and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
Curiosity spurred him into a casual flight and led him from the Resort. An uneasy glance over his shoulder provides a glimmer of destruction that will ensue upon his departure. Nothing yet has been set in stone. The Resort’s fate remains undecided and in the playful hands of the fairies. With faith in them, he decided to expand his horizon and regard a rumor that has burned the edges of his ears.
To minimize his travel time, Castile shifted his body into a dragon. The beat of his wings is thunderous as he soars effortlessly among the clouds. He takes no pleasure in it, no swirling or flirting with the altitudes. Streamlined and with a stoic expression, he steadies himself and yields to nothing. Loess, a place he once called home, rattles with life and spurs a thrumming bout of drama in an otherwise quiet Beqanna.
The plague still infests their world, and its effects still writhe through Castile’s veins but Tiphon’s magic has suppressed his symptoms for the time being. Blood no longer dribbles down his muzzle and the fatigue has since dissipated to grant him the ability to travel across the world to reach a land he has nearly forgotten. It’s still exhausting, of course, but at least he still possesses a reserve of energy as his body fluidly transitions back into a horse before beginning his descent into clear visibility. Nothing of him remains draconic, not even his wings, when he finally touches down near the border. A deep breath is drawn into his lungs as he replays his brief time here as a Regent.
How has time flown by so fast?
castile
this. is. a. poop. post.... and I'm so sorry for that lmao
darling, you're wild-eyed, empty, and tongue-tied maybe you need me or maybe you don't
It doesn’t take her long to make her way to this new home.
The journey from the island to Tephra, cutting across the volcanic land and then skirting between the forests of Sylva and Taiga brings her directly to Loess. The land smells heavily of strangers and she spends some time investigating it in her tiger form—spotting a mare held captive in a cave, and a lion clearly held against his will—before she finds her way to Castile. Her expression is bland when she finally spots him, his blackened wings held together against his body, the gold of him glinting.
Her eyes are unreadable as she shifts from tigress to horse, a faint flecking of blood on her chin the only evidence of a meal taken as a carnivore and the full belly that she carries in the aftermath.
She walks up to his side, quietly studying the land around them—his new kingdom—before she angles her head in his direction, a corner of her mouth lifting into a faint echo of a smile. “This will do,” she says simply, although she admits that she likes the kingdom—and, without knowing his history here, she cannot help but think that it suits him. Something about its wild beauty reflects his own.
“You have taken on an interesting place,” she muses, still keeping her cards close to her chest, thinking back to the images of the captives and the stolen and a kingdom dripping in violence. Perhaps as a child she may have grown squeamish of it, but such things are beyond her now. She doesn’t shy away from it or pass judgement. She merely observes, ever calm in the face of the dynamite lying beneath them.
“I imagine the next few months will be interesting.”
To say the very least.
playing the slow rooms, howling at half moons if you are a Queen then, honey, I am a wolf
The world below his hooves is a colorful one. Summer has painted the earth in a myriad of hues, but it is the dusky red of Loess that he searches for. Pteron has looked north at these hills for his whole life, but this is the first time he has actually visited the land. It is lovely at this time of day, and it is filled with easy places for a flying horse to land. He chooses an outcropping of red stone, and he drops to the earth quickly and with a sharp thud and crack.
There is a bit of pain in the landing but it fades quite quickly. Pteron has not yet attributed this quirk of his physiology to the supernatural, but as he breathes in air that is ripe with a plague that he has never been exposed to, it seems he might soon discover it. The bones of his legs creak as he stretches, the instantaneous knitting together of half dozen microfractures from his severe landing happening in the time it takes him to look around the place he has landed.
The boy rolls his shoulders and the wings behind them, shaking the feathers as straight as he can manage without help. They are a little too long still for him to reach the ends – and unfortunate happenstance of not being fully grown and proportionate. His mane is windblown, he knows, knotted and somewhat damp from the clouds he had dove through. He has heard that the leadership of Loess has changed hands, and has come to find out who the new leader is. Not his parents, he knows, and not Vulgaris. There aren’t many other names that the tobiano colt knows, and when he takes in a deep breath of the sandy air, it is flavored with only the scent of strangers.
Strangers and blood; the hair along his neck stands on immediate end. He nearly disappears at the danger, but reminds himself that he is no longer a child. Shaking his ead, he follows the smell and the sound of voices until he comes across two horses. A mare and a stallion, both at least the age of his parents. Pteron meets their gaze with his curious olive eyes, looking from one to the other.
“Is this Loess?” He asks. “Have you seen Wolfbane or Lepis recently?”
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
For him, the trek had been brief. It was brimming with frustration. Multiple times, Castile expelled a plume of fire into the clouds only to barrel through it and let the heat kiss his skin. He wanted – no, still wants – to wreak havoc on the Island for having expelled him. The time will come, surely, but he decides to bide his time while soaring across the open sky. The Resort – and its filthy inhabitants – will still be there in the months to come. Let them brood and wonder whether he will return with a fiery vengeance. Suspended in uncertainty. When they’ve begun to settle, he will loom like a storm and create unrest for them, even if it is only brief.
