As the Winds Blow | Open

[Simeon]

The sun is bright on this late spring afternoon. Its golden rays beam down on the meadow unimpeded by any of the clouds that sporadically dot the blue sky. Everything is lush and alive, growing and wild. Near the center of the high green grasses, lays a large pond fed by a trickling stream and near to that, a thriving shade tree with great boughs of broad leaves. Standing under those limbs, leaning against the thick trunk, the bay roan stallion takes in the vibrant scenery and lets all the warmth that was not offered oft in the Tundra seep in through his thick coat- which thanks to his current home, never seemed to shed. The winter- his first- in the northern ice land had been a rough one, but Simeon is always quick to adapt and never complain. Still. A man has to let his bones thaw at some point.

Standing in the shade (statuesque with a hind hoof cocked, neck held level with his spine and mismatched eyes- one brown and the other green- staring off into space), the stallion is meditative, his mind tangled deep in many thoughts. It's almost uncharacteristic for him, one so usually wild and energetic, to be so still. The only movements to be seen are the deep inhales and exhales of his calm breathing, chest swelling and deflating. The time had come in the Brotherhood. The mad King overthrown and the Black magician taking his place, with all the Brothers behind him. Simeon was to be among them, one of them, and Errant- his uncle, Scorch's brother- was supposed to show him how to hold a crown. He was going to be trained and taught, because come on, Scorch isn't the best teacher. He loves her, and is so proud of her accomplishments and aspirations as the Queen of the Jungle. He has even agreed to do all of this in her name, supposedly securing an alliance between Sister and Brotherhoods. But could he do it?

He absolutely wants to make her proud, he wants to do anything for her to help further her cause. The last thing he wants to do is disappoint her. Fail her. When he had agreed, it had been extremely on impulse, hasty if he was to be honest. He had barely made it home for a visit after much of his young life spent wandering. He had decided to devote himself to the Jungle, had sworn his allegiance for once in his entire life not just to himself, not just to his mother, but the living breathing powerhouse that was the Amazonian Jungle. She had given him the vibrant tattoo (the green vine starting midway up his right foreleg, spiraling up into the bright orange-centered red hemerocallis on his breast and surrounded by flames that reached to each of his shoulders). It was time to become a man, one with an actual purpose, and Sim had been more than excited to do so when Scorch had approached him with her proposal to rule alongside Errant in the Tundra. But then he'd had time to think. To mull it all over. And his trek to the meeting among the brothers had been his coming clean about the plan- setting an honest front. He had stood before them all and acknowledged that he wasn't ready for such a position, and did not want anything to be simply given to him when it should be earned. The brothers had agreed to let him stay, to work his way up from the bottom, as was how it should be. Errant said he would train the young man.

But could he do it?

Every day, Simeon felt the pull deep inside of him to return to the jungle, return to his family (one that was growing every season, though he doesn't know that yet, gah Scorch). His father had returned home to them only just before Sim's initiation, which had been a major part of his decision to swear the oath. And so soon, he'd been sent to live in the Ice and snow. As aforementioned, the passionate stallion is never one to complain. He'd been anxious to step up for once and do this thing for her, in hopes of making her proud and yes, a little to feel important. How foolish, he thinks to himself. But how selfish and cowardly would he appear if he went to Errant and reneged? Certainly all the brothers would view him weak if he did what he was thinking of doing. A fact that simply would not do as a Scortoni son. And yet, he admits to himself here and now that he is not ready to wear a crown. Does not want such a burden. Is he really meant to lead? Could he make those heavy decisions a king must make in the name of his own? Life is short, and Sim is still so young. All he wants to do is be himself, not torn between what he should do and what he could be. Sure he could do anything, and probably should shove all these doubts and desires behind him and rise to the challenge. But deep in his heart, in his soul, he knows. It isn't what he wants.

Inhaling deep the scents of spring and warmth, Sim exhales on a sigh, his expression hooded. What kind of man was he to be?

[Cerva]

the game is not played alone.

life has a hopeful undertone.

Although she doesn’t have the burden of a crown hanging over her delicate head, she has her own sort of pressures. She is pressured to stay in hidden a doe among wolves. She is pressured to keep her ivy strands closed tight around her like a protective armor. She is pressure to put on the masquerade of intimidation and darkness in order to keep her truths securely fastened in hiding.

It gives her plenty to think about and it tires her out rather efficiently, but thankfully there are places outside of the Valley where she can put away the mask and relieve her acting skills. She travels to the meadow, now – slender legs dancing across the ground in long steps – and as she gets further from her home she begins to slide into a state of ease. She breathes easier and her muscles relax slowly, bright intense green eyes glancing around the area with a carefree look. She doesn’t have to hide, here (unless another Valley member is spotted, in which she transforms back into the doe hiding beneath the wolf’s skin) and it sets her mind at ease.

The meadow, having recently become one of her more favorite places to spend daytime hours, isn’t too busy; in fact, it’s during the afternoon lulling hours that she enjoys it the most. There’s a sleepy sort of veil that falls across the gathering place, transforming the usual loud and teeming waters into drowsy shallows. Foals will return from playing with their newfound friends to collapse at their mother’s heels and fall into a sun-induced nap while their parents watch over their children carefully. The few wandering loners doze calmly in the shadow of a sparse tree and a few childhood friends grown adults chat quietly in the corner.

She’s an awkward mixture of filly and mare, a hastily-thrown together combination of growing limbs and childish lines turning curvy and feminine. Her delicate face contains hints of childhood and yet also shows the grooves and slopes of maturity. Nonetheless, the very real fact is that she is turning into quite the pretty thing, although she doesn’t know it herself. She cannot, however, stop the fact that she senses the gazes of colts her age, their young eyes grasping the growing figure of her body and yet not understanding exactly what causes them to stare. It makes her skin itch, but she forces her brilliant eyes to turn toward them until they look away in immature shyness.

Seeking shelter away from the avid eyes, the doe turns toward a tree where another stallion is resting, although he’s a number of years older than her. It makes her feel a tad safer from the young colts (she knows she can hold her own, but the muscle of another man reminds her of her father and the red splashed ‘uncle’ that always seems to hang around them with carefully protective eyes) but the doe still hopes he won’t be disturbed or angry with her presence.

Settling down, bright green eyes glance toward him. Shyly, she says, “I hope I’m not bothering you… My name’s Cerva.”

cerva

eight & noori