"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
01-23-2021, 11:15 AM (This post was last modified: 02-05-2021, 01:32 PM by Tarian.)
Tarian flares his wings wide and takes to the sky - absent of stars, absent of anything despite the eerie half-halo of the conjoined moon and sun. He hadn't intended to leave Loess so soon after returning from his imprisonment in Pangea but there is an itch to roam that won't quite settle. The gray pegasus thinks that a quick flight over the Common Lands (so long as he is careful about it) will soothe it.
And so the former Alliance contender leaps into the never-ending night, not entirely sure what he was seeking (but to have to the choice to leave is a new-found freedom he relishes as the breeze floods between his silver feathers).
There is only the former warrior and his thoughts up here though he keeps a careful watch through the clouds. He isn't sure if the creatures on the ground can fly or if they are capable of targeting him while he remains in the sky. It's the thing that bothers him the most about these so-called 'monsters' - there is so little known about them. The stories that have spread about Beqanna give rise to creatures of different shapes, of different types of malevolence, and there is no common theme for Tarian to find. Only that they enjoy their chaos; only that they attack and maim and then slink back into the shadows.
Is he a fool to go flying out into them, then?
Most likely, he thinks with an irritated huff before he banks towards the left. It's hard to see anything up here but the shadowed ground has cleared out enough that the pegasus can spy a small clearing and he takes that as his opportunity to land. There is a thud as all four hooves clash against the spring soil and the stallion throws up his head, suddenly assaulted by an unfamiliar scent.
Somebody was nearby.
"You have until the count of three to show yourself," he threatens into the dark, not willing to take the chance that the horse lingering nearby would be an innocent. The more sensible souls would have banded together - fallen into the old habits and formed a herd to avoid being picked off one by one by the monsters. Tarian is alone but he is the exception to his own rule; those who are lurking are given no such mercy from the former Prince.
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
The pale stallion is in a foul mood. Of course, he’s always in a foul mood, so that’s nothing terribly new. But it is made more terrible by the fact that his jumbled memories had begun returning to some semblance of order, and recalling the absolute (comparative) bliss of having no memories makes them somehow even more damning.
It’s easier not to dwell, even if it is the only thing going for him. Easier to wash it away in a haze of monsters and pain. Even in the shadow of the memory of one tearing free from his very skin, he has made no effort to avoid them. A small sadistic part of him even half hoped one would just take him the fuck out already. At least then he’d get a reprieve, brief as it would undoubtedly be.
But he must be the unluckiest lucky bastard to walk this damned continent.
He had moved from river to meadow today, taking advantage of what little light there is by traversing to where it shone more freely. Not that it made much difference, but enough at least he could make the broad swell of a small hill in the distance through the thinned edges of the trees where he had taken shelter at the borders of the forest.
His attention is swiftly drawn however by the soft whoosh of wings from above. His dark eyes rise to find the indistinct shape of another winged horse swooping down into the small clearing in the midst of the sparse trees. A scowl is already dragging at his lips as he glares irritably at the unfamiliar form currently thumping down much closer than he would have preferred (though a good three lengths separate where he stands by a shadowed trunk from the other stallion).
To make matters worse, the interloping asshat immediately starts to make vague threats in his direction, as though he was the interruptor rather than the interrupted. Unfortunately for this stranger, Ashhal is in absolutely no mood to play whatever games he was trying to start.
“Fuck off,” he growls back, his voice resonating with distinct clarity just how unimpressed he was with his posturing.
02-05-2021, 01:30 PM (This post was last modified: 02-05-2021, 01:36 PM by Tarian.)
Tarian remembers everything in his life with unusual clarity: precisely, and like the silver stallion, predictably.
There is never a moment out of place. They do not get lost or jumbled against the currents of time. They stay perfectly in place, reminding Tarian of everything he has lost and everything he could have been. He can recall multitudes of moments when he had been the heir of Paraiso. He can recall the lessons: the sparring and the histories of previous battles, learning about the tactics that had won wars and cost lives. There had been lessons of healing and the herbs that grew in their ancient valley, of how the inhabitants had learned to cultivate them over the years: leafy basil was good for easing unsettled stomachs (especially in pregnant mares), needle-like rosemary could be applied to wounds to prevent infection, pale-petaled chamomile was best for lulling anxious minds to sleep.