In his rage, Castile had left behind Sochi and Reia.
He knew they would follow. He knew they were capable of the trip on their own.
It doesn’t come as a shock when she sidles to him, her footsteps mere whispers across the ground. ”I suppose it will,” he murmurs without yet looking at her, his eyes trained on the distant horizon as the sun dips lower in the sky. A lopsided grin breaks the concentrated stoicism of his face when his head eventually turns to regard her. Loess will be their home now. No one has opposed yet. While this place – a kingdom, no less – grants more power than the Island, it still sours his mouth to reflect on having lost something… again.
Castile reaches toward her and cradles the small curve of her chin with his lips, tasting the residual blood curiously. It reminds him how hungry he actually is. Much to his dismay, however, his hunger is set aside for now until everything is truly settled and Loess is confirmed as his own. A breath sighs from his lungs and his brows quirk quickly. ”We’ll be on our toes,” he confesses, but he isn’t at all afraid. ”We will keep the captives. We may have use for them,” ideas are already reeling through his mind, playing out options until a noise pulls him abruptly from his thoughts.
The footfalls of the boy are not nearly as practiced and silent as Sochi’s. The pebbles and small rocks betray him almost immediately, and Castile regards him with fascination. ”This is Loess,” he confirms with a nod of his baroque head while his eyes trace the boy’s face with heavy scrutiny. ”I haven’t seen them,” which is true, but he hangs on the familiar name as it tumbles easily from the lad’s tongue. ”Lepis. Is she your mother? I’m her uncle,” not by blood, but his childhood-long friendship with Ivar has forged titles he never expected. A couple of his own children perceive the kelpie as their uncle, just as Lepis has perceived Castile as hers. His mind tingles with curiosity as his mismatched gaze slowly and occasionally sweeps between the boy and Sochi.
darling, you're wild-eyed, empty, and tongue-tied maybe you need me or maybe you don't
Sochi is not overly practiced with kingdom politics, despite the fact that she was raised within them.
She was taught well, even traded between kingdoms in her youth, but it had been something that had never quite stuck with her. Perhaps as she had gotten older, when the predatory parts of her brain had begin to slink forward to reclaim the majority, she had lost it. Perhaps they had never dug their roots in deep enough—never bothered to truly spread in the rocky ground of her mind. Whatever the case, she finds she is ill-fitted for the role of diplomat; she has little patience for the arts and games of it.
But she has patience for him, intrigue for him, and something flares in her eyes when his mouth finds her chin. It is a dark heat that flashes across her features at the touch, the simmering knowledge of what lies beneath the surface of him. “I can help keep watch,” she says, the faint hint of rasp and husk in her voice as she studies his features. “Having healers on call will be useful in the coming days.”
When the boy approaches—and despite his years, he is still just a boy to her—her expression cools. It is neither cold nor dismissive, but politely neutral, a mask of indifference clicking into place. The names that he speaks are nothing more than names she has overheard on the wind. They are not completely unknown to her—she doubts any in Beqanna have truly escaped hearing of them—but she has no personal ties and they therefore slip off her back easily. Her mind begins to wander, only snapping back when Castile states that Lepis is his niece. Her eyes sharpen slightly, tucking away the knowledge for later times, but she remains quiet—never one for small talk. Never one to give away more than necessary.
playing the slow rooms, howling at half moons if you are a Queen then, honey, I am a wolf
As he watches the two horses pull away from each other, the young colt realizes that he’s interrupted something. He is not sure what – perhaps they are friends, or perhaps they are lovers – but whatever it’s too late to just leave them to their business. He is already here, he reasons; and he’s not really done anything worth apologizing for.
When the tobiano stallion inspects him, Pteron mirrors the action, looking over the black and white stallion that stands as tall as Pteron’s father, with raven-like wings and a curious gold marking across his face. Though he looks as equine as Pteron, his scent is strange. Nearly reptilian, Ivar thinks, and the boy wonders if the stallion is a shifter of some sort. Always intrigued with magic of any sort, Pteron’s eyes grow wide and hopeful as the man claims relation to his mother.
“You’re Castile.” He says, the awe in his voice not unlike that of a boy meeting the protagonist of a warrior’s fairy tale. “You’re a dragon!” At this moment his nose catches the scent of dried blood once more. Neither Castile nor the mare beside him look wounded. Pteron frowns, but is more polite than to ask a question about about a strange smell in the company of strangers. Well, one of them is a stranger to him, though he is clearly an unknown to them both.
“Lepis is my mom.” He tells Castile. ”And I’m Pteron.” This is said to them both, for while the black mare with her blue blaze hasn’t yet spoken, he knows it would be rude to ignore her. “I heard Vulgaris left. Mom and Dad put him in charge and I was hoping that a new king might mean they’ve returned.”
