"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 has lived ages, seeing others come and go while he has never grown a day older. He has seen thousands fall and mountains crumble (something he never wishes to see again). Sometimes he has wondered if the end of the earth is near, but it has not yet come. He also sometimes wonders what would happen to him when the end does come, when Beqanna has grown tired and finally falls into the abyss. Will his eternal life bleed from him and death finally claim him? Will he fall away into the abyss with his home, to remain forever trapped there? Or will he simply float in the great emptiness of space, until his frozen body crash lands into some foreign world and he awakens once more?
These are all questions without answers, all thoughts that had been occurring to him more and more often of late. Perhaps it is the fall of the lands into the sea, the inevitable taking of lives and reshaping of things better left alone. Perhaps it has finally come to pass that the longevity of his life has surpassed the firmness of his mind.
And perhaps he simply needs something to do. Something to once again live for. He had been aimless, a wanderer, once, long ago. But he had been much younger then, his mind freshly wiped clean by an accident he still cannot recall. Maybe that is the secret to living a driftless life, especially for a man like him. To clear the slate, as it were.
As much as the thought appeals, he is loathe to bring himself there, to take that final step. Too much has happened in this life, too much he wishes never to forget. A love, long ago lost now. A land that few would even remember in a few years time. Most had already forgotten, even now. He could not forget.
And so he wanders, weaving amongst the trees of the forest that had become his home, missing the weight of his wings against his sides, the tickle of feathers upon his haunches, contemplating the heavy thoughts that burden his mind. Paying no attention to his surroundings, so very contrary to the hard, watchful man he had once been in the Tundra.
so you want to play with magic? you should know what you're falling for.
The shadow he casts is a great one, and her body tingles with even the presence of him. Here in the bowels of the darkest parts of Beqanna’s forests were her domain, and she does not get many visitors here. Her home, such that it was, had diminished greatly. Her presence here, once great and glorious, was filtered down to a very weak sense of power that she was only just now re-learning to control. Upon her body, the scars that rippled down her sides—a final gift from a man who was so buried in his own anger and hate that he could not see love on the end of his own nose. Her eyes, she has turned them into a haunting purple grey color that sticks out against the dark, and from her place in the brush, she can smell him coming. And his bitterness…
His immortality.
There were not many that were as old as they were anymore. The ones who remember the way life was…before. To live life and have no end goal, allowing the days to grow restless and tedious—it was a boredom she knew well. And while she had gone to outlive her children, and grandchildren, she herself remained. Her life force drove onward like a storm—and she was never-changing.
The one time she had deigned to try, she had earned herself these scars.
A hard smirk set upon her face, and she stepped forward, allowing him to hear the cracking of the branches under her hooves. A teal green woman dip-dyed into a fuschia ombre, with flashes of silver streaking her hair. Gone were the days of austerity. She may not enjoy a life living among them just yet, but she cannot say much for what happens when they come venturing into her forests.
She sways passed him as she makes her entrance known, ears erect, purposeful. Her movements are fluid, and well-practiced. She notices his lack of attention to detail. Would she catch him off balance? Her voice is melodious as she speaks to him, the barest hint of a secret smile playing on her lips… the rest of her face, cool. Serene.
Perfect.
“Such thoughts you have. Fingers that stretch far in your history. What is so serious that it brings you here? Or have you gotten lost in your reverie?” A breathy laugh, small, before the mask is once more set in place—the fuschia slowly creeping up her body, overtaking the teal. “No one comes to this part of the forest. The children claim it is haunted.”
A beat of silence. Her eyes roll over his body before settling on his face. She likes what she sees.
“I am Reagan.”
Reagan
I had to use my special rock music to reply to this
The shadows have never been his domain, his preference. Until now, at least, he had had the skies. The openness, the freedom, the crisp wind and cool damp of clouds, that had been his mistress. His most devoted lover and constant companion. But that had been taken from him. Perhaps only temporarily, but it is a loss that aches. A loss that hollows him, so much like his home had been hollowed by fickle, powerful hands.
Still, his spirit has not yet sunk quite so low that he is entirely oblivious. Perhaps he is not so quick or observant as he once was, but even he notices the tingle of power, of presence, that shudders along his spine as he enters her domain.