And then there had been the lessons with Aunt Cherish.
Etiquette lessons.
Those lessons had helped him with Lady Oceane, because it had been easy to remember court manners and protocols, thanks to his paternal aunt. They had served him well when he was a captive in Pangea; Tarian had opted to use his word and his honor during his stay there instead of attempting to rip their throats out.
They are not with him now as he scowls through the dark. He is too on-edge (though who can relax with things that would swallow you whole roaming the dark?) and his wide wings remain partially flared, a warning to whoever (or whatever) is nearby. It hovers - and morphs - into the shadowy berth of a tree. Tarian glowers at the thing - a stallion - that growls through the dark.
"With pleasure," the other pegasus growls back (manners be damned).
He spreads his wings to their full span, ready to take off and he almost does. Until a light comes from the darkness. A pair of glowing, yellow eyes that track his movements. That flick towards the direction of the other pegasus and a chittering sound comes from it's... mouth? (or lack of one, Tarian can't find any definitive features on the creature). The silver stallion pauses, knowing that he has long enough to either take-off or warn the bastard in the dark.
"Shit," he curses aloud, distracting the monster momentarily as it approaches. Hopefully, that's enough for the other stallion before they both become chew toys for whatever it is manifesting before them.
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
He had been a warrior once. A true warrior, whatever the fuck that meant. But in all senses of the word, he had been one. It’s laughable now to imagine how he had once tried to suppress his emotions to allow him to fight better. Had moved with a purpose and grace even he struggled to match anymore. He’d stood for something once.
But life had passed and he had died countless times. His purpose had eroded, and with it any sense of belonging he’d ever had. Now he wanders, an eternal drifter, doomed to wake day after day, to live life after life while the world moves on without him.
It’s no wonder he’s in a foul mood.
He doesn’t realize he’d been spoiling for a fight until the other stallion moves to leave with alacrity. Scowl deepening, he watches with a deadened expression. He doesn’t try to take advantage of the sudden clarity, but then, as though the fates were grinning above them, an amorphous shadow separates itself from the rest, sickly eyes gleaming as an unpleasant chittering (one that grates across the eardrums) escapes it’s indistinct maw.
He recognizes it immediately. It is unlikely to be the same one that tore it’s way from his shoulder, but at the moment, it hardly matters. Hadn’t he just been wishing for monsters to fight?
In the breathless heartbeats after the other stallion distracts it with his well-timed curse, Ashhal has pinned his ears and charged. Wings flaring in aggression, he plows into it, teeth snapping and hooves striking. The things are impossible to read (he remembers now fighting them in the nether-realm, the undulating movements difficult to predict as they had overwhelmed him), but it is only one.
Claws rip across skin as the chittering reaches a new ear-splitting intensity. But then, as quickly as it had come, it is gone. Ashhal isn’t certain whether it had been surprised by his willingness to attack rather than flee, if it had been satisfied by the taste of his blood, or if it merely went to recruit help.
Blood dripping from his neck and shoulder, Ashhal turns to stare at the other stallion with a stony black gaze. “You think it’ll be back?”
It would likely mean their deaths if it did and the pair of them remained. But Ashhal had never been particularly frightened of death.
02-19-2021, 12:49 PM (This post was last modified: 02-19-2021, 12:51 PM by Tarian.)
What Tarian once fought for no longer stands.
What happens when the cause ceases? What happens when the war ends? (There is always more. There will always be other wars, other battles so long as their kind walks the Earth. They are as prone to fighting and killing each other as they are procreating and settling and then ruining themselves into old age.)
His fight is over but it doesn't mean that it has left him.
Something in him (as much as he dreads the monster that approaches) is ready to lunge into this fight. There is much of Beqanna that he doesn't understand but he understands this: the ground trembling beneath his hooves as he rushes forward, the pumping of blood filling his ears as adrenaline fills his veins, the impulsion that moves him forward. This is a language that Tarian has spoken on many foreign shores and it speaks for him now. The silver pegasus is purposefully loud, attempting to distract the beast from the other brute. He owes the other stallion nothing but even Tarian wouldn't leave a stranger alone to the claws and serrated teeth of the yellow-eyed beings that prowled the dark.
