Gale idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword. innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know
He can feel the magic. It is in the lightning that burns in his veins, bright and white hot, blazing with possibility. He cannot hold it all, no matter how tightly he grips it. Always there is some seeping out, some escaping, dancing across his skin, a white hot burn along his spinal mane.
Gale’s hair is almost entirely gold now, the lightning having burnt - and healed golden - nearly every bit of his skin. It was an odd quirk of the Healing he had been born with, the changing colors of his skin as it healed. Only when he is truly and entirely golden, when every bit of his body has been replaced, he will begin to scar navy blue. The cycle has remained constant, and he rarely thinks of it.
He thinks about it now though, and the lightning along his skin intensifies as he focuses. It takes a tremendous amount of precision to excise lightning using lightning, but Gale has been practicing for years. He loses track of time (of hours, of weeks) but when he finally closes his unblinking and unfocused blue eyes, the Healing is gone.
Gale is no longer gold, but a deep and iridescent navy blue. His mane and tail are snow white, and the gold remains in the pattern of stripes along his barrel. Removing the Healing had taken the magical effects of it away, he reasons, knowing there have been far stranger side effects of destroying his abilities.
Such destruction has occupied most of his time. Following his obsession with the impenetrable nothingness, experimenting on himself was a logical extrapolation. He has unmade his abilities to utilize most of his magical gifts, and with them the temptation to use them. He has not thought much about exactly why he does this, nor of how very easy it would be to burn away the destruction and forge himself whole and unblemished.
He thinks about it now, just for a moment,and the bolt of lightning streaks through the otherwise black autumn sky. The moon and stars are buried far behind the low hanging clouds, and the blue-white bolt illuminates the world around him for far longer than lightning should.
Gale turns away from the open sky, and sets his gaze upon the woods.
RE: idealism sits in prison; any - hysperia - 06-27-2024
we’re going to put a quote here
There's something sacred in the cold wash of a late autumn bath.
Hysperia's skin shivers over and over again as lap after lap of lazy, crystal-clear river water splashes against her barrel. It is nearly night, all the colors of dusk refusing to wash over the darkness of her coat. She is a plain thing, by Beqanna's standards. Some things mark her as beautiful, sure: the dainty, breakable length of her legs, the small splash of white socks around her hooves, the feminine lines of her skull, dotted gemstones trailing intricate patterns across her skin. These lovely things she sees in many reflections - she admires them even. But it is not nearly enough. There are scales and furs of the deepest colors of the rainbows. There are powers of attraction and physicality not within her grasp.
Plain, she hisses to herself - then suddenly dunks her head deep under the water.
This ritual is simple: deprive herself of the simple pleasure of comfort and she will be washed anew. That, and she likes the way her skin tightens with the temperature, as if she is as fresh as a newborn baby.
The filth is washed clean within thirty minutes of anguish. Hysperia dunks her head over and over again, holding her breath until her lungs ache and she sees bright white spots behind her eyelids. It is not until the muscles of her chest spasm that she draws herself from the water, renewed. She is sharp, focused, alive. There is no particular direction for her to follow, but she steps through the creeping darkness as if she is on a mission.
It is that improvised mission that leads her to witness the brilliant blue stallion beneath a lingering strike of lightning. Hysperia audibly gasps, jade eyes widening in shock and prophecy. The Itch she washed from her flesh returns faster than it ever has before as she stares with the reverence of a worshipper at the feet of their God. She does not hesitate once the light fades from the sky.
"Hello?" Hysperia calls, coloring her tentative question with layer after layer of innocence and awe.
"Did . . . did you see that lightning?" she adds, giving a touch of a scared whimper to her voice.
hysperia
RE: idealism sits in prison; any - Gale - 06-30-2024
Gale idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword. innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know
Leaves rustle in the dark woods, stirred by the wind that rises slowly, tied to his agitation but not his awareness. The flash of green catches Gale’s attention, pulls his too bright eyes to those of the intrusive stranger. The pale hairs of his upright mane bend in the breeze, and he shakes away the cobwebs in them that have been blown adrift by the wind that tickle at his cheek.
Like trees beyond, her, she is young and slender, so easily snapped by a strong wind. He offers a twitch of his lips that is hardly a smile, enough that with the eye contact makes it clear he’s aware of her presence.
And then he begins to turn away, because he does not want to see her.
He does not want to see anyone at all.
The tentative ‘hello?’ is met only with more steps away, the long stockings of his forelegs bright against his navy hide. Bright like the lightning that dances up those forelegs, that skitters down his sides and blazes in his eyes as he turns around sharply at her query.
“The lightning?” He asks as it flickers in his too blue eyes, as he takes back the space he’d put between them, and then all the rest of it as well. “There is not a moment that I do not see it.” He breathes the words into the space between them to frighten her, to turn that hint of a whimper into a sob. Lightning flashes behind them again, and for a moment the near black of his coat is once more iridescent. He wants her gone; perhaps the lightning will make it so.
RE: idealism sits in prison; any - hysperia - 07-01-2024
that love is like a star
Shock and defiance flash across Hysperia’s face with nearly the same intensity as the lightning flashing across Gale. She draws her head up high as he purposely steps away, all semblance of innocence wiped clean. A sharpness stark in contrast to her once soft stare harshens the lines of her face.
A wicked grin splits Hysperia’s mouth when Gale turns back around, a wild in her swelling up to meet him.
There’s a danger and a power within the blue magician that Hysperia has never encountered before. She blinks, only taking a single second to process what he says. Cowering backward, she gasps—she sheds the tears Gale is looking for—but she doesn’t back away from him. Hysperia’s heart beats fiercely and what she feels is fear, though all the adrenaline only serves to excite her.
Could he take her life? Is she living in the abyss of seconds before death?
Lightning flashes as Hysperia demures, dropping her head in deference to the magician. When she looks up though—through a thick tangle of lashes and mane—her gaze is as violent as a blow to the head.
“Why are you trying to frighten me?” she whispers. She secretly hopes he tries again, hopes he tries to harm her the way his magic hints. She imagines growing wolf’s fangs and tearing this God’s throat from his body, wonders how hot the Divine’s blood must flow. Hysperia bites back a laugh as she adds,
“Are you unwell?”
hysperia
RE: idealism sits in prison; any - Gale - 07-01-2024
Gale idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword. innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know
She recoils, the salty scent of her tears lingering in the space that he leans into. Lightning bridges the short distance between them, a sizzling static crackle to emphasize the message.
He does not want to be bothered.
His meaning should be clear enough, and as she lowers her dark head in deference, Gale breathes a soundless sigh of relief.
He makes to withdraw into the lightningless night, to fade into the shadows of the trees. This encounter has played out before, with different faces on the strangers, different voices pleading for mercy.
This one will not end in blood.
Not anymore.
Not again.
Just before he is shadow, she looks up to meet his gaze.
This encounter has not played out before.
His head draws back, his body growing heavy with his return to true substance. This is something new after all.
Once, he might have consumed her beating heart to learn precisely what made her different, to taste each shining drop of individuality. Now, he tilts his dark head and does not answer her question, the eerily expressionless mask of his face falling away to reveal a too intent stare.
The quandary of how to solve the puzzle before him could have been a weeks long contemplation, and indeed he subtly shifts to stand more comfortably.
Are you unwell?
Is he?
“Recovering.” His gaze returns her her eyes, and there is some blue there between the lightning, if only for a moment. As though she'd asked them in reverse order, he answers: “To make you to leave me alone.”
