"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 had a dream that we were dead and we pretended that we still lived
The black and gold boy is an anomaly, a creature so odd and dichotomous that even his own family had flinched at his birth. The blood of an angel flows through his veins, gifting him with incredible light, and yet he stands eternally in the brink of death. He is a grim reaper with a healer's soul.
And he doesn't even notice, doesn't even care.
For now, he is simply a child. A sickly thin boy with a patchy coat and milky blue eyes the color of death. But this is normal for him. The only thing he's known since the day of his birth, a day death had given way to life, even if it had not entirely loosed its grip on him.
As the undead boy trots forward with an energetic step that belies his infirm appearance, the circumstance of his birth is the last thing on his mind. He is far more interested in his first taste of freedom. He has spent his first few months of life tucked safely within the confines of the Dale, his mother and sister his most constant companions.
But he aches for a freedom he has never known, longs to taste the air outside the only place he has ever known. And so, here he is, gilded head held high with ears perked sharply forward as he makes his way through a strange and unknown land.
As far as adventures go, this one has been rather tame so far. But hope springs eternal in the black and gold boy. He holds no doubt that his luck would soon change, that something or someone will find him and provide entertainment. Either that, or he would simply need to find it on his own.
No one flinched when Mortal was born or if they had he had never noticed. Instead the boy was the one to label others, where most would say traited or special or unique Mortal was certain they were freaks- including himself. The young black colt wasn’t sure why that was, just that it was and that’s how it always had been or else everyone acted as if it was some sort of everyday norm. Even the vibrant colors were not found unusual, his own shocks of lime green hair and his brothers grassy points, their Dam’s infinity of hues that melted over her coat on a whim. And though he truly thought them all freakish he accepted that it was just the way things were, much like he accepted most things, with stride and with certainty.
Today he knows that he will not linger in the confines of the looming pines, that he won’t be underfoot (though with his build no one could put much claim to that) or under eye. Instead he crosses the threshold of the Chamber without cause to hide his actions, rarely was he stopped or coddled, likely because he had little care for such things. Indeed he enjoyed his family, his brother and sister, his Dam but being cooed over or close wasn’t his favorite activity. Mortal wanted to know things, he wanted to see things, even if those things were dark or scary or full of light and wonder. He wanted to see them and to know them by his own recollection and not as some bedtime story or second hand news from a passerby. He wanted to be certain of himself and his knowledge and who better to trust with that assignment than himself?
When he does stray from the Chamber’s sight he does not look back, he moves forward, eyes tracing the expanding fields of yellowing grass and withering wildflowers. A few times he stops to inspect an overturned rock or a odd looking leaf and when he does he flicks his wings tilting the clear appendages in the cool autumn air. The little foal had yet learn to fly, mostly because he was not yet big enough but also because it was terribly hard to find space to maneuver in the Chamber to do so. For a moment the shining membranes caught the sun’s rays just right, reflecting on the ground just so as to tempt a drying leaf to smoke and for the edges to gently burn and blacken. Somehow they were like a giant magnifying glass and he was quite unaware of this particular potential they possessed.
From a distance he spots another, a young thing like he is, maybe younger, maybe not. Either way he tilts his head as he examines the little beasts body from a distance, noticing the patchy hide and milky eyes. Some might hold back, to shy away from social interaction but Mortal had never been shy, nor had he ever been afraid. Soon he finds his thick, feathering legs moving him forward, pushing him towards the unknown instead of directing him away from it. “What do they call you?” he asks the boy with golden threads laced through his mane and poking proudly at his points. “Father named me Mortal, so I am certain that is my name.” Certain. Of course he was.
dont wanna hang around the in crowd, the cool kids aren't cool to me
I had a dream that we were dead and we pretended that we still lived
No one would ever deny that he is an odd creature. A freak. A thing not meant be alive - yet, somehow he is. If asked, even he would not deny the truth.
But he is far from alone. This land he had been born into is full of strange creatures like he. His own father is one such equine. With his porcelain white frame tipped by gold (a color which Jinn had inherited) is unique enough on it's own, but his gifts are what make him truly different. A rare man. His mother is rather plain at first glance, her hue an uninspiring bay with only a single white mark upon her chest to distinguish her from others. But her abilities certainly set her apart.
Still, there is no mistaking that he is their son, despite (or perhaps because of) his own set of rather… interesting traits.
Today though, he is far more intrigued by the black and green colt approaching him with an unmistakeable strength and assuredness. Jinn watches curiously, halting to await his approach, wondering what this boy might want of him.
As he nears, he notices the light catching something stretched above his back. Upon closer inspection, he can see the faintest outline of what looks like… wings?
How very intriguing.
