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You're brought back, but you're running -- Topsail - Eight - 09-02-2016
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XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#00000000', endColorstr='#ffffff',GradientType=0 );}.eight_message {position: relative;z-index: 10;text-align: justify;font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif;padding: 15px;color: #242424;border-right: 25px solid #5E5E5E;border-bottom-right-radius: 30px;}.eight_quote {position: relative;z-index: 10;text-align: center;font: 16px 'Times New Roman', serif;font-style: italic;color: #242424;}.eight_name {position: relative;z-index: 10;text-align: center;font: 42px 'Times New Roman', serif;color: #242424; padding: 0;margin: 0;}</style><center><div class="eight_border"><div class="eight_container"><img class="eight_image" src="http://i.imgur.com/Waz1O.jpg"><div class="eight_gradient"></div><p class="eight_quote">no matter what they say, I am still the king</p><div class="eight_message">(Aye lady – I posted Eight in the Meadow already, so he kinda realizes things are different already.)
The change was surreal – the quiet somehow very disquieting. He had gone to the Meadow, passed through lands that were scratched in fury by the Fairy, the lands covered in a thick swirl of smog that held some sort of barrier that he could not get through. He had nary seen a soul in sight – it seemed all of Beqanna must still be on the Mountain. And while he loathed to climb that thing once more, he knew that the Mountain would be where Topsail would be.
He had realized, upon stepping off of the mountain and into the tarnished lands of Beqanna – that everything had disappeared. No, not just the land – but everything about <i>him</i>. He felt a sharp pain as his horn retracted deep into his body, as his wings molted feather and bone, and as his veins drained of the magic inside him. No, it was not just the lands that had changed – but the people in them.
But the Mountain – he knew that the Mountain must still carry magic. And magic was the only way that Topsail would be able to speak.
As soon as his feet touched the cragged edge of the mountain, his head spliced open and his horn reappeared, his wings grew like tree limbs from his shoulders, and his veins again sing with the power reappearing inside of them.
<i>Topsail..</i> he reaches out to her, little fingers flowing throughout the ever crowded mountain – searching for her mind, for where she may have landed amid all this mess.
<p class="eight_name">∞</p><p class="eight_quote">and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in</p></div></div></center>
@[Topsail]
RE: You're brought back, but you're running -- Topsail - Topsail - 09-02-2016
<p align=justify>The night had felt like any other spring night. There was a bite to the air still yet, a consequence of living in their sheltered Valleys arms but not so much to be uncomfortable. Little did she (or anyone know) a biting chill was the least of their worries.
Sunshine filtered down onto her pretty face, to which she responded by reluctantly opening an eye. Her brain was still foggy and full of dreams and the sun was nothing short of a rude assault on her currently slow senses. Somewhere a bird sang, it's melody doing nothing for her sleepiness and even less for her mood. With a groan she rolled onto her side, legs curled under her like a deer. It was only when her eyes were fully open that she realized this wasn't home. Wherever she was, it wasn't the Valley. It lacked the fog and the ravens, the looming pines and the dense forest. If anything, this was the top of the Valley; the top of the world, even. Awake now but not panicking, she rose to her feet, giving herself a thorough shake to be sure this all wasn't a dream. The shake did nothing and the foreign landscape remained.
Opening her mind, she pried into the air for other horses. They were there, and their tones caused a shiver to rub down the length of her spine. Something was amiss; somewhere, the course of the night had made an ill-fated turn. As she whirled around, a voice came into her mind that was like aloe to a burn. <I>"Eight"</I>
Moving as quickly as she could over the unfamiliar terrain, she soon found him. He seemed well enough, but the look on his face caused her worry. He was not one to worry, and that in itself caused her alarm. Without her usual composure, she bumped her nose into his shoulder, allowing herself to breath deep a scent she had known for so long. It was comforting to be near him, for it was the only thing familiar she had found. Horses were creatures built on habits and patterns, and to have their world upheaved was distressing. <I>"What is this place? What has gone on? At first I assumed I was dreaming, but that surely isn't it. I heard other voices...they sounded scared."<I/> she said, uncertainty thickening her words. <I>"And you? Are you alright? Have you seen the children? They aren't with me."</I> Though they were nearing two and fully capable of fending for themselves, it was a mother's right to worry herself over their fate, no matter the age. Hopefully he had answers; hopefully, all was well.
