"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
She is weary. Long days of travel have slowly robbed her of stamina until the fire in her eyes became more of a spark, the haughty toss of her head more of an acknowledging flick. Her pace is no longer rushed, eager, adventuresome - a slow plod takes her into the field. Her head is not down, (Xocolatl is still too young, too full of pride for mere exhaustion to prompt that), but the nod of her head is sleepy, and her eyes less than alert. Rest, her body whispers to her.
Fine. Rest.
The field holds other horses in it, some of the first ones she's seen in her days of travel, and though she can find no urge to join any of their conversations, the feeling is peaceful. Perhaps her lack of sleep has tricked her into a tired sort of complacency, but she senses no danger from the land.
Her legs ache, urging her to halt. She chooses to pause under the shade of a small tree, still sweaty from her journey and seeking reprieve from the late summer sun. It's truly a beautiful place, this field. The bright sunny colors of the valley clash vibrantly with its pockets of shade, and even with autumn approaching, the area hums with life.
Still, the dusty trails have worn her down, and the sun dapples her bay coat with spots of heat through the leaves of the tree above her, and slowly, slowly, her eyes begin to close.
His herd was quickly begining to settle in now. As fidgety as the mares were they seemed to be learning to enjoy themselves. And he himself. The herd as a whole was small, and slow in its prosperity, but he couldn't complain. After all it was his own fault that that had occured.
Now working with the kingdom had been even slower than working with his herd. No one seemed to take a interest in the Dale's lifestyle. He couldn't understand why. It was peaceful, a good solid place. Not much happened, and even less unstability. Taking flight once more. His black wings carry him over the plains, and battle grounds. A few creeks and rivers flowing under him. His coat sleek with the workout. It always felt good to be able to get out and move about.
Its not long before the sun glints off a hide. And he dips training his chocolate eyes towards the speck below. Turning and twisting his wings guide the air flow so that he cuts through the sky in a circle. Spiraling down to the earthy ground. Hooves kiss the grasses and wings flap and bend keeping him stable until he is solid on his feet. Dipping his head his mane and tail flash their blue as it whips against the black coat.
Walking up to the mare he slides his wing around her barrel with a coy smirk. Hi, I'm Phaedrus His confidence had been growing as of late and his shy quiet disposition was almost completely gone. running his maw along her neck he offers her a little bit of space so that she could back away from him if she so wanted to. but should she, then she would notice the angry red scars of the spiked neck that he had laid on in the war. Something that he didn't flash around willingly. Though his wing was healing up nicely it still was sore, and very much limp on her barrel.
The first thing that pierces her awareness is the strange whoosh of air that accompanies the intruder. Blame her dozing, but before Xocolatl can gather herself to move, she finds a wing wrapped around her like a stranger flirting at a sleazy bar. Her head jerks, and she lets out a snort of surprise – and not just at the sudden contact. In the Andalusian’s experience, wings have always belonged firmly on birds.
She is utterly bewildered. So much so that the flash of blue on the stallion’s mane and tail hardly register, let alone the red of his scars, visible as she shuffles backward.
“Ph- ph- phaedrus,” she repeats, rendered doltish in her shock.
But she is young, still new to the ways of the world, and the possessive touch of the stallion riles her enough to move forward.
The weariness of her body is lost behind her sudden spike of adrenaline, and when she drags her eyes away from the wings, her head rises to meet the stallion’s gaze proudly.
“My name is Xocolatl. I suppose you’re making a claim on me?”
She knows enough about the world to think that, at least.
She comes from lush emerald brush and emerges with a thick scent of musk. Her neck is accessorized with a thick python, painted in pale yellow and white strokes, his head resting gracefully on her thick smooth wither.
The heat of the afternoon christens her back, not quite as hot as her usual climate but warm for the deteriorating fall season. The air is littered with scents of men and women whisking together to make a rather distasteful batter. The season of children-making disgusts our python shifter, she despises the entire principle.
Oh, well. More children for meal purposes, yes?
The field is a place she hardly enjoys—fake smiles, pretty ponies, polite speeches—it all molds together in her ears as bullshit. Smother has never been skilled at pretending, not unless she truly needed something and then—only then—would she deal the cards. And once the hand had been played and the cards of manipulation dealt, then all bets were off. Smother could only play nice with rats for so long.
