"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
The Jungle can be a strange place. There are colors, and sounds, and a muggy heat that are like nowhere else on Beqanna. Perhaps, to someone coming from the outside world, the Jungle could be daunting, but Aoi was born here. This place has been her home since she was a child. She remembers the humidity, and the calls of the macaws, and she welcomes the memories that they bring.
Aoi stands amongst the hanging vines, and the cacophony of jungle voices, and she wonders if she is alive. Despite the sounds, and the smothering air, she is feels as if she is in outer-space. Gone are the scents and sounds of the sisters that she once knew. They have been replaced by others: a new generation of warriors.
This kingdom had drowned, and been rebirthed in the time since Aoi had last breathed this humid air. She thought that she had drowned as well, and perhaps she did. To her, the Jungle is not strange because of the creatures within, but because, despite its cruel rules (survival of the fittests, and all that) she was here again, and alive. She does not know how to feel, because she has gone so long without feeling. She has gone so long without anything, and she suddenly finds that she is thirsty, and hungry. But, she remembers… She remembers the poison that these leaves harbor, because her mother had taught her as a child. So, she looks for something else.
Fallen fruit takes the edge off of a hunger that had been growing for what could only be eternities. A small pool of water gathered within a leaf satisfies her thirst. An arrow frog leaps from a nearby branch onto her mane, and Aoi smiles.
“Hello there.” She says, in a voice that has not been used for so long that it feels foreign against her tongue.
this will never end, ‘cause i want more, more, give me more
The Jungle is strange; strange and magical and unlike any other place in Beqanna. There were many meadows, many grassy areas filled with flowers and water and maybe a magical something. However, like the Desert and the Tundra, there was only one Jungle. It takes a certain type of mare to be able to live here - nevermind the heat, humidity, prickly things, poisonous things, and the occasional thing that wants to kill and eat you - there are some very strong personalities to deal with. the Jungle invites a certain type of loyalty. Maybe Lagertha simply doesn’t know who has crept out of the shadows of magical exile to return to once beloved homes, but the Jungle has an ebb and flow of older sisters who appear for awhile and then fade back into the leafy darkness again. Sometimes random daughters pop up. Sometimes the immortals fall asleep. Sometimes they just simply…. forget.
And yet the sense of family and camaraderie endures, for the women are all joined by a similar spirit. And over the ages, it seems that spirit has become more than themselves.
Lagertha, herself, is one such legacy, though few know it. An odd sort of legacy, really, born over a century after her mother first died. No one should be surprised, really. Weird shit happens all the time in Beqanna… like right now, for instance. The normally dark gray warrior is working on her camouflage skills. She’s tried to make herself appear like part of a particularly overgrown tree. The pockets of shadow and light make this easier than say, in the Meadow, and she’s tried to mask her smell with a particularly pungent flower. It’s the perfect test, when a mare comes near, and to Lagertha’s delight, she doesn’t seem to notice the General.
Not until she speaks up, at least. “Hello to you too, stranger.” She doesn’t reveal herself quite yet, though her jaw obviously has to move and creates some sort of motion amongst the leaves. She stifles a chuckle and subsequent laughter-shaking and wonders what the strange mare’s reaction will be.
Perhaps, the sleep has not left her mind quite yet, for when she addresses the tiny frog, it seems to reply. At least, that is what she thinks at first, until the tiny frog leaps back into the shadows with chirp that fits its tiny body better. Aoi narrows her eyes, taking a breath of muggy jungle air, but there isn't much more to sample beyond the smell of a particularly pungent flower. It does not occur to her that the 'flower' she smells is a disguise. It is not uncommon for flowers to use strong scents to attract pollinators from the furthest reaches of the jungle.
Still, she knows that someone is up to some trickery. Just below the surface of her skin, she is tense, ready to retaliate should this invisible being decide to attack.
"You're good..." Aoi allows, because, while she knows someone is very near, she cannot pin-point exactly where. She only knows the general direction from which the voice came. "I mean no harm." She says, assuming that the voice belongs to a jungle sister. She has served a fair share of patrolling this kingdom herself. She makes no demands. The invisible General is at a clear advantage here. But, Aoi isn't much fun to play with. There is no fear, no panic in her eyes. Perhaps, there should be. But, that is what sets her apart from the others not worthy to call the Jungle home.
Aoi is not quite sure that she is 'worthy' either. She had never been particularly great in her past lives. But, perhaps her mother Jungle sees something of worth in her. Aoi is choosing to view it as another chance. A smirk plays across her lips, as she waits for some form of response.
this will never end, ‘cause i want more, more, give me more
The General doesn’t think the mare means any harm - if she had, she would have attacked first and asked questions later. She takes no chances when it comes to the Jungle. However, she has learned enough in her almost twenty years to know when someone is more likely to be friend than foe. When the piebald gives no other sort of indication that she is going to play along, and is not frightened or scared, Lagertha moves from her position against the large tree and slowly absorbs the foliage back into her skin, revealing an iron-gray mare with a set of large, pointy horns arcing up from between her ears.
A corner of her mouth tilts upward in a slight grin. “Practice makes perfect.” She looks the stranger over, dark eyes searching for something familiar, but she comes up with nothing. “So are you actually lost, or are you a long-lost sister?” Not many come all the way into the Jungle just to talk to frogs. But there were many who slept within the Jungle’s protection, dreaming and waking only when something stirred in them.
As for ‘worthy’ - well that is rather subjective, isn’t it? And at the moment, not up to Lagertha. Not yet.
