"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
He hardly notices the flash of light; in fact he passes overtop it, content to ignore whatever lingered in Sylva’s claw-like shadows beneath a crimson and gold cover.
Could’ve been nothing. Could’ve been anything, really.
And yet, Wolfbane is somehow mindlessly circling around to coast over the same spot once more, lower. “There it is…” He notes, a flare of shimmering teal sticking out sorely from the honey-crisp tones surrounding it and though he’s loath to push aside his current plans for a mystery, curiosity nabs him and brings him down to earth.
Sylva was never a welcoming place for Bane, not because of the inhabitants or reputation, but because the snarling twigs and grasping roots of her woods made his journey inwards a difficult ordeal. He could squeeze both wings against his ribs, tread carefully and glance through endless rows of similar-looking trees only to be confronted again and again with the blatant truth that horses built in his shape were meant for open plains.
He sighs through fangs, circling on foot past a familiar-looking landmark without successfully avoiding a half submerged rock, cursing “Oh for fucks sake.” in a clenched hiss. Doubts (several of them) begin to arise over the futility of this particular adventure until he stops, dead silent, head and eyes snapping into a rigorous stillness.
Perhaps if he waited the answer might reveal itself.
10-05-2018, 11:42 AM (This post was last modified: 10-05-2018, 11:43 AM by Celest.)
The forest had absorbed her like a foreign body squeezed below flesh; she had found her nook in a pace she didn't belong. Her coat clashed with the fiery hues of the forest, she had witnessed a murder and rape. Yet, she had known nothing else, and she didn't question it. Despite her ability to see into the future, she couldn't see past the confines of this misty wood. The ever-changing mass of them left her alone, and she left them alone.
But it seemed like whatever magic had kept her metaphorically invisible for the last few years was wearing off.
Celest could run from him, it wasn't like the pegasus hadn't given her plenty of time to escape, but recently running had begun to feel more and more like a failure. So she lingers, she had always too proud, simply waiting as he ambles closer and closer.
She spots the stranger, tripping and cursing like a low-level diplomat lost in the woods, and a critical gaze runs over his gaudy pelt. Yet her body remains still. It would be easy to suppose she had just woken from a nap had the hard glint in her amethyst eyes been not quite so intense.
"If you need help, just say it," she states. And something in her voice would warn a wise man that she won't hesitate to put a beam of light right between his eyes if he tried anything half as bad as what she had seen in this forest.
The moment he turns to view her, Wolfbane knows without verifying that this - she is what he’d been looking for. All the fumbling had produced nothing but a mare, clearly irate that he’d come to disturb her. She seems bitter, threatening even, but all the pegasus can see is heavily curtained fear with every syllable the stranger bites off her own tongue. It makes very little sense that her attempt at being helpful seems like a veiled threat.
He knows it would probably be wise to walk away, just take her in with slow-blinking eyes and leave her here without an answer to continue rotting in the copse of her secretive maze, but he only meets those witchy eyes squarely and moves towards her without a sound.
Part of him wonders what death would feel like, if true magic in the hands of a ‘Sylvian’ would strike him full of fear. The other half marvels at her bluff; the neon mare has no idea what he might be capable of himself.
Yet he continues forward, soundlessly challenging her levels of comfort simply to understand her breaking point, knowing that his own might outweigh hers even if he’s no true match for the violet-framed wisp. “Go ahead.” He boasts without words, remembering the taste of blood and the sound of his own flesh ripped asunder. Each step seems slower than the last, though now he’s mere feet from her.
He vanishes.
Just erases himself from existing, though faint footsteps give away the notion that he’s turned off course and gone elsewhere. “You don’t seem like the helpful type.” A low voice chides, possibly from behind her or possibly from beside her.
He looks her over as if he wasn't rotting at the same rate she was, as if he could just tell he was somehow superior.
Ah, but he probably is, she thinks without admiration as he disappears, and the rat will probably live forever too. But there isn't an ounce of jealousy in her selfish heart. These overpowered horses, she sighs inwardly, they are all sensitive children with the egos of gods deep down, and it didn't take too much to draw it out of this one.
"You think you know me just like that?" she asks the trees, in a tone that that is too honest to be real.
"You didn't look like the type to be so easily ruffled by a harsh glance," she lies, cause pretty boys usually were - too used to getting their own way with a toothy grin. Too used to everyone thinking they were hot shit. Pretty boys with small dicks, that was.
"Guess I was mistaken."
With a dense carpet of leaves and twigs, the mare who had spent most of her existence in this forest has a pretty good idea where he is, but she doesn't honor his trick with a sideways glance. Celest closes her eyes instead, features softening for the first time since their two minute interaction had begun, and drawing the false-autumn air over her tongue. Below her skin, the magic sings, and she suddenly realizes why trouble had been so easy to find recently.
oh, fuck, she loved this feeling.
Her sea-foam lids flash open again as the electric sensation grows, and she does her best to keep a stern face. The only sign of the light she suppresses is a shimmering iridescence at the back of her violet eyes.
Long ago, someone had shoved a rather pointy stick up this one’s rear end and to this day, it seems like she’s grown rather fond of that feeling. The hideaway mare is subtle as a cobra, silk covering daggers. As if her petty goading could hurt him, or as if by enticing him into anger, she might lead him to open what little reserve he had left for strangers. As his somewhat muffled feet take him in no particular direction, Wolfbane wonders where she’s learned such a defense mechanism from.