Had the female not been approached by a male prior, Smother would have payed no mind. Contrary to her signing her allegiance to the jungle, she truly isn’t a fan of voluntarily speaking with women. Her talent lied with men, whom in comparison were like dealing with rabbits instead of lions. Give a woman a piece of meat and they question the quality of their meal. Give a rabbit a carrot covered in rat poison and watch the men graciously devour their treat.
She is a bay, much like Smother despite her vibrant white splashes. He, the greeter and most likely recruiter, is a black and blue trophy. The smell of foreign equine wakes Turkish from his slumber, newcomers always did.
Fresh meat?
Hungry already, Turkish?
Not for recruits. But perhaps we can stop and get some food on the way.
Rabbit it is.
Their telepathic way of communication has most likely saved them from millions of uncomfortable or detrimental situations. He had a way of scaring strangers, his powerful twelve foot body numerously wrapped around her like a fashionable scarf. His reptile like scent littering their nostrils, and sending prey-like alarms vibrating through their sensors.
“Well aren’t you lucky that I came to your rescue, and now it is impossible for him to claim you without going through me,” her voice is evidently strong, with an air like effortlessness that was closer compared to a harp than a flute. “We don’t claim here, we are more of a modern set world. You get to pick your poison.”
She eyes up the female, watching her briefly how easily the mare had given. It worries Smother, the worlds outside of Beqanna that treat their females with such disregard. This one, she has so much to learn, but yet the strength in how she pulled herself together is why Smother still stands here intrigued.
“I am a mare of the jungle. The Jungle is a place of strength, loyalty, and sisterhood. We are all females there, we have long since abandoned the idea of being ‘claimed’ or ‘taken’,” her eyes meet the mares momentarily before finishing, “if you long for a kingdom that allows you to set your destiny, and one that provides the loyalty to get you to where you want to be, then the Amazon sisters would be a fitting choice.
However, should you long for another form of poison, by all means I am not one to force you on anything.” She shifts her stance, a flash of her Amazon-awarded tattoo placed prominently on her chest shows briefly.
The swords are placed strongly starting from the top of her leg building to the side of her neck. Two elegant pythons are looped and winded intricately around the blades. It resembles so much of her, yet shows traits Smother has yet to discover.
Claiming? It was such an absurd thought to the male that he can’t help but take a step back in surprise. Just recruiting, the black draft grunts. He takes a bow as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Another approaches offering a confirmation of his statement. Nodding to the ladies with a quick smile he takes a step back respecting the ladies wish for separation. Also pausing to allow Smother to give her speech. He could wait, he had time, always would have time. I am from the Dale. His herd while lacking strength, but this was not his primary concern at the moment. No his kingdom needed his attention. While they lacked numbers, he was determined to be of use and remedy this quickly. Though the likelihood of him succeeding is slim to none. He was always a disappointment and probably would remain so for the majority of his life. His little spirit friend was off tramping around somewhere. Somewhere far away from here. A wanderer as he is, his mind could never stay in one place long, neither could his spirit.
They barely knew each other, probably a result of his lack of enthusiasm over the relationship with himself as a separate entity as well as in his own skin. He couldn’t even make out what the spirits form was. Right now to his eyes it was more of a blob of smoke than anything else. He was a man of few words and even fewer judgements upon others. To himself he was a failure, that was what he was and that was what he would remain. Maybe one day he could figure out how to remedy that. For now though, him and his wandering spirit would stand quietly by and wait for the onslaught of insults and rejection. He would bare it as any good soldier, but there would be no room for error in his mind.
As soon as the snakes and bay coated lady had arrived he is more than sure that he has lost this. Maybe it was self-punishment keeping himself standing here regardless. Maybe a meager little piece of himself hoped that he could help his kingdom. Though he highly doubted it. If there is anything I can assist you ladies with, just ask. His blue mane and tail hung in rejection. His face solid in the soldier’s stance. Failure the blob whispered to his mind. Remember Mimicry? Why would anyone desire you?
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