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
Sochi, as fiery and lethal as she is, reveals tenderness in fleeting moments. He takes note of it. She doesn’t reel from his touch as his lips caress her chin to share the taste of her most recent kill. It brings to life a small grin, one in which escapes her notice as his head eventually dips away and breaks the contact. A searching gaze eventually finds some of the prisoners scattered across the hills. ”They certainly have their uses,” he comments lackadaisically, as though they mean nothing more to him. ”I brought Tiphon here to help with symptoms. I’ve been using him.” As though in quiet relief, his lungs gulp down the summer air. No cough quakes through him. None of his own blood trickles from his nostrils. Fatigue has even subsided for the time being. As long as the healers are nearby, Loess can survive the plague.
Castile cannot suppress the smile the bounces to his face in reaction to Pteron’s exuberance. An airy chuckle slips from him. A sheepish glance would have found Sochi in this moment because it wasn’t until just recently that she witnessed what he is – what he is capable of. ”I am,” he confirms in a low murmur, nodding his baroque head slowly. Thus far, he has noted, there are very few dragons within Beqanna. Those that are, are in his family – his father and his own son. How interesting it would be to see any others.
Locked in conversation with the boy – not unwillingly – his grin remains present, but his bout of laughter settles like the dust from Pteron’s trail. ”Your mother would kill me if you got infected while out here.” He doesn’t ask where Lepis is. Has she slipped away like Starlin? Is that a familial trait? While the uncertainty tickles the edges of his tongue, Castile assumes the boy is just as bewildered. That’s why he is here, he confesses with a curious glance to the distance. ”Vulgaris has given me the crown, but unfortunately, I’ve not seen your parents yet.” It would be good to see her again, but his memory traces back to her childhood. To picture her a mother is odd. It reminds him of how the years have slipped by like Nerine’s sands falling from his locks.
If she never returns, at least a piece of her will continue in her absence. ”You’re welcome to stay, Pteron. Sochi,” and he tilts his head to introduce and indicate the woman at his side, ”and I have a daughter about your age somewhere around here. Her name is Reia.”
darling, you're wild-eyed, empty, and tongue-tied maybe you need me or maybe you don't
Sochi remains auxiliary to the conversation, but she doesn’t mind. She has never minded being slightly on the outside. For all of her more negative, selfish traits, a desire to be the center of attention has never been one of them. She is content to observe, content to watch and study, her silvery eyes neutral as they switch back and forth between the dragon-stallion and the younger boy, her tail flicking at her haunches lightly.
At the boy’s exclamation, a corner of her lip quirks, a barest hint of a smile that shadows her mouth. There is a secret thrill within her to hear it said aloud—to have her suspicions confirmed. There is a thrill to know that the baroque stallion at her side, the one with fire in his eyes and blood on his lips, has a dragon curled within him. He is more powerful than had ever imagined he would be, and the predator within her sings at the recognition of such a worthy one within him. To know the blood that now runs through her daughter’s veins, the fire that consumes her making so much more sense now.
Still, none of this shows on her impassive face, and she continues to listen quietly, only perking up slightly when Castile mentions their daughter. There remains a hint of something nearly lethargic in the way she moves—a confident, lazy grace—as she rolls a scarred shoulder, the crimson of the tattoo across her chest rippling with the motion. “Reia would love more,” she pauses for a second, considering, “friends.” The word feels strange, and she isn’t sure how accurate it is—her daughter, after all, has never been one to long for companionship—but still, she is sure she’d appreciate the sentiment all the same.
Then, with the same fluid movements, she takes a step back, dipping her head slightly.
“And with that, I think I will take my leave.” She turns to the boy, “Pteron,” and then to the Dragon-King, “Castile.” She pauses, murmuring quietly under her breath, “Find me when you are done.” With a shake, she shifts into her tigress form, giving them a feline smile before turning and leaping into the shadows.
playing the slow rooms, howling at half moons if you are a Queen then, honey, I am a wolf
@[Pteron] @[Castile]
I figured I could make the thread go faster since Sochi isn't contributing much haha. <3
There is something about the mare with the blue blaze that unsettles Pteron, an unconscious feeling that perhaps he is a meal. Without words for this sensatio, he instead trusts what she says aloud, perhaps a sign of his youth of naivety. The discomfort is the same that he might have had toward the dragon king were Castile not a familiar name to him. Perhaps in time he will feel as comfortable around Sochi, and the quiet alarm of prey near a predator will fade. For now, he must grapple with his inexplicable relief that she is leaving while still giving her a smile that his Mother would not nip him for.
The idea of meeting a daughter of these two adults is as puzzling as his reaction to Sochi. Would his cousin be as wordlessly intimidating as her mother? Perhaps not; Pteron has never yet been frightened by any other children that he has met -that seems reserved for adults and predators.
"I'd like to meet her." He says honestly. "I want to stay here. I know Mom and Dad will come back here when they return and I don't want to miss them." The colt nods at his own statement, pleased with how the declaration sounds aloud. He will stay here and make himself useful, and when his parents return he will have made them proud as well. In the meantime, he will meet this cousin Reia.
