind until he’s not entirely certain he recalls the order of events. And he wonders if this is how he had lost his memories last time. Is this what happens to the immortal? Every hundred years or so, memories are shed to make room for the new? Or perhaps it is merely the last vestiges of his sanity leaving him. Perhaps that is the inevitable conclusion for anyone who has the misfortune to live long enough.

    And if he is indeed going mad, should he not be oblivious to it’s happening? It feels somehow a cruel joke of life if he must understand it even while his sanity slips away.

    Or perhaps, he has merely had too much time to himself lately. The world holds so little interest for him anymore, and it had become much easier to lose himself in the skies, only landing on hard to reach peaks or cliffs where few could find him and none would bother to disturb him. Horses are not meant to be solitary, after all, but he has been alone for much too long now.

    And so it happens that his wayward musings drive him from his self-imposed exile. He cannot quite seem to recall the last time he had visited here. An uneventful visit, he hopes, else it seems his imaginings of delusion are more correct than he might wish.

    It is with skilled grace that he lands near a small copse of trees near the edge of the meadow, an ease granted only by years and years of practice. His pale features are stark, the defined planes edged with a harshness left by decades of hard living. There is little softness to him, nothing that might indicate any gentleness or kindness. Life is neither of those things, but even in the face of it all, he has never been able to find it in him to be callous or cruel.

    Even now, at the very heart of it, he is just a man. One who has lived too long and seen too much, but honest in his simplicity.

    quiet now, you're gonna wake the beast

    hide your soul out of his reach

    Hurricane



    @[Ilma]
    Reply
    #2
    Ilma
    One night I will be the moon
    hanging over you

    One night I will be a star
    follow where you are
    The Meadow was, for now, her new home - Castile’s visit had started a train of thought of which she had not yet decided where it would end. It had been so easy to hate him, in her position, and yet she could not. She found herself scared, of course, broken even, for how could he call himself her friend after all that he did - and then when she saw him, she had noticed how much pride he had taken in having so much influence, that the mega-kingdom he seemingly was creating was internally peaceful. Well. That was something, she supposed - too bad he’d thought that he best achieved that through warfare, through steals, through the hurt of other leaders - women, like her, who wouldn’t have minded an alliance one bit if he’d only asked. But that was not the way his mind worked.

    Now, the ex-queen sought the peace of the Meadow. Not that it was always peaceful, but at least here no one would be backstabbing their way to a leadership position, no-one was scheming behind her back to take her down or waiting for her to be replaced, no-one was better or worse off than any of the rest. It is the only truly neutral place, because in the forest dwell the ones who think the world is made of strong and weak, though they have no interest in leading anyone, just taking what they want for themselves. The riverlands are a border between both places, and relatively quiet.

    Thus, the Meadow will be her home until she has decided if she ever wants to mingle with the kingdom dwellers, again.

    Thus, undecided yet decided, she grazes here, and only speaks to those who want her to; those who ask her help or guidance. She’s built up a reputation with her precognition to guide her answers, to help those who are in need of a nudge in the right direction to achieve their goals.

    And yet it seems she can help everyone else, but herself.

    She sends away a filly (yearling truly, but she’s old enough not to distinguish) just when the grey man lands; she watches the way his dark orbs scan the environment with a natural, habitual calm. Similar to hers, in such a way that she wonders about his life, his goals, and the things that obviously have let him down. Her fire-amber eyes meet his coal black ones for a moment, but then she forces herself to focus on her midday meal. If he wanted attention, he would have asked for it, made any sound. He had not, and she certainly wasn’t about to disturb his afternoon if he didn’t want anyone to do so.

    But she doesn’t move away. He has the air and grace of a man with the knowledge and wisdom of time and age, and she can’t help but feel he is important in some way, to her - unfortunately, she cannot distinguish if this is her gift, her gut, or her head speaking.
    Hurry, the sun is waking
    Darling, don't leave me waiting


    @[Hurricane]
    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
    Reply
    #3

    He might have chosen any number of places to come to rest, but he had chosen here. He cannot say why, nor did he particularly care to. He has never placed much stock in the imaginings of fate. Life is what one makes of it. Of course, when one lives as long as he, it seems one could make and re-make it as many times as they wished.

    After a while, it grows far too easy to lose the appeal and wonder of such things.

    Still, he had chosen the meadow, and regardless of his desire (or lack thereof) to dwell on the why of it, he had chosen it for a reason. It is a busy place. One in which hiding is difficult and ignoring the world even more so. Most who come here seek company, or whatever version of that they actually desire. Even he, in the end, seeks the same. Perhaps he might not wish it (not after so long alone), but he certainly needs it.

    He has seen it too many times to count, just how dangerous remaining alone too long is. For all his recalcitrance, he has little desire to spend the rest of the days wrapped in the prison of his own mind.

