"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
The bay roan stallion entered the Beqanna lands once again. It had been a year....maybe two, he has lost time. He left his twin sons to tend to the herd, surely it was almost diminished, the incapable foals they were. Archam had no one to blame but himself for the death of Morigan, the loss of his child that she last carried. He loved Anahi but he could not face his herd when he lost one of his mares, he could not protect them.
He stowed himself deep in the Forest, it was quiet and no one was around. It was dreadfully cold, as the snow fell from the moon lit sky. He looked around cautiously before lowering his head to dig around the snow and find some food for himself.
Lead Stallion of Cobblestone Creek
@[Cassi]
OOC: I saw your away so don't feel rushed! I just wanted to get a post up, as we talked about Violence can have her way with Archam! He is hers to play with!! :p
She is a thing of fury; a woman with a core piece of herself ripped out with no rhyme or reason. All she knows is that the bones are no longer beside her and that it’s hard, to exist without them, for they had long been such a constant that she does not know how to act without them.
She has a horn, now, a black and dangerous thing; but it’s a small comfort to a woman who once spoke to bones, who once entered their minds like a pilot enters an aircraft. No, though she likes the weapon she now wields on her forehead, she’d give it up in a second for a moment more of the bones.
The man she sees is no one. A passerby whom she sees in one foolish instance, a bay roan nosing at the snow. She had never met him, nor he her, but it doesn’t matter – he seems suddenly responsible for this change, and she wonders: would the land that so cruelly took from her what she would not give respond to blood?
She knows much of sacrifice, her own mother is a foolish devotee to a power Violence does not care for (for she is the kind who much prefers to be worshipped rather than do the worshipping herself). But suddenly, the idea seems to have merit.
“You,” she breathes, suddenly before him, grinning a savage grin. Her horn catches the light.
“You could help me,” she says. It is not a question. She is still grinning.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
@[Nicole] -- reply if you want, OR if you don't have muse just message me and I'm happy to powerplay him thanks love! <3
10-18-2016, 07:58 PM (This post was last modified: 10-18-2016, 07:58 PM by Archam.)
Archam
He was alone, or so he thought, it wasn't long until he could detect the scent of another. But it was a scent unlike any he has detected, he looked around but it was to late. The source had found him, she was standing off and he could barely see her if it wasn't for the moon providing light. you she says. He rolled his eyes arrogantly You can help me she says again. Oh yea? how is that exactly he snorted a response, ears lowered to his head. Normally he would jump at the occasion to speak to a mare, but today he wanted to be alone, he just returned to Beqanna he lost everything he worked for.
Lead Stallion of Cobblestone Creek
@[Cassi] Sorry that it is short and crappy! I am really just trying to kill him :p
Cry havoc, and let loose the dogs of war, the saying goes, and today she cries havoc.
She cries havoc because her world has been irrevocably shifted, warped, her very essence stripped away without a second thought. Cries havoc because she has been forced to forge a new home in a dreadful land with a foolish god-king.
She doesn’t know if her plan will work, doesn’t care, any more – all she knows is he is a fool before her, and she is lost without the necromantic core of herself.
All she knows is the sound of his blood sings hot in her ears.
She has not killed before, not in this form (she has in other ways – in the minds of her monster-sister, hunting), but some things come natural.
The way a horn finds a heart, for example.
She sets upon him, the horn serving its purpose, and his flesh parts before her. He fights, and she feels the blows, but they are distant, as if being struck upon someone else.
His blood drowns all else.
And oh, there is blood, rivers of it, it pours out into the dusty ground, it pours upon her forehead like sweat.
Again and again, the horn finds its mark.
Again and again, she cries havoc.
I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips
@[Archam] if you want anything edited please let me know!!
thanks love! <3