For the briefest of moments, his lip curls, his dark eyes hardening to flint as his gaze rises to find the source of that power.
Magicians. He has never much cared for the lot, for the ease with which they bandy about their power and toy with lives. It seems there are exceptionally few who break that mold, who deign to be more than the stereotype so easily applied.
It does not escape him though, that he would not exist were it not for his magician mother. Of course, she really had been no different from the rest. Still, he would reserve judgement.
Hard eyes traveling the curves if teal and fuschia, he openly studies the small mare sauntering towards him before raising his gaze to find hers. He cannot help but admire her form, the elegant slopes and feminine curves. He is male, after all, and she a lovely woman. Even so, he is a disciplined man, one who is more than capable of controlling his baser nature (indeed, that he does not have a hoard of children despite his advanced age will attest to that).
The sharp planes of his features fixed in a neutral expression, is voice gravelly from disuse, he growls, “Did it never occurred to you to seek permission before prying?”
Perhaps, once upon a time, he might have attempted to be slightly more diplomatic, but these last years had served to strip any pretense of polish from his surface. Now, she is left with only the roughly hewn core of granite on which to sharpen her wiles. “You must be the ghost,” he grunts after a laden pause. “Hurricane.
there is never a day that goes by
that is a good day to die
Hurricane
Oh goodness, apparently he has turned into a grumpy old troll :|
so you want to play with magic? you should know what you're falling for.
She startles. His voice is as raspy as hers is. Like a the wind that blows, he is a storm in his own right. An angry swirling beast that does not know how to control his own strength. As such, is name perfectly suits him. She sees the thoughts conflicting in his swirling eyes, and knows his name before he gives it. And yet, the Grey Lady dips her head in acknowledgement of his name, her eyes lighting knowingly when Hurricane accuses her of prying into his mind without permission. She simply shrugs her tilts her head to one side, shrugs her shoulders, and..
“Guilty as charged. But when one is as old as we are, there is little time for games. Or intrigue.” Her eyes rove over his body wantonly, measuring his stature. Testing his quality. Would he do? She tilts her head the other way, his scratchy voice mentions the poltergeist. At this, she drops her pretense, just for the moment, lowers her nose to her chest, and gives an easy, breathy laugh—with this, her mask and tainted crown slips from her head just a bit, and all sense of her color falls. A mottled grulla grey, black points, and green eyes. It is a flash of the woman beneath. And she speaks, unknowing of her appearance change—still as yet, unable to fully control her magic. “I am afraid I have to claim responsibility for that as well. I do not deal well with most company these days. It is said that I am a fallen woman, bereaved of all prior grace.”
“So then. What has brought you out here, all alone? Certainly not the company. I am a witch, a ghost, you say.” An ironic smile twists on her lips as her eyes flash from emerald green, back to a stony silver grey, swirling with flecks of aquamarine. Her skin is a dappled blue to match. She takes a step closer to him, to bridge the gap… To feel his warmness. It has been so long since she has felt the warmth of another creature. The predator inside her is hungry.
Boldness has never been his style, nor has he ever been particularly drawn to it. He had been born of a simpler time, a time when these exotic colors did not exist and power was rare. When the plain and mundane by today's standards was unique and beautiful. The world might have changed, but his preferences certainly have not.
So when the bright skin falls away to reveal a new mare, one as lovely in form but cloaked in gray and black rather than blue and pink, he is intrigued. Of course, she is still a magician. It is how she had so easily changed herself to suit her whims, but this other mare, with her he could almost pretend.
A wiser man would not want to pretend. A wiser man would simply turn and go, leaving her with her misery and broken power for company. But as it turns out, he is not as wise as he should have been. Or perhaps, he has simply been too long without companionship. Even he cannot escape the basic need and desire for company that reside (perhaps buried deeply, but there nevertheless) within every equine.
So when she replies, somewhat pithily in his estimation, to his rather blunt question, he only responds with a low grunt, his flinty gaze clearly disbelieving. Of course, as she could read his mind, she would already know he does not play games.
She continues then, her commentary finally coming to a close on a question. He does not answer immediately, instead taking the moments of silence to stare at her in open consideration, dark eyes inscrutable within the pale mask off his face. Her features, coming to heel beneath the open wielding of her power, shift from gray to a vibrantly dappled blue that he instantly dislikes.