The unknown horse charges into the fight and it isn't long before Tarian smells the familiar scent of blood staining the false-night air.
Tarian's pale nostrils flare wide and then he propels himself forward with his forelegs striking, aiming for one of the wisp-like parts of the creature. He tries and tries, focusing on trying to rip the bastard-thing apart. The other pegasus takes most of the damage but what inflicts on the monster makes it keen, a shrill cry that nearly deafens Tarian (and keeps ringing in his ears long after the silence overtakes the sound). He's bleeding, he notes as his blue eyes trace the deep wound on the shoulder of the other. Does he know a healer, he wonders?
"I've only encountered them alone," he states, meaning that he has never found them in pairs or trios (or worse, more). "You've fought them before?" The pegasus gruffly asks, turning to look at the dark eyes of the other.
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
He is no stranger to the scent of blood or the rending of flesh. He has been injured countless times and would undoubtedly be injured countless more. In the moment, the very last thing on his mind is locating a healer. In fact, that is seldom a thought that crosses his mind. Even when he had been dying of infection - one settled deep in the gaping wound where another of the monsters had escaped him - he had not thought to find a healer. It was pure luck that Ryatah had found him, and that she had chosen to heal him rather than leave him to die.
Not that he would have actually died, but he’d sure as hell be a lot more surly if he’d had to do this as a child.
The short, roughly spoken dialogue that had erupted between them in the wake of the brief battle is the only type conversation Ashhal usually has. The succinct questions and clipped tones suit him well. A single, sharp nod is his response to the other stallion’s question, pale features sharpening into a dangerously displeased expression.
“I… unwittingly played host to one,” he grunts back after a moment, his lips - already frowning - deepening into a fierce scowl. For all that he had been healed, a wound that massive could not be closed even by supernatural means without leaving a scar. Though the scar would not last past the end of this lifetime, he would bear it on his shoulder until that time came.
And if the shifting shadows of this unnatural night were any indication, the end of that lifetime might come far sooner than anticipated. Still, Ashhal has been itching to get back at them ever since they’d overwhelmed him in the pit in the netherworld they’d crawled out of (or rather, since he could remember it). He sure as hell wasn’t planning on looking a gift horse in the mouth if it came.
03-04-2021, 01:17 PM (This post was last modified: 03-04-2021, 01:18 PM by Tarian.)
There is a myriad of scars across Tarian's gray pelt.
Some tell the stories of youth, of sibling scrapes and arguments when he and Liam had far too much time.
Some tell the stories of the years that came after Paraiso and the loss of Culloden. Of a young stallion who fought anyone and anything because there was no longer a family to fight for.
And some tell the stories of now: of the Alliance. Of the Darkness.
He is littered with them and while the white pegasus tries to keep his coat as close to gleaming as he can, the dark scars slash their stories across his hide. But he doesn't mind. Each one has been earned and each one has given the Loessian a sense of purpose. Tarian may no longer be the surly youth who had quipped barbed words at strangers or the young officer trying to make rank among the Guards of Liridon, but each one tells a story of where he has been and reminds him that shapeless monsters are just another chapter. The sun will come again, he knows.
There will be someone else to fight.
There will always be another war.
The pale pegasus tries to regain some of his propriety as he lifts his head and looks at the stranger. The wound on his shoulder is deep - will certainly a scar - but it is not life-threatening. And the other stallion does not indicate that pain is something beyond his bearing. He handles it rather admirably, Tarian thinks. His gray brow furrows and his dark lips purse in a frown. His fighting companion admits that he played host to one and his blue eyes cut sharply across the dark to where the other stallion stands.
"You...?" he asks, almost incredulous. A silver-tipped ear flicks towards one direction while Tarian remains glancing in the other, to @[Ashhal]. "Is that how these wretched things got here?" says the winged Loessian.
He can't be responsible for all of them but it answers at least one question that Tarian had regarding the shadow creatures.
Tarian grunts another question. "How didn't it kill you?"
