"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
05-02-2016, 08:43 AM (This post was last modified: 05-07-2016, 09:53 AM by Tiphon.)
We danced with monsters through the night
He has no fear facing his grandfather, but he wonders why he has decided to see him at all. There is no tight-knit familial sense between them. There is distance, curiosity, uncertainty. They've spoken once, maybe twice, but Tiphon hardly remembers it at all. Where he has his own sense of duty and passion for family Eight is more languid; he has numerous children, but how many grandchildren can remind the magician of his old fling, Moose?
He is an image of her, but stronger, larger, and of course male. Even the same fire is in his molten eyes.
The trek to the Valley is brief. At times Tiphon takes to the skies to soar among the clouds while other moments he decides to walk among the mortals. His mind, his memories, have sent him into turmoil. The loss of his son was detrimental and tore him into pieces. Even with years having passed his heart still aches. "Tiberios," he tastes his son's name for the first time since his demise and it brings a rush of images flashing to the forefront of his mind. There, on the bloodied sand, lied one of his first children, but he was hardly recognizable. Murdered. Destroyed. He had to have been surprised because how could he fall so easily when fire burned in his veins? Tiphon's stomach tightens. Perhaps the boy never learned to master his abilities. Maybe somewhere he failed as a father in raising the boy.
When Tiphon's thoughts flicker away it is because Eight's scent has permeated the air. It's a wall that he walks into and realizes that this must be the Valley. A breath catches in his throat, it chokes him, and then he takes another step forward. He second guesses his reasoning to be here, but he doesn't turn and leave. "Eight," his voice is stone, his eyes gleaming. There is no need to venture further because the magician always seems to know when he is wanted.
Hugo had grown secluded from the others, it was almost out of character for her. She's normally just a happy-go-lucky kind of lass, but she has fallen into a strange personality. Perhaps it was the fall of Demian, she hadn't seen the king and worried about him. She hadn't met all the horses in the Valley, and she felt quite lonely. She yearned to go back home with her mother and father. She wanted to go and be a plow horse. it seemed easier than being wild. There was always food and water, no need to worry about safety. And she had love with her then. Now, she felt as if she was just a hollow shell of her old self. Aimlessly, she wandered about the land in search of new faces. At first, her hunt was unsuccessful. No one was around. Snorting, the scottish girl decided to just go and graze. Her weight had been dropping a bit, but her muscles sill ripped underneath her umber hair. Her short black tail flicked away pesky gnats as her neck reached down to grab grass.
