"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
if all this falls apart, he will never know what you are
She’s as capricious as ever, and in the next moment she changes her mind and herself.
Now, she’s the mosaic of fall. All the reds and oranges and everything in between wash over her coat, like that of a tree readying itself for winter. He likes the touch of gold she puts in her hair, so much so that he reaches out to brush it firmly with his muzzle when it appears. She looks afire – it’s a fitting look for the finicky mage.
Camouflage indeed, he thinks, as she begins her work on him. There will be no mistaking them for foreigners on their visit to Sylva (even if that’s exactly what they are). Walter has heard about the kingdom even if he’s never been. He knows all about the eternal autumn that exists in their neighbor to the south. It sounds dreadfully boring to him, a land that is constant and stale in its aesthetic. But he supposes the same could be said for the grey, chilly Nerinian shores. At least they have the ocean, though. There is nothing static about that.
He feels the branches pressing along his neckline. He feels, too, the exact moment when his wings begin to change. His feathers seem to melt into the gold and red leather, a strange sensation that sends tingles along his spine. New scars itch for only a second as they appear along his golden skin. A new smell permeates his pores, one similar to the dark forest of the Chamber but not the same. He can’t place it. But it’s a nice touch, a good cover. The whole process is bizarre but he’s too excited for their adventure to care overmuch. Also, he’s supremely thankful she hadn’t turned him into a gnat.
“Absolutely,” he says in response to her eager grin, though it sounds more like absssooluuuuutely as Djinni has already spirited them away.
He’s only finishes saying it in the next heartbeat. By that time, they’ve arrived.
“I really appreciate all the time you gave me to prepare for that,” he says, eyeing the genie pointedly. Or trying to, really, as there seemed to be three Djinni’s staring back at him as the world spun too quickly. “You know I have a tender constitution.” He grins crookedly back at her as everything comes back into focus. “So this is it.” The trees are awash in all the colors that she’s painted herself. It is beautiful, and he takes a step forward to take it all in. “This is your Sylva?”
and he will never know why the sun in my eyes burns like her
She has never loved a land in the same way that Walter had. If asked, her favorite kingdom would have been the Chamber, but that is not due to any loyalty or devotion on the genie's part for the realm itself. Rather, that place holds most of her memories with Walter. Soon, she supposes, her memories with him in Nerine will outnumber those in the Chamber.
The thought brings a smile to her face, and she reaches out to presses a soft kiss to the bridge of Walter's nose. Wishing away his discomfort is nearly unconscious. It is so easy to feel the magic here, so much easier than it had been in Nerine. So much of her power has seeped into the earth of these golden woods that she can feel it even in the trees, their hungry roots having pulled the arcane from the soil along with the water.
'This is your Sylva' he asks, and Djinni nods.
“Autumn is not the best time to visit.” The genie tells him, pivoting on her hind legs so that she can stand beside him. She sidles closer in a way that has become habit, giving him a moment to adjust his (usually) feathered wing and tuck her in beside him. “Spring is better. I like the bluebells.”
Ahead of them, the fiery forest floor has become spring-green, the lively growth of plants covering the fallen leaves entirely. A riot of flowers has emerged: golden daffodils, pink-hearted clovers, violets, primroses, and her favorite: the tiny little bluebells. This would not look out of place in the spring in any other woodland, yet the canopy overhead bathes them in a unnaturally natural amber glow.
“See?” She asks rhetorically, because of course he will. The yellow light around them is tangible evidence of magic, of the way it weaves through every fiber of their world. Djinni had forgotten this, for a while, and as she turns to Walter, she realizes that he had known this. Her brown eyes find his, and for a long moment she just looks at him with a fond smile on her flaming lips.
He has always known her best. Better even than she does, the genie knows, and it is a strange thing to admit. It gives him power, but she has found that even a burden might be pleasurable if the load is shared. The genie had not been a good mother the first time, and perhaps even worse the second, and truly terrible the third. Only with Rivka has she tried - really tried. That, she knows, is because Walter was there for every moment, watching after and taking half of the weight she'd always assumed was hers alone.
“I love you,” she tells Walter. This is perhaps not the ideal time for such admissions; they are in enemy territory after all, surrounded by any number of watchful eyes. Djinni has never lacked in self-confidence though, and she doubts there is anyone fit to challenge her in these woods. Not anymore.
Yes, I’ve seen it before.
Stared it right in the face and acknowledged it for what it was, then gave it the tip of my head and left it alone. Always, always, always they seem to root it out from hiding, whether they intend to or not and, once rooted and spoiled, it turns to poison in their bowels. Turns into a baby, that is. And where do babies come from? I wonder, happening upon the pair quite suddenly because these days, my steps and where they wander aren’t entirely of my own choice.
I hadn’t meant to spoil their precious silence or take the breath out of a whispered promise they’ll surely break, but sickness bows to no mortal and it rattles up my pitch-black throat. I expectorate out into the unnatural springtime growth, hocking a pure glob of bloody spittle onto the ground where it leaves a stain so beautiful I can’t help but change my coat and wear the color myself.
I’d always looked best in crimson.
“You two don’t belong here.” I know, matter-of-fact. There’s not a single iota of worry, fear, or anger at knowing this, however. It’s just that I highly doubt what I’ve said will be denied by any of the present party. “Not very polite of you, not very polite at. all.” I accentuate, looking between them. One is a canary, and I am a cat. The other is a rose, and I am a thorn. We don’t belong together at all, but this world (and I bargain many others, after what I’ve seen) always finds a way to house the cobra and the hen together.
“I love me some love too, you know.” Erupts from my blood-stained lips, blended along and hidden now that I’m covered in luscious red. What used to be a capricious grin only seems a hair sinister these days, since a nice pair of matching fangs expose themselves with the expression.
Maybe it’s the poison I know is rooted deep inside of me, but for some reason I just can’t help myself today. “Don’t mind a little sharing myself, either.” I quip, and then the red is gone in a flash -warning, warning, warning- replaced by a yellow coat like her mates, poached white mane and tail to match. It’s a bit funny, I suppose. Would be funnier if there were more eyes in attendance, I think.
Wanna step to me better think twice, 'cause I look pretty but I ain't that nice
@[Djinni] @[Walter] Feel free to poof her away or whatever