In his holding back she feels strong enough to spill more, a rancid slur of name-calling nearly convincing the Loessian that he’s come across an original inhabitant. Some were bound to be lurking of their own free will, unobservant to changes in titles or rulership. Maybe that’s why she seems so exaggerated over his coming here. Maybe he’s spoiled something by finding her out. “I assume you do that a lot.” He affirms, slipping unseen between the identical trunks, “Make mistakes.”
When she closes her eyes, he reappears. Bane still sees and faces her clearly, eye-to-eye, but a good distance between them has been reestablished. He looks far off, a much smaller version of himself framed between two upright columns of poplar. “You’re getting close to making one right now.” The brute concludes, watching her lids pop open again.
Revulsion coils in his gut at her overall expression of barbaric hostily. “So eager to destruct.”
When her violet eyes find him again his disgust in her is easy to read. But he's given up on his attempt to make her squirm, and that says something. Even if she isn't exactly sure what. So sorry to have disappointed you, pretty boy, she thinks as her brow rises in a mix of satisfaction and wonderment. If the sour look on his face is any hint to inner monologue, shes sure he's whipping up a storm of scathing observations.
"If you hate the sight of me so much, why do you hang around?" She asks with less hostility than before because, at this point, she's honestly curious. Maybe he really was someone's errand boy given the unfortunate task of rooting her up, or a distant relation with something to relay. But she thought there was little possibility of either of those ideas - they only surface because there is even less of a chance he still wanted to be here chatting with her, lingering just within speaking range as not to be soiled by a common Sylvan bitch.
"I'm sure a stallion like you has important matters to attend to."
The euphoric sensation of the light in her veins begins to fade, and her features lose their (metaphoric) glow, settling again into their normal, less-than-beautiful arrangement. Celest wonders if she should prod him for a second time just to see him bristle, to bait him again to feed her magic. But she stands her ground instead, just as she had for the last five years.
"Don't let me distract you." A dismissal or a generous release, he could decide.
There was never any joy in the game. Not this game, anyhow. The game of red and lies. Asking him a question she already knew the answer to gives him pause, however. Wolfbane ponders over whether it was the revulsion or the withdrawal that soothed her, and from where he stands only flicks a white tail in response to her assumption of his duties. “I’m looking for a murderer.” He speaks routinely, right on the heels of her flippant dismissal. The pegasus wants her to know he’d only been waiting for her overeager mouth to shut in order for him to finally get a word in edgewise.
He’s not interested in the bait, like she so clearly is.
“Or a mare.” He tells her in the same dry response. In the dead silence of the wood around them his sigh seems drawn and heavy, accentuating the crunch of his hooves when Bane moves forward again. The Lord has decidedly gotten what he wanted out of their … interaction, so the lack of steel in his gaze should insinuate to her there’ll be no parlor tricks this time. He’s more interested in the truth than measuring level headedness. “Are you called Jackel, by any chance?”
The drake stops. If she’s lying, he’ll never know the truth anyway, but something inside of him is honing questions over the whetstones of why she was hiding out here to begin with and if she knew anything she shouldn’t. Jackel or not, the teal mare’s appearance alone is reason enough for him to hang around.
10-19-2018, 04:28 PM (This post was last modified: 10-19-2018, 05:34 PM by Celest.)
He settles easy enough, although she has no doubt he would take her bait again if she offered it to him. Only moments ago he was growling threats from the false safety of three steps away, and she doesn't truly believe he is the picture of cool diplomacy quite yet.
But instead of the closing quip she had been expecting, he says something that does surprise her. Murders were a dime a dozen in these woods, but still, the term was an unusual one to hear.
Even she, unassuming as she was, had killed another of their kind. But was it really murder if he didn't stay dead? She's tempted ask, but she figures the stranger will see it as some kind of veiled threat and it would ruin their fragile truce.
He moves and she mirrors him, keeping the same amount of space between them as she circles right. Her own skills were just as useful regardless of the space between them, but he was still a mystery. She didn't feel like birthing any whelps. Ever. And from her limited experience that was really the only reason stallions closed in on mares they weren't too fond of.
"No," she answers with none of the mock honesty she had fostered a few minutes ago, cooperating for some unknown reason. "But she wouldn't be hard to find if that's really why you're here. Howl and she'll come running... likes to put her nose in stuff and has an eye for pretty things."
“And where’d the stones go?” He thinks, amused internally at the idea that a soft approach would balk her. Not-Jackel could have her space as much as it pleased her. Wolfbane was happy enough listening to the jewel-colored horse speak at the same distance, if she wanted to bring down a suspicion or two. Minutes ago anger had been clear and honest on her starry face and now, he wonders where it’s gone. Did she honestly prefer a threat? Or is it the unknown? Bane thought assuredly she’d had him pegged, all nailed down to a ”type” and “clever boy” but somehow this approach is too much.
The blue arch of his brow curves incredulously.
“Women.” He sums it up without speaking, two stark naked ears pricking forward in order to hear her out. “I told you why I was here.” The stallion rebuffs, as unamused by her prideful tack-on’s as he was entertained by her mock fear. “For a murderer or a mare. You’ve helped me get closer to one so for that, thank you.” He grinds out, reaching somewhere deep within his reserve of patience to stifle another throaty sigh. Through personal choice or by force, her seclusion seems more and more reasonable by the minute.
Might as well give her what she wants, since he’s gotten his as well. “Unless you specifically know who killed a mare named Krone or two Ischian princesses here, then I suppose we’re done.” The drake smiles, just a whisper of a thing to otherwise brighten his expression. “As charming as it’s been …” he considers in afterthought, quietly holding his stance for what he assumes is going to be a riveting way of her saying ‘no’.
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