The strange child speaks without hesitation, asking after Jinn’s name the moment he is near enough. Jinn tilts his small, bony head as he considers the newcomer (who had continued easily, proudly offering his name without prompting) with blue-white eyes. After only a moment's consideration, he responds in a surprisingly smooth tone. ”I am called Jinn.” He doesn't comment on the other colt’s odd turn of phrase (indeed, he doesn't realize that it is in fact rather odd), instead focusing on the air above Mortal’s back. ”What is that there? On your back?” he continues, asking after the question that has plagued his mind since the moment he had spied the odd shapes attached to the colt.
The Chamberling doesn’t think anything of his assured approach, it’s all he knows, all he’s been taught. From a very young age he had strayed from the sides of his Dam, wandered the ever ashy pines and he had been taught that which his Father saw necessary. It surprised him how different he was from his brother, they had shared a womb, and still they were very unlike one another. Mortal loved Hellbane but Hellbane was more interested in staying with Mom than he was, Hellbane didn’t seem interested in exploring the world as much as he did. Sometimes that made the winged-boy sad but he would never admit it, sometimes it worried him too. Was there something wrong with him? Was he too independent, too unafraid, too certain? Mortal was a cup for filling some would say, he was interested and eager to learn and to know. Some children had little time for what he would call real learning but Mortal sought this life, this teaching and as they say, not all who wander are lost.
Indeed the Chamber prince was not lost, not really, though he did not know for certain where his legs carried him he did know he could find his way home if need be. That was important you know, that was what really mattered so instead of worrying he seized the opportunity. Crunching along the failing grasses he made his approach and much to his liking the other boy didn’t shrink away from him. That was something that sometimes happened, if not for his size then surely for his appearance but the black boy couldn’t be entirely sure of the reason. No, this one didn’t have anything to sulk away from really, if anything Mortal would guess he had been subject to much the same treatment in his very short life. It’s not every day you see a kid who appeared to be dead but wasn’t, even if your own family was full of freaks, even if the Chamber housed many differences.
“Jinn?” he repeats the name as a question, as if her were confirming that it what the boy had called himself. Mortal knew only a handful of names and most of them weren’t entirely interesting, at least not to him. He peers over the boy, simply looking, wondering how on earth he managed to function in the state he was in, it looked unnatural- painful even. What he doesn’t immediately notice is that the gold-tipped boy does the same to him, eyes lingering on the filmy appendages on his backside.
”What is that there? On your back?”
What is that? He wonders to himself, turning his neck and head to blink at his own wings as if seeing them for the first time. He thought it was very well obvious what they were, unless they didn’t have wings wherever this boy had come from. “Well, they’re my wings Jinn.” the statement was plain as he spread them only a bit as to show them better to the undead one. “They just, well..you can see through them so I suppose they might look a bit different.” Suppose, that was a lie. Mortal knew very well they were not the usual sort, the normal ones were whole and opaque, they were scaled or feathered- they were like Victra’s or Kimber’s. “I mean, yes, they are different aren’t they? My sister has nice ones, changing ones.” Again he finds the milky eyes and gilded nostrils of the boy before him, the one named Jinn.
“How about you then, doesn’t that hurt, are you supposed to look like that?” Well then, that was quite forward and rude but Mortal was genuinely curious. “Well, I mean...you kind of look dead.” There, that wasn’t any better now was it?
dont wanna hang around the in crowd, the cool kids aren't cool to me
06-06-2016, 05:57 PM (This post was last modified: 06-06-2016, 06:49 PM by Jinn.)
I had a dream that we were dead and we pretended that we still lived
With the exception of his rather unnatural appearance, Jinn is much like any other child his age. He eats and drinks, he explores, he heeds his mother's wishes and defies them in equal measure. He is, for all intents and purposes, an otherwise normal boy.
Even so, he would never be normal enough. For now he barely notices it (it is a small enough consideration in his currently narrow world), but there will come a time when he wonders why his father cannot always look at him, why the very sight of him disturbs him so greatly. It is a difficult thing for a young colt to understand, but one a grown stallion will question all too frequently.
Perhaps he is fortunate in his naivety.
Jinn? His name is a question on the other boys lips, as though he is not quite certain that could be his name. The gold tipped colt merely nods, affirming his name with the assuredness of youth. His own question causes Mortal to lift the transparent appendages upon his back, stretching them so that they catch and filter the light. Without thought, Jinn captures that light, drawing it to him so that he might taste it's beauty. For a moment it shimmers around him, echoing the black and green boy’s wings before absorbing into Jinn's scruffy coat.
”What is it like to fly?” he asks in an almost offhanded manner, his gaze still fixed upon the odd wings.
Mortal's next question, however, brings him abruptly back to the present. Offering a rather uninterested shrug, he says simply, ”I was born like this. Mother says I look like my grandfather.” Pause. ”My sister has claws on her feet.” As he says the last, he glances down at Mortal's distinctly equine hooves.
