"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
Trees surround me; I feel as if the Dale has swallowed me whole. My body is enwrapped in her center—I have certainly made it far without discovery. Of course, I could have border patrol on me now, following me but hesitant due to my familiar scent that lingers every so often with a light breeze. I smell, for the most part, like a mixture of my parents. Which, of course, I am.
I don’t know why I come now, of all times. Maybe it is to see how he, my father, is doing. Or maybe it is to see how the kingdom itself has done (without me). An unloyal child I am, a boy who would have rather played with the pretty fillies in the Jungle than dedicated himself fully to a kingdom. Foolish child I was.
Foolish man I am now.
The sky is a hazy shade of grey’s and blues, and an uneasy draft tickles the tips of my skin. My stomach is twisting in knots of anticipation and yet fear all at the same time. What am I to expect? Who will I see?
Will I retreat back into hiding, or stay for once, in front of the blackness, and be what I was born to be?
It takes me too long to reach her heart and soul, and when I finally due I come to realize the scent of my father no longer lingers in the thin needles of her bitter pines. He has gone, and I have failed. I didn’t assist him down from the throne, offer my support in his absence, or step up to the plate.
Mother is disappointed, I can feel that already.
So now all I can do is wait. Wait for someone to come to my presence—who will most likely, by the way, be infuriated with my prude intrusion. They will accuse me of poor manners, become defensive of their kingdom, and who am I to argue? I did this. I expected things to never change while I did nothing in the back drop.
Now, finally ready to do something and everything has slipped from my grasp.
08-11-2015, 04:11 PM (This post was last modified: 08-11-2015, 05:04 PM by Weir.)
HOCKETY, POCKETY, WOCKETY, WACK
Had the sky overcast so much back home? Had the clouds, the collection of water vapors, sported such burned edges?
Sometimes Weir couldn’t remember what home was like, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. The Dale had taken a special place in his life, and the beautiful Camrynn, the Desert Queen, she had snared his heart. But home, sometimes he missed it, the familiar faces. Gathering together on a winter night to share the heat of one’s own furnace. There was little and less of that in the Dale, but he was determined to make that change. He couldn’t give up on the little kingdom, couldn’t release the pull that had brought him here. Enough of fruitless, downtrodden thoughts though.
Thunderheads loomed, threatening to break, to spill to the earth their burden of moisture. Weir followed closely a box tortoise, a perfectly pristine male. His shell domed up and around at the most appealing curve, and his orange eyes were bright and intelligent. They both speed over the meadow, a lethargic crawl, Weir rarely ran anywhere. In fact, he hardly was caught going for more than a steady stroll. Herman, as he liked to call the turtle, was strutting just ahead. He didn’t seem to mind the roan’s curious nature, his unusual desire to inspect him and the other turtles closely. Too closely for most, after all, it was quite scary to have such a large head by your very small body.
“You know Herman, back home it didn’t call for rain nearly as much.” He spoke almost absentmindedly to the shelled creature. His amber eyes sweeping up from the terrain and falling over another horse not far off. Weir, ever the optimist, made a b line for the unknown. There was no room to be spooked, the good natured stag approaching so slowly. Carefully, purposefully, but slowly all the same. Herman continued on his way, not even looking back, probably pleased to be free of Weir's chatter. “Hello there young fellow, I’ll say, I am clean now as I’ve ever been.” An indirect comment on the weather, his brow creasing. “How many times I shall be required to bathe I do not know,” his russet head lifts towards the heavens questioningly before dipping again. Amber orbs falling to the boys feet, auds swiveling forward with interest. He adjusts his neck, leaning down to peer closely at the archs of electricity, his muzzle threatening to become much too close for safety.
As the storm-grey stallion stands, mimicking the sky above, he muses on all of it. His face is drawn and pensive as he looks out across the Dale, his eyes dipping into the creases of the hills and tracing the tree-line beyond. Few horses break his line of sight. Too few, he thinks, the corners of his mouth dropping into a grimace. He is responsible for filling his kingdom and keeping its members safe and happy. He is responsible for the lot of them, and right now, it’s too easy of a task. Of course, what he isn’t responsible for is fulfilling the obligations of others.
The Amazon princess had finally made her appearance several days ago, still smelling like exotic flowers and rich earth – proving that she had stayed in the place of her birth far longer than she was supposed to. But Dalten hadn’t been with her. That brother was still as elusive as ever, despite Ramiel’s interest in meeting another sibling. They are grown men now and still total strangers. It’s an uncomfortable truth that makes the grey stallion unsure what expectations Dalten will hold, if he ever shows. He wants to ask his father for guidance on the matter (after all, it had been Tiphon’s deal in the first place) but even their angel has taken a leave of absence.
From the corner of his eye, he sees a slow-crawl movement. Ramiel turns, bemused when he sees Weir tracking something close to the ground. He can’t see what it is from this distance, and wanting to escape his trouble thoughts (because Weir is always good for both sage wisdom and a laugh) he makes his way over to the roan. He doesn’t make it far before he sees another closing in on the center of the Dale. The stranger looks vaguely familiar – like Ramiel’s own reflection, he realizes later – but he follows Weir and his turtle friend (for a short distance) to the man’s side.
The magic-manipulator greets the grey stallion first, in his unique way. He comments on the weather and his own hygiene, and Ramiel grins at the other. Electricity sparks at the grey’s feet, a preview of the storm that will surely befall them any moment – a riotous welcome for the new comer. The young king doesn’t need to ask who he is. Their similarities are written in the lines of their faces and conformation. “Dalten,” he says, his grin falling into an easier smile. He wonders if his brother will stay; he will never replace Joscelin, but maybe he will fill the hole of her loss to the Jungle. “I’m Ramiel, and this is Weir,” he indicates the roan stallion with a tilt of his head. “Welcome to the Dale.”