    As he peers aimlessly around him, his dark gaze falters on the pale mare nearby. Her attention had been drawn by his landing, but though their gazes catch for an impossibly brief span of time, she makes no move to approach. It has been a long time since Hurricane had sought companionship, and for a moment, the mechanics of it are nearly forgotten. The recalled understanding that one must appear approachable, offer conversation even, slow in coming.

    He has never been a master of schooling his features. The harsh edges had long ago been etched eternally into his pale skin, the steely darkness of his eyes nearly unchangeable. He has lost the ability to soften any part of himself, to adopt the friendliness most seem to seek here. Still, though it has been some time since he used it, he has at least not lost his voice.

    “Hello,” he greets, his voice gritty and rough from disuse. He says nothing else, as though he’s quite forgotten how such things work. Perhaps he could stumble through some approximation of a friendly approach, but he rather thinks it wouldn’t come off as anything close to approachable. He had broken the silence. Perhaps this would be the beginning of something more, or perhaps it would simply be a passing nod between two strangers. Regardless, he would leave that decision to her.

    quiet now, you're gonna wake the beast

    hide your soul out of his reach

    Hurricane

    Reply
    #4
    Ilma
    One night I will be the moon
    hanging over you

    One night I will be a star
    follow where you are
    The mare is well-trained, some would say. Too well-trained if one asks her; only recently did she decide that she needs something different. Different what, different how, that is something she couldn’t say.

    Nevertheless she has skilled herself in social behaviour. As such she had decided not to approach someone who just arrived and honestly hadn’t looked like he wanted to talk right away. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak - she might have been tempted long ago to trail him where he went, if he left, but now she has learned a little too well that such things can go unappreciated. That some don’t want to be involved with others at all.

    Hello. He surprises her, and her eyes flicker back up to meet his once more. She blinks, but it seems that since he doesn’t look like he’s talking to anyone else, this is really an attempt at conversation.

    Her face schooled quickly, the white mare nods to him as she raises her head. She takes the few steps it takes her to cross the distance from awkward talking into a more casual conversation, before she speaks to him. ”Can I help you?” She doesn’t ask how he is, knowing the answer will either be evasive or something she might not want to hear about just yet. She promised herself no politics, no drama - her curiosity can’t ever be sated, but she wants to focus on other horses instead.

    As long as it doesn’t involve herself, she can still ask around and help others.
    Hurry, the sun is waking
    Darling, don't leave me waiting
    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
    Reply
    #5

    He’d once had more grace in conversation. Once been able to approximate the broader points of amenability and diplomatic discourse. But once had been a long time ago now. He’d never been particularly skilled, but he had tried at least. Unfortunately it seems such limited ability is much too easily lost when it is left unused. And so those who have the regrettable pleasure of encountering him anymore are more often than not met my stilted conversation and an almost rough indifference.

    There is no cruelty or ill-intent in it. He’d never been a man that harbored such things. But the long years since he’d last held himself accountable to polite society had hewn away any of those plastered edges, leaving behind only the raw, gritty shape of the man he is beneath. All semblance of masked gentility is gone now, with only the brutally honest core he had once worked to soften left behind.

    This stranger couldn’t know that, of course. Perhaps they’ve met before, but he doubts it. At least, he hopes not, lest his memories prove further removed than he had feared.

    And perhaps she would misinterpret his unrefined edges as callous disregard, but he hadn’t the strength to pretend anymore. Could no longer bring himself to care if there were some who shied away from his clipped attempts at conversation and too-stern features. At some point he had realized how immaterial and fleeting such things were. They would be gone soon enough while he weathered on, their opinions holding no influence over the course his life might take.

    Whether she would be one of them remained to be seen.

    His gravelly greeting had served to draw her attention. She remains wary, despite the few paces she closes between them. It’s easy enough to see in the reserved lines of her pale skin and the closely-guarded question she asks. Were he to say no, she’d likely continue on her way. Were he to say yes, they might stumble through a half-hearted conversation wherein she ultimately has no means by which to actually aid him anyway.

    An unsurprising catch 22, with only one answer he could possibly give.

    “I doubt it,” he rumbles, the steely black of his eyes holding no hint of dishonesty or false hope. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe she could. But he’d uttered only the truth in that rather uncompromising statement.

    quiet now, you're gonna wake the beast

    hide your soul out of his reach

    Hurricane

    Reply
    #6
    Ilma
    One night I will be the moon
    hanging over you

    One night I will be a star
    follow where you are
    Life could be a disappointment; the white mare finally understood this. How sad, she thought, that she was probably already on her way to her grave - at her age she was beyond half the age that most horses lived. And she was not born in Beqanna - she doubted that she was blessed with immortality or something of the like. Her daughter certainly hadn’t gotten it from her.

