"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
10-18-2016, 03:12 PM (This post was last modified: 10-18-2016, 03:14 PM by Valdis.)
Victarian hadn’t been a part of the scramble. From afar he had watched the world explode into chaos and disarray. It was tempting at one point to be a part of it, but then the allure died away and he became comfortable in his silence. He had no rush to find a home, no fear of having lost his prowess.
A laugh had slipped past his lips when he saw the magicians grimace and squander when pieces of their souls had been seeped from their bones. They need powers to make them strong; he doesn’t. The magicians think they are superior, but they aren’t. Here they are, reduced to normalcy – faced with being everything they weren’t before. Somehow it brought a rush of satisfaction, of comfort, to see the magicians so unhappy and so angry at their reduction.
They’re trying to win pieces of themselves back all the while Victarian comfortably strolls with no rush or urgency. He roams aimlessly and experiences s musings of a nomad. It’s as though his legs are uncontrolled, taking him across vast miles without his realizing where he had really been. The only time he takes pause is when he is confronted by towering trees much like a palisade. The sunlight is dappled, barely reaching the forest floor. Quietly he observes how the branches sway with a strong breeze and how a deer and fawn placidly walk across a newly-found trail. It’s peaceful here, but he isn’t quite sure where ‘here’ is.
Lurching back into motion Victarian wanders deeper into this new world with increasing curiosity. It’s just another forest, he assumes, without seeming an end. His legs are robotic in how they never plan to stop until a mare grasps his attention. She breaks the scenery just by being there, standing sentinel. With hushed footsteps he approaches until their bodies are fairly close, their eyes meeting for the first time. ”What is this place?” He doesn’t know these new herdlands, or even really the old ones, and so he hungrily waits for the flow of information whilst his eyes rove across her.
Victarian
just because we check the guns at the door doesn't mean our brains will change from hand grenades
BETTER BEWARE, I GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT DEVIL-MAY-CARE WITH A LUST FOR LIFE
The weight of responsibility was heavy on her shoulders and it made her head feel heavier than it use to. The bay and salmon woman tossed around the idea of how to shape this new colony, to make the small group of horses content with Sylva and to not let the memory of Kreios fade away. In the depths of her chest, the ache is still sharp and angry. The mare had no idea of knowing that the spotted king was gone (whether is was his will or not) but she was angry that he had left.
Time to time, Ygritte consideres the notion of fleeing her commitments. Perhaps she should just flee the constraints that chained her to this land and allow another to take the burden. Perhaps her daughter Marlyn. A swift but small jerk sends the idea away as she is not ready for her child to bear it. The spotted youth was not ready by any means.
It is the scent of another that draws her away from her thoughts. At first the routine smile touches her lips, her eyes softening, and just as she is about to toss forth a call...a black and white stallion makes his way towards her. Ygritte can not be at least be a bit stunned to see such a loudly marked creatures. "Well hello there." The sound of her voice is high and lifting with it's feminine tones. A small laugh floats from between parted lips as she finds a standing point amongst the ferns and molting leaves. Amber pools take a moment to look him over as he approaches with the most curious expression.
"This is Sylva-" The woman speaks affectionately as she turns an eye to her home then back to the crimson and black stallion. "and I'm Ygritte." She smiles at him still as his interest and enthusiasm is rather infectious.
She is but a long creature in the vast forest. Only a few members remained in the land. Some had left, others drifted like paper sail boats on the tide. The mare worries for her small band for she is without traits (unlike most horses remaining in the world) and quite frankly, she is the only leader absent of any nifty tricks but it still worries her nonetheless. A keen eye watches the other for any sort of misjudged observations of motives for entering Sylva but when she is satisfied with her inspection, she relaxes. "What's your name?"
She smiles at him as he approaches and closes the distance between them. Her body heat fans across him and he is able to decipher so much from that tide of scent as it floods into his nostrils with a single breath. The deciduous trees have already laid their claim on her, but there are remnants of the meadow clinging to her skin. There are males and females alike that she has been near, seeking comfort in her herd and friends. Victarian inches nearer, drawn to her, and glides his muzzle down the length of her neck. Autumn is thickening her coat, but her skin is still not entirely buried beneath her seasonal coat. They touch and although it’s brief it sends his mind reeling as he takes a step backward.
His scarlet eyes meet hers but quickly flicker to the birch trees scattered throughout the forest. ”Sylva,” he murmurs curiously with a thoughtful expression. He then glances toward the mountain ridge just nearby, shadowing parts of the land. It’s where the magic lies, he has heard, but never intends to investigate. He has no interest in the alterations of his body, of having an ounce of magic in his blood. That’s when his attention funnels back to Ygritte just as her name amiably coats her lips. ”Victarian,” he says when prompted. It’s strange to say his name; his has spent a majority of his life in solitude, content by keeping to himself. His voice is raw, neglected for months. His eyes, however, are alight with curiosity even as they are veiled behind an obsidian forelock. ”How affected were you by Beqanna’s renewal?” Had she had a perfect life that came tumbling down as quickly as the mountain peaks?
Victarian is one of the few that it barely touched. His life continued, aimless and lawless. He had no ties to anyone or anything. It spared him from the sense of loss and defeat. It spared him of being lost in his own home.
Victarian
just because we check the guns at the door doesn't mean our brains will change from hand grenades
Ygritte