While he listens Mortal flicks his short but growing tail. Steadily he stands, tall and proud and only a bit stiff for a child. His Father had taught him stance, presence and if anything it was more military in its appearance than it was in prideful presentation. Truly he had set out to learn more about the world and he had gotten just that and then some. What luck had it been to cross paths with another adventurer, knowledge seeker and boy. The other child was a curious one, what with his sinking skin, patchy fur, milky eyes, it is a wonder that Mortal did not overwhelm him with questions. We can be sure that he had many, too many perhaps and there was always another to replace the one if answered. Alas, Mortal was a more careful learner, observing more than he spoke (though he is quite talkative), and listening better than he questioned.
If in the future Killdare would ever look on Mortal with indifference would the young boy even notice? Did he notice now the sadness that crept along the creases of his Father’s eyes whenever they fell on him or his brother? Would he even begin to understand the falling out he and his Mother had had? For now he seemed to regard the child much like he did the adults, speaking to him plainly and giving orders all the same. Maybe that was because he was a boy? Not once could he say that he had ever heard his Father talk to Victra in such a manner, he seemed softer with his sister if not more uncertain in how to interact with her at all. Was there much a difference between boys and girls at his age? There were still many things that he did not understand and certainly he would be one to find out more about them.
“To fly? Well, it’s okay, I’m not much good at it yet. I suppose it is nice to fly. My Dad used to have wings too, but he doesn’t anymore.” Indeed, his Father had traded wings for something else, something he would not keep in the end but would serve him for the years to come nonetheless. Mortal tried his best to answer but he did not have much experience in the matters of flight and it was difficult to practice in the pines. Instead of speaking at length he waits a few beats, growing still as if he expects the other will have something to say to fill the silence.
Then again he cannot completely remain silent as the conversation goes on (so young you see),words and ideas forming into solidarity in his mind before he asks what he must know. “Grandfather? What’s a Grandfather?” Killdare never spoke much of his dad, nor did he ever intend to, so the word is certainly a confusing one to the black and lime boy. “What’s he called?” another question as he considers the moniker before, maybe that was the horse’s name after all ‘Grandfather.’ Next is a question of feet, his own green eyes following the other’s milky set to his hooves. They were plain and black and feathered, nothing unusual that he knew of but with the last statement perhaps Jinn had to look to make sure. “Claws...on her feet? What like a bird?” he wonders, shifting his own hooves as he considered how exactly that would work or look even.
“And is that from your Grandfather too?”
dont wanna hang around the in crowd, the cool kids aren't cool to me
I had a dream that we were dead and we pretended that we still lived
They are so very different, the green tinged boy and the gilded one. Mortal, with his stiffly military bearing (taught to him at such a young and tender age) and clean, elegant lines, stands head and hoof above the scruffy, scrawny colt with the devil’s name and face. He is not tall (nor would he ever be) nor regal nor even particularly beautiful (there is a certain fragile quality about him that some might find lovely in a terrible and heartrending way, but certainly he would never adhere to the traditional standards of beauty).
In all, he is rather… homely. Even the elegance of gold tinging his features cannot bring grace and charm to such a canvas. But that has never stopped Jinn, nor would it ever. Indeed, in youth it something one hardly notices. His concerns lie much more in what there is to see and do. And this boy is providing just the sort of distraction he has long been looking for.
Different they might be, but they can, it seems, find similarity in adventure.
For a moment, Jinn is picturing flight, to be able to soar amongst the clouds and fly as the birds. His mother is so gifted (though she rarely leaves her earth-bound children long unattended), but he has no such talents except his light. He has never tried such tricks with his ability (never had it occurred to him that he could), but seeing those lovely transparent wings inspires a devilish curiosity within him. Within seconds, a pair of wings are stretching from his shoulder blades, the finicky beasts as see-through as his companions and limned by brilliant white light.
Jinn wonders for a moment if the other colt’s dad is like him or his father, who could make his wings appear and disappear on a whim (why else would he no longer have wings?), and so, true to his nature, he asks. ”Why not?”
Mortal continues asking a rather (in Jinn’s opinion) odd question. How could this boy not know what a grandfather is? Certainly he had a grandfather of his own. Though, in truth, Jinn has never actually met his. Neither of them. According to his Mother, neither are good men. If he wished to meet them it seems, he would need to seek them out on his own. ”A Grandfather?” he says, the question evident in his voice. ”My father’s father. Why, don’t you have one?”
The next question however, brings him up short. He had never actually learned his grandfather’s name (his mother seemed reluctant to speak it, or perhaps she did not even know it). ”I don’t…” he hesitates, pale blue eyes dropping to the ground as furrows form above his eyes before he finally shrugs, expression clearing. ”I don’t know. Mother never told me.”
A slight frown forming on his lips, he does his best to answer the next few rapid-fire questions. In truth, he had never paused to consider where these things had come from, or what they might mean. ”I think so?” he says, the words inadvertently coming out as a question. ”Like a big raptor.”
