"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
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
Bruise does not waste time after the meeting to take his leave of the kingdom.
He is not particularly motivated (he does not hunger for the results of his sweat and blood but for the results of the art he crafts), but he is loyal to his Krampus-father. And, more than that, he is agonizingly curious for what lies upon the coast just north of where he lives. He has, of course, heard stories about the women (and men, although he supposes one can hardly call the lapdogs such). He has heard about how they once lived within the belly of the Jungle, how they are Amazons, warriors—fierce, fearsome things.
His belly twists in excitement as he makes his way toward their border, an unnatural speed making the journey an altogether short one. As he reaches where he supposes their land begins (the gray of Pangea having long removed from his coat, the ground turning hard and even lush), he comes to a walk and then a stop. Although he keeps his finger on the pulse of the Fear, although he can practically feel it dance around them in anticipation, he does not yet call upon it. Instead, he leaves it out, pacing at the door.
Carefully, he washes his features clean, the handsome angles of his sooty face turning pleasant, his heavy horned head twisting to the side—the picture of innocent curiosity. For those who did not know him, he looks simply like a stallion come to call upon the Amazons: polite, respectful.
It is only in the pit of his belly that one would find the hunger—
Find the gnashing of teeth and the ache.
This he keeps under lock and key, smiling calmly as he waits for whoever is to find him here.
Nayl notices how he bathes himself in the river, rinsing himself of sins and lies. She thinks nothing of it at first, disregarding him as just another aimless wanderer that’s hopping between Nerine and Pangea. The motion had forcefully grabbed her attention, but the distance dividing them subdues the urge to initially investigate. With the lapping of ocean waves down below and the cries of seagulls above, she can almost blot out his presence, but it’s when he lingers that her eyes find him again. He doesn’t leave after having cleansed himself, his attention groping madly at Nerine. Surprisingly, he doesn’t plunge past their invisible border; all the boundaries are still so new and uncertain, she often reminds herself.
Another breath, a pause in time, and she still watches him.
He is waiting and she finally obliges after a farewell glance to the ocean’s tide for now. It croons to her as it laps at the sand, but she has already turned away and begun toward the border where the stallion lies in wait.
When she arrives, her coat thickened slightly by the seasonal change into winter, her attention immediately glides along the curve of his horns then down along the edges of his face to his eyes. Nayl doesn’t yet smile, her expression hardened like the granite that comprises Nerine’s cliffs. She acknowledges him, of course, with a slight dip of her head while drinking in his scent. But it isn’t his smell that triggers a reminder in her thoughts. It’s the cloven hooves and the dark air about him that clutches tightly to a brief memory. ”You’re Pollock’s son,” the assumption is a fairly blind one, knowing only of Pangea’s leader and not of his kin. It doesn’t halt the progression of their conversation, however, as she settles herself easily enough in front of him, secure in her frigidity. ”The name’s Nayl, and who are you?” In honesty, she has been waiting for the other lands to send their envoys to explore, but she would be surprised to hear how late after her own travels that the rest of the world is following in suit.
As is her habit, she is keeping watch. Not in the traditional sense, but she has eyes everywhere. Quite literally. And this particular stallion, well, he is of great interest to her. So she is aware almost immediately when he approaches the borders of her new home.
She waits for him to pass. Pangea is not so far away that it would be entirely unlikely he might pass this direction as he moves on elsewhere. But when he doesn't move on, when he lingers at their borders, several terrible emotions well within her.
She contemplates briefly not approaching him. She is not yet ready for the showdown she knows is coming, but it is not an opportunity she can allow to pass by.
But she does not come as herself. At least not to him. Nayl, who has already greeted him, would see her as she truly is. She has no need to meddle with her sight. But Bruise would see something entirely different. A hulking beast with spiny ridges marching down its back, long talons that kneed the sand and needle-like teeth filling a mouth that occasionally drools saliva. The black skin is thick and leathery, the yellow eyes small and fierce.
The form is not true, of course, but it would appear true enough to him.
It is a test of sorts, perhaps a cliched one, but she wishes to see his reaction. Alternately, there are plenty of cliffs around here. She could always change the landscape he sees and, er, help him off of one. Unlikely to be fatal, but it would certainly get her point across.
”Bruise.” The name is hissed in response to Nayl’s question. Nayl would see her true face, lips pressed into a thin, hard line and eyes filled with a chilly ferocity. Bruise would only see the word dripping from the lipless mouth of that monstrous creature. The voice is hers, a fact she could do nothing about, but she had never uttered his name before, not even to him. And she is equally glad she had never told him her name.
It is not a guise meant to last, only one meant to elicit a response. And his response would tell her all she needed to know.
heartfire
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
She comes and his attention is drawn to her, to the hardness she wears like armor, to the sharpness of her eyes. She is beautiful, he thinks, but only in the ways that he imagines breaking her apart; only in the ways that he imagines her splintering out, the fear clawing at her throat. What would she look like when the Fear gripped her? Would she cower? Would she rage? He felt a tightening in his belly at the thought of it, but he keeps it from his features, his handsome face neutral—friendly even.
“Astute,” he muses, although he does not suppose that she is. Anyone who has seen his goat father would understand that like response in like; he is a shade darker than his father, the coal claiming the pieces of him where the ivory touches his father, but there is no mistaking Bruise for anything but the young Krampus that he is. The thought pleases him. “Queen Nayl, is it then?” For as blind as he was to most of Beqanna’s political bores, he at least knew the names of the rulers. “My name is Bruise.”
It is then that things get interesting—
Very interesting.
His head tilts to the side as he considers the approaching beast, hulking and menacing, and if he could raise an eyebrow, he would. Instead, he purses his lips, musing upon the strange guardian he can only assume that Nayl has conjured. Fear, he does not feel. It is a tamed prison inside his chest and instead he only studies the animal, wondering if she always greets envoys with such overblown fashion.
But then the voice hisses through the air, and his face splits into a grin.
“Ah, little dove,” his flat eyes spark with interest, with intrigue. They could have had fun, couldn’t they? It was a shame that she had eventually run away; it was a shame they had cut their time short. “I have missed you,” he says with a wide smile, as crocodile as his father. For a moment, he sends out the tendrils of his Fear, lets the terror of it race up her spine—a memory he is all too willing to stoke, even as he stands there staring at the open jaws of the predator. His attention turns back to Nayl, his face amused.
“I currently serve as Prince of Pangea. I am simply coming on a,” his eyes flick back to the mare whose name he does not know, grin widening, “friendly visit.”