    How sad then, to come to these wise conclusions only yo have such a short time to use it well. But perhaps, she already knows that that is the natural way of things. The young repeat the mistakes of the old, because each is only partly the same as their parent. And the diversity makes them evolve (sometimes, at least). If everyone lived forever, the world would be crowded with timid old men and women, who never took a risk.

    Perhaps he is one of those, too.

    He certainly looks it - there is the lack of a spark, which must have been there at some point? He seems to have lost the memory of youth. And hasn’t she, as well? Where had her ambition for Hyaline gone? Must have gotten lost underway, and she didn’t look back to change it back. Was it fear? She cannot say. Perhaps it was. Is.

    He confirms - his evasive answer does, anyway. She looks to him more closely, then nods. ”Then we have a no, don’t we? I can’t, as long as you doubt.”

    It is true for herself as much as it is for him, though. She realizes it just after she says it; tilts her head slightly. ”You know what, I think you just helped me.” And she laughs, clearer than she has in a long while. A light reappears in her face as she recognizes that part of her that she lost before. The part with her energy. Her stubbornness. Determination.

    ”Let me rephrase, because I think we started the wrong way. I’m Ilma. And I’m going to help you live again whether you want me to or not. Will you tell me your name?”

    For the first time in about five years, she smiles instead of worries. She’ll tail this man until he realizes what she did, just now. That life isn’t something you can ever quit - and that people may develop, but at the core they’ll stay the same innocent foal they once were. He may not remember his foal years, but then perhaps they may create new memories in their stead.
    Hurry, the sun is waking
    Darling, don't leave me waiting
    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
    Reply
    #7

    Hurricane had long ago come to the conclusion that ambition is for the young. Had long ago realized that whatever changes you might make upon the world in your brief span of influence would, inevitably, fade and be forgotten. He had watched as the sea swallowed his home. Had watched as his every dream and hope and desire had been eaten by a power he could never hope to match.

    And in the time that followed, he had grown to understand just how fleeting and forgettable it truly was. He had known and forgotten so many. In the end, their influence had not truly changed a thing. In the end, his kingdom had been wiped away as though it had never been. He doubts there was anyone here who would remember him either. Even memory of the Tundra would one day fade, until, when mentioned in casual conversation, they may ask “What Tundra?”

    It’s inevitable.

    Were he a younger man, he might have moved forward. Might have gone on to claim one of these new lands as home. Might have moved himself to do something more with his life. But he is not of this world. He never had been. In all likelihood, he should have been swept away with the old kingdom’s, an ancient and forgotten relic.

    But Beqanna, cruel in her kindness, had seen fit to save him, worthless as he may now be.

    He half expects her to leave then. His blunt words are uninspiring. Perhaps he had left the door cracked, but there is certainly no inviting light to shine through. No, that light had died long ago. Instead, she surprises him. Instead, she stays. Not just stays, but everything about her seems to liven in the wake of his brusque statement.

    His eyes rise to meet hers as she laughs, brows furrowing into an unamused, and faintly confused, scowl. He hadn’t expected humor. Nor had he expected her sudden declaration claiming he had helped her.

    Perhaps he had grown too old now to understand modern humor.

    He says nothing as she continues, dark eyes flinty and fixed as he stares at her uncomprehendingly. Her promise to help him whether he likes it or not stirs no reaction from him. Indeed, he’s not entirely certain how he should react. He’s never before had anyone so abruptly attempt to declare themselves his savior. Of course, she would likely come to realize he is far beyond redemption. He simply hasn’t the energy to care anymore.

    When finally she asks his name, he stares at her a moment longer before grunting, “Hurricane.”

    quiet now, you're gonna wake the beast

    hide your soul out of his reach

    Hurricane



    Apparently confused Hurricane just stares stupidly, lmaooooo
    Reply
    #8
    Ilma
    One night I will be the moon
    hanging over you

    One night I will be a star
    follow where you are
    It’s not every day she proclaims herself someone’s saviour - indeed, she never did. She only acted, only observed, concluded, and spoke a few words of the truth to bend another’s thoughts. Or at least, that was the idea of it. Not always did that work - but as long as she believed it did, she had much more of a chance that the other believed, as well.

    Convincing herself first, was what happened just before - although it was clear to see that the man before her, did not.

    But it didn’t matter, the first step had been taken. As the white mare rambles on, she doesn’t miss the changing expressions on her conversation partner’s face. It amuses her in a way, but she also realizes she is not quite helping him, at the moment. Only herself.

    It’s why she offered to start over, and is finally able to get a name. Hurricane. She smiles. Knowing her mother named her after the air itself, she wonders where this will bring her. Bring him. Them.

    She nods to him, edges a little closer. ”So what was it that brought you here, today?” she asks. Surely there had been a reason to come out of hiding, even if he hadn’t known it at the time. Is he ready to try and live again?
    Hurry, the sun is waking
    Darling, don't leave me waiting


    @[Hurricane]
    I'm just pretending no time has passed yay
    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
    Reply




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