Hopefully, it was only a dream.</p>
RE: You're brought back, but you're running -- Topsail - Eight - 09-02-2016
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XImageTransform.Microsoft.gradient( startColorstr='#00000000', endColorstr='#ffffff',GradientType=0 );}.eight_message {position: relative;z-index: 10;text-align: justify;font: 12px 'Times New Roman', serif;padding: 15px;color: #242424;border-right: 25px solid #5E5E5E;border-bottom-right-radius: 30px;}.eight_quote {position: relative;z-index: 10;text-align: center;font: 16px 'Times New Roman', serif;font-style: italic;color: #242424;}.eight_name {position: relative;z-index: 10;text-align: center;font: 42px 'Times New Roman', serif;color: #242424; padding: 0;margin: 0;}</style><center><div class="eight_border"><div class="eight_container"><img class="eight_image" src="http://i.imgur.com/Waz1O.jpg"><div class="eight_gradient"></div><p class="eight_quote">no matter what they say, I am still the king</p><div class="eight_message">If you were only dreaming, my mouse skinned girl. What a dream it would be. Who could imagine that the Fairy would ever cause such a reckoning? Who ever thought that any of us as a whole would have to pay for our debts? And it seemed we would all pay dearly. There was no way to wake up from this – and the fog from your mind is quite real, a rolling entity that shrouds snippets of Beqanna – a curtain to reel back at a later time. This is no dream – this is the top of the world, a proverbial valley below you (perhaps it is a bit like home, right?).
As he crests the mountain, he feels it – your voice reverberating in his head. You heard him, perhaps he even called you from your slumber, pulling you from a dream that was perhaps better than this tumult. Your life is a dream now, Topsail.
You meet at last, the tethers of the mind drawing you closer, through the milling bodies (some dazed and confused, others panic stricken in fright, and still others furious with the wrath bestowed upon them). No, we are not usually something of comfort to one another – we do not love one another, we merely made the perfect team – and yet amidst it all, there is a kinship here – the fact that regardless of emotion or amore, it is Eight’s duty to connect you to the world, to keep you safe.
He jerks slightly with your uncharacteristic greeting – but it is comforting, the first touch he has had since the creation of your children so long ago. He reaches down and rests his head slightly and quickly atop yours – a reassurance. This isn’t a dream.
<i> “I am alright, it’s okay. You are too? I haven’t seen an injured soul yet..”</i> He scans the ever growing crowd of confusion. <I> “I haven’t found the children. I haven’t felt them here yet.”</i> He looks towards her, with almost sorrow and pity in his eyes. <i> “Topsail.. This place. Well, here..”</I> It was unlike him to be at a loss of words. <i> “There is no more magic. Up here, it seems there is. But I traveled down.. and once I leave the Mountain, even I am powerless. You cannot speak down there”</i> Does this make it more of a nightmare now?
<p class="eight_name">∞</p><p class="eight_quote">and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in</p></div></div></center>
RE: You're brought back, but you're running -- Topsail - Topsail - 09-02-2016
<p align=justify>She had never known a conventional voice. Where others could speak freely with their tongue, she was hampered by some unknown iron fist around her vocal chords. From birth though, she had had her telepathy. It was her only way to connect with others, her only way to speak. She had only been without it once, as a foal, when she had met a mare who mysteriously suppressed the traits of those around her. It had not been pleasant, that choking feeling. And now here she was, facing that again.
At his touch she closed her eyes, her worst fears washing over her. They had never shared such closeness, and to feel it now gave her mixed emotions. Clearly he was distressed, as much as she. The contact was brief and when he had removed his head she looked around for the first time. Not the first time, but surely the closest. They did seem to be at the top of the world, with a sprawling meadow laid below them. But it was not their Valley.
"Surely they are fine..." she murmured, trying to reassure herself. Eight said he'd seen no injuries, so surely whatever had become of Beqanna had happened quietly enough. But his next words shook her to the core, and for the first time since childhood, she felt the burning behind her eyes that signaled tears. "Gone? All of it is gone? Your magic? My...my telepathy?" The quiver in her voice would surely give her away, despite the porcelain mask laid over her face. "But I can't talk without it. Nothing. Not one word." The frightened musings were semi to herself, though her eyes searched his. She knew within her heart he wasn't lying, but it was something to cling to nonetheless. A lie was sometimes better than the truth. </P>
RE: You're brought back, but you're running -- Topsail - Eight - 09-02-2016
Were any of us really conventional? This new Beqanna seemed to undo all ideas of convention. Beqanna had been a land rife with talent, lore, power, and might. The Fairy had seen to it (had been so kind, even) to allow equine of every type and form to flourish here. There was actually very few and far between that could be called ‘normal'. In Beqanna ‘normal' is (or was?) being touched by some form of trait - physical, mental, ethereal.
But unlike you, Eight’s power was not what allowed him to communicate. Yes, it gave him a power unlike any other- the world was at his command. But he was never imprisoned by it. While he too felt the nakedness of losing what had made him <I>the magician</I> - it did not bind him in silence. It did not shut him off from the world.
The touch was brief, but spoke everything. Before, they had been king and queen- a coupling made simply because they worked well , because the Valley needed them, because they needed the Valley. But upon the surge of their meeting, the brief touches between them- it became more. They were no longer monarchs side by side, they were worried (did Eight ever really worry?) parents, thrown from the throne and split from the members they cared about. Now, it was more.