With the flick of an ear, he settles his weight, shifting so that one hoof rests in a deceptively relaxed manner. Finally, he offers a quietly grunted, “I preferred you better the other way,” before shrugging and continuing on in the vein of their former conversation.
“Happenstance.” He pauses in consideration before clarifying, “If you must know, my home is gone and fate has set me adrift.”
06-17-2017, 01:15 AM (This post was last modified: 06-17-2017, 01:20 AM by Reagan.)
so you want to play with magic? you should know what you're falling for.
She cannot help it. She laughs. The kind of rude, incandescent laughter that rings true against the trees and sets their mirth against those who are grumpy patooties. And Hurricane, is one of those creatures, who is determined to be a Mister Grumpy Gills.
Just keep swimming.
“You’re so serious!” she cackles. “Happenstance. Of all the words you could use? You chose to use that one?! BAHAHA!” Tears are dripping down her eyes as she laughs in a way she has not in ages, her body trembling with the ache in her side because of it. Her eyes level him then, and she pushes her body to grow to meet his height so she could look him in the eyes. And then, she smiles at him while she changes colors rapidly, like a color-shaded kaliedescope, pushing past him while she draws her body down the side of his, not caring in the least that he has been snotty to her. She finds herself wanting, and he happens to be standing there. So convenient. The heat from him burns her skin, and she finds that she likes it. “Just keep swimming, just keep swimming,” she croons, all while, eying him with a crooked gaze as the color bleeds like a bad child’s painting. And then, she comes behind him, and is not shameless about ogling his backside…
Damn, you’re fine.
And then she smiles at him again, speaking, trying not to laugh again, trying to keep a straight face as she bites her lip, digging her front hooves in the ground. Her body, goes slim and grey, a pure blue-grey grullo. Her pelt is smooth, lithed and perfect as it cuts beautifully across her hips and up her neck, so smooth it is begging to be touched. “Much more to your liking?” She purrs, trying to be sexy… and failing miserably. “Set adrift, you were saying? That’s such a shame. Well. If you find yourself lost, I’m sure that the next time someone cracks open an emergency flare, I’m sure that they will find you, if any of your friends are out here looking for you." She motions to his body, which has has changed to hot pink and yellow glowing splashed mess. "Quite the improvement, I dare say. I can take you much more seriously now that you are glowing a nuclear pink.”
And then, she cannot help herself.. She laughs again. “If there were ghosts here, I dare say you’d scare them off now! You look like a snow cone!"
Though how Reagan knows what a snow cone is, this writer has no idea.
He is just a crabby patty apparently :| but he's giving her plenty of reason to curse him with fire babies XD
This mare seems to have quite the knack for throwing him entirely off guard. She clearly has lost whatever marbles she had, and he had been the misfortunate soul to stumble upon her in her odd mood.
Shifting, the pale stallion takes a step back, dark eyes wary as his gaze follows the kaleidoscope mare. A scowl tugs at his lips as her laughter echoes in the air about him mocking and amused all at once. He might have had a dearth of company these last several years, but even he is not so hard up he must stay here to be taunted by a woman who has clearly seen better days.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps she has always been mad.
Head high, ears leveled in agitation, he responds, his voice a low, uneasy rumble. “You speak nonsense, woman. I think it is best if I…” He pauses then as she brushes past him, a hot slide of skin against skin. He continues to shift, gaze never leaving her as he eyes her with wary vigilance. And then she changes once more, becoming a velvety grullo, soft and smooth and beautiful. He is distracted for a moment, mouth nearly going dry, but her disjointed words bring him up short.
Head drawing up sharply, his dark gaze whips around to take in his suddenly mottled pelt of florescent pink and yellow. Shying away from her, he growls. Actually growls. It is not a sound made for an equine throat, but he manages it passably well. Jerking back, he pins her with glaring, steely eyes. “You overstep,” he all but snarls before drawing in a sharp breath, his dark eyes shuttering briefly as he struggles to regain his rapidly fraying temper. “Is there a point to this… display of yours,” he utters in a softer, though no less ferocious, tone.