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
In his youth, Ashhal had been that same scarred stallion, each one a badge telling stories of the many battles he had fought. Something like loyalty had once rooted in his breast, tying him to this continent and the kingdom of the Valley forged within. He had been born elsewhere, though those memories are now faint and distant. But he remembers only an absent father and a mother who had hated him for the way he had been conceived. He had fought then because he had to. And later, he had fought because it was the only place he truly felt alive.
Ironically, even now he only takes joy in two things. But he had stopped fighting for others a long time ago. Now he fights when the misery grows too great.
In a way, it’s funny how easily he can see things he couldn’t before he’d lost his memories. He recognizes himself in the stranger. How easily he could become him if he were cursed with the same fate. Maybe he is smarter though. Knows better how to avoid it.
He pins his ears against the question, metallic distaste on the back of his tongue as he recalls his own idiocy in believing he could actually right a wrong. He’d never righted a wrong in his whole fucking life, so why he had imagined he could then, he isn’t sure. His response when it comes is clipped and brief, filled with his own self-loathing. “Yeah.”
The stranger’s next question surprises him, if only because he’s not certain why he’d care. It’s not like his death would have affected him one way or the other. His wings shuffle in agitation as he throws a sharp glance at the other pegasus before shifting his gaze to a point in the distance. After a moment, a derisive snort escapes his nostrils, followed by words spoken much more gently than he had intended. “I guess you could say an angel saved me.”
03-11-2021, 02:14 PM (This post was last modified: 03-11-2021, 02:35 PM by Tarian.)
Tarian had been fortunate. He had been born alongside a brother and they had come into this world with parents who had adored each other and by extension, them. They had been created out of love, one of those impossible bonds that transcends everything. A brother had followed and then in familial tradition, another set of twins: two girls, Maren and Mina. The silver stallion had been the firstborn of his father, also a firstborn.
And with that came the expectation that Tarian would be the one to lead the next generation.
Since the loss of his ancestral home and the gradual disappearance of his family, Tarian has learned that expectations mean little against the grand scheme of fate. Better to expect this, the dark and monsters to cut them down to size. Better to be slashed and torn apart and then fight for the right to survive than to expect that tomorrow is a guarantee. The gray pegasus knows that the sun will come back again but a part of him knows that there will be many who won't survive this endless night to see it.
He had wondered how the monsters had come into existence. Some part of him had figured that it had been due to the eclipse and the shattering magic that followed after the Alliance. But there was something more terrifying to them, something more than the sharp teeth and claws that they could manifest from the shadows. The pegasus has never remained around them long enough to discover what it is but what the other stallion confirms tells him more than enough.
Turning his head towards the direction of Loess, his nostrils flare and inhale the sickness all around them. He should be getting back and yet the copper smell of blood from the fresh wound stops him. (And the mention that an angel saved him once; if Tarian knew this fighting comrade better, he might have said that a star had saved him. That he imagines her shining up there, dancing between starlight and the glow of innumerable galaxies.)
"We should get that looked at," he says tersely, wondering briefly where the angel is now. It's as close as Tarian can bring himself to offering to bring the other back to Loess.
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
He may have known loyalty once, but he has never known family. Never known gentleness or sweetness. Never known love. He had come close (so goddamned close), might even have reached it if he hadn’t been so ruined for so long. But the gods have never been kind to him, and the fates less so. In the moment, when he had been offered such kindness for the first time in his life, he hadn’t known what to do with it.
He does not mistake this stallion’s intentions for kindness however. Practicality perhaps. Honor. The other pegasus still seems to be afflicted by that sort of foolish notion. Ashhal has been alone for so long that it feels odd to find a stranger who has no motive to see him healed yet offers help anyway.
Not so long ago - before he had lost his memories and had them returned - he would have rejected it without second thought. He had been an exceptionally bitter and jaded and angry man then. He still is, if we’re being honest. But something inside him had shifted in the wake of his latest failure. A piece of him he had once thought lost long ago awakening once more.
He remains silent for too long no doubt, his dark eyes distrustfully scrutinizing his companion with an intensity he hasn’t had in a very long time. When he finally does respond, it is as short and clipped as his silence was long. “Yeah.”