<I> “Gone. All gone. There is land below the mountain, but there seems that is much unexplored. I'm sure the children are there somewhere. This seems not to be out of ill will towards us, but something else. “</I> He looks out across the changed lands before returning to face her once more, sorrow riddling for her. <I> “ I know you can't. You can speak up here, but we cant stay here for long. We need to find others. I have a feeling more change is in the air, you know Beqanna never plays lightly. “</I> He nudges her shoulder lightly. <I>”I'm here. And they know you have no words without your telepathy. It will be ok. ‘
RE: You're brought back, but you're running -- Topsail - Underwood - 09-02-2016
</i><link href='https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Cinzel+Decorative' rel='stylesheet' type='text/css'><center> <style> #suchcoffee {background-image:url('http://i159.photobucket.com/albums/t139/anh1992111/underwoodforkrys_zpseqxp2u1g.gif'); width: 600px; height: 410px;} #muchcaffeine {width: 600px; background-color: black; height: 680px; box-shadow: 0px 0px 30px black;} #gotmelifted {background-color: #7a7a7a; border-radius: 300px 0px 0px 0px; height: 80px; border-top: #2a2a2a 5px solid; width: 400px; float: right; margin-top: -150px; text-shadow: 1px 0px 15px; padding-bottom: 15px; padding: 20px;} #shifted {background-color: #7a7a7a; height: 231px; width: 400px; float: right; overflow: auto; padding: 20px; text-align: justify; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 12pt; position: relative; top: -26px; color: black} #shifted::-webkit-scrollbar {width: 0px;} #higherthantheceilin {float: left; width: 300px; color: #7a7a7a; -webkit-transform: rotate(-90deg); -moz-transform: rotate(-90deg); -o-transform: rotate(-90deg); writing-mode: lr-tb; font-size: 13pt; position: relative; top: 90px; left: -60px; text-shadow: gray 1px 0px 15px; letter-spacing: 1px; font-family: cinzel decorative, cursive;} </style> <div id="muchcaffeine"><div id="suchcoffee"></div> <div id="higherthantheceilin">Reach out and touch faith</div> <div id="gotmelifted"><div style="position: relative; top: 15px; font-size: 36pt; font-family: cinzel decorative, cursive; color: black;">Underwood<div style="font-size: 9pt; margin-top: -10px; text-shadow: 0px 0px 0px;">I will deliver; you know I'm a forgiver.</div></div></div><div id="shifted"> </i>The thin air stung the lining of his lungs as each filled with bittersweet oxygen, so concentrated that it rattled the very recesses of his mind with its purity. The sunlight of day bore down on him with a heaviness that left him weary and agitated, his dark, soulless eyes peering around with trepidation. The burden of realization weighed heavily, and yet he remained unnerved - merely frustrated; what had become of his tempting shadows the darkness that so often soothed the demons that stirred within his uneasy soul? The warmth of the midday sun settled deeply within his bones, pulling beads of sweat to the very surface of his skin in spite of the icy breeze that combs through his long tresses, which brush damply across his terse jaw.
Wakened by the cries of many <i>(some in outrage; others with panic lacing their tone)</i>, he stirs, wary eyes observing the various bodies that litter the too bright, sickeningly peaceful and undeniably breathtaking land that lay before him. Disgust ripples through each fiber of his being, and with a single sweeping motion, he spreads the length of his wings to each side - taking a loping leap off a single, sharply edged crest, taking to the skies. With dark, prying eyes, he searches - heart pounding rhythmically in his chest while the wind whips past him, drowning out the deafening words the filter through the land.
At last, familiarity draws him once more to the ground - his slender legs delving into the moist soil and sloping hillside as his dark plumage tucks tightly against the swell of his sides, darkened eyes set upon two idle bodies. Gently he draws his lips up along the length of his blunt teeth as he presses his mouth to her hide, trailing along her side. Once settled near her shoulder, he presses the brunt of his jaw against her neck, glancing between his mother and father, absorbing the uneasiness, the uncertainty and the worry laced with each word.
Quietly, he says, <b>"He is right. And I am here, too. No one seems to be harmed, from what I can tell - you will have us. We will be your voice, Mother - somehow, some way."</b>
</div></div></center>
Trait: Wings
RE: You're brought back, but you're running -- Topsail - Topsail - 09-02-2016
It was all true. They were all in this new fresh hell together, for better or for worse. Though she was openly lamenting the loss of her voice, she sympathized greatly with Eight. He had been invincible before, all consuming and terrifying in his own right. Now, he was as simple and mundane as the grass beneath their feet. So though she had been robbed of a voice, in the grand scheme of things, he had lost so much more.
She heard their voices all around; other horses, frightened and worried as they. Some alone and some in groups. For the most part, they discussed one thing; how to rebuild their lives. They would have to, ultimately. Somehow they would sift through the ashes and find the remnants of their lives and piece them back together. A good man once out Humpty Dumpty together (with patience and glue!) and he looked good as new.
A new voice broke her reverie, a voice she had been longing to hear. As her son racked his teeth across her neck she choked down a sob, leaning into his embrace willingly. He too seemed whole and unharmed, though she knew he would lose his other gifts the moment they left. "Underwood...thank God." she said, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead to his dun-colored neck. When the moment passed she steeled herself, swallowing hard and drowning unshed tears in resolve. "You're both right. Pissing and moaning never did anyone any good. Our friends need us." It fely odd, that word friend. But in this moment, in the here and now, that is what they were.