"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 finds him in the daylight this time. She’s been making progress since their last conversation. Wound has explored nearly every inch of Tephra, up to the foothills of the volcano and along the shorelines of the beaches. Upon her initial arrival the shy girl had kept to the less-traveled corners of the island, nervous about the kingdom members reactions to her ugly deformities. Her first true step of courage in Tephra had been going to Warrick’s coronation.
The seasons are less noticeable on the island. Wound didn’t realize how much she appreciated the swift transition of summer into autumn (when the temperature dips enough to curl loved ones closer, when the trees begin to change from greens to brilliant reds and oranges, when the sun begins to sleep earlier) until it was taken from her. Yet she still enjoys the warmth and security Tephra brings her. Nonetheless, Wound can feel the shift in the air even though the kingdom remains in a regular state of summertime.
She begins to feel restless, as though she were slowly coming undone. Wound finds herself roaming through Tephra more often than she normally has been. She enjoys swimming in the ocean the most, feeling the current tug at her legs as if they were to sweep her away to worlds unknown. She knows what her restlessness means — as all mares do — and it grants her the knowledge of autumn approaching despite the lack of natural signs.
It’s on another fidgety day that she finds him. She’s yet to congratulate Warrick personally on his achievements. Although Wound knows little of kingdom life, she is certain there are many important events to attend to as a recent king. However, she supposes things have quieted down enough to seek him out at a more personal level.
Her eyes catch on his bay and navy frame somewhere along a molten stream and a smile graces her pretty face. Wound limps up to her king but a decent moment of anxiety stalls her movement. Should she bow? Should she wait for him to approach her? How should she address him? Warrick? King Warrick? Your Majesty? Her brow furrows together, suddenly bewildered by her confusion and lack of knowledge.
She ends up bowing deeply, but the shortness of her leg causes her to stumble clumsily. Wound nearly tumbles into the lava stream, but at the last moment leans all her weight toward Warrick. Instead of burning alive by means of the molten lava, she collides into the stallion’s chest and burns alive by means of his touch. Oh, damn.
“Your Maje- I mean, King Warr- or is it Your Majest- Oh, I am so sorry!”
12-18-2017, 05:49 PM (This post was last modified: 12-18-2017, 05:49 PM by Warrick.)
like the sun swallowed up by the earth
This time, she does not find him beneath the thin veil of starlight, nor the cold cloak of the salty seas - instead, she surprises him, and finds him when the autumnal sun shines high in the sky (though the intensity is the same as summer, only the shadows are shortening with each passing day towards winter). She smells distinctly of the volcanic island, thick with ash from the smoking plumage and of brine from the sea air - he smiles, almost proud at her exploration in the few days between their last conversation.
The last they had spoken had been laced with solemnity, and even so, he cannot help but smile easily as he sees her approaching him. Her gait - unnatural and ungraceful - only further brightens the smile on his indigo muzzle. He only sees her bravery and lack of fear in her approach, stretching his wings outward and beating them once, twice, with gentle strokes at his sides. As the broad wings fold into his auburn barrel, the stallion’s head tilts inquisitively and his brow furrows as she lowers herself before him, regality in her low bow.
With something of a chuckle, he follows her movement downwards with the quick gracefulness of his neck, putting his muzzle beneath where her cheek meets her neck and gently encouraging her to stand - there is no need for bowing! Then came her stumbling words as she tries to call him by his title, as if their swim in the ocean hadn’t made her realize who he truly is. The idea that she would think she needed to bow or recite a name for him makes him laugh warmly, his breath soft on the delicate flesh of her throat.
“It’s just Warrick,” he murmurs gently to her, “or have you already forgotten me?” He takes a step back, a slight frown on his face but delight in his eyes.
Warrick is new to her. Before she left her brothers, Wound spent all of her time in their company. They watched over her protectively, hellbent on keeping their darling little sister safe. Although she admires them for their courageous security, she cannot help but silently curse them. She is ill-equipped for the reality of the social world. There is nothing she knows of kingdoms aside from what she has learned in Tephra. Alongside her political immaturity comes the main point of this day particularly — her lack of knowledge in the face of men.
The stars had offered her courage during the nighttime swim, when their friendship was first foraged. Now, with his dark nose brushing against the tenderness of her throat, she feels exposed as the sun beams down on them. Wound wishes for the cloak of darkness, as though it might be able to conceal her undoing. His touch is equal parts unhinging and anchoring.
As his laughter dances against the sensitivity of her skin, she inhales a shaky breath.
He is different from her brothers, brazen and strong, and his touch only reminds her of that even more. Wound’s thoughts grow hazy as the warmth of his exhale dissipates along her throat. The restlessness (the ache in her underbelly, the unease in her joints, the heat of her skin) is felt at a greater magnitude suddenly, and an unintentional sigh drifts softly past her lips.
His gentle voice and the retraction of his body from hers shakes her back into reality. The slender woman tosses her head once, both to clear her mind and throw her silvery-brunette locks from her eyesight. A smooth smile flutters over her mouth like the delicate wings of a butterfly. “How could I forget you, Warrick?” For a moment, amusement drifts in Wound’s coffee eyes.
“I wanted to personally congratulate you.” The sunny pride that blazed in her gaze during the kingdom meeting returns, though slightly softer in the quiet of their solitude. “Tephra will be blessed by your leadership, I’m sure… Although the crown must be a heavy weight to carry.” Her chest swells with a breath caught in an effort to pursue bravery. “I doubt only one soul can carry it alone.”
Despite herself, Wound’s eyes flick over the planes of his face and along his muscular chest. Her thoughts are unbidden and shameful for their situation but the curse of the season has wrapped its greedy fingers around her. Another shaky breath drips from her mouth before the silver woman forces her eyes to snap back to Warrick’s gaze, silently scolding herself for her lustfulness.
He had not meant to become a king, but the title seems to have found its way onto the lips of all the Tephrans and he is too kind to correct them - if seeing him as their king soothes their aching souls or allows pride for their country to well up within their chests, he could see no harm done by knowing him by it. He will, however, make sure that they know that he is not royalty (he is just one of them, all the same) and that he does not wish to run Tephra as a monarchy. Their title of king is merely just that - a title.
Warrick had not, however, expected any of the quick action of his duties - the captive (he hadn’t even had the time to think about if he would agree to this type of sentencing, for it had happened before he had become the ruler) and it rests heavy on his heart, easily seen in the way his cerulean eyes seem a bit dimmer. There had also been (and perhaps still is) the matter of a few others who were not as receptive to Warrick’s way of handling things - with gentleness and wisdom, with no room for venom-laced words or heated conversations (that way of solving problems is just for show, to puff themselves up or to put others down) and they are sadly disappointed when Warrick refuses to engage with them.
The Overseer can now fully understand the burden that comes with the title, the heavy load that both Ellyse and Offspring had carried before him - even Lucrezia, or Magnus. It is consuming him already, creating something within him that has not been given the chance to rise before - a certain strength that has lay stagnant in the bottom of his soul for far too long, now stoked like a fire within him.
“How could I forget you, Warrick?”
Wound is special - from their first meeting, he could tell. She shares the same dream-like look he so often finds on his own face as he stares up into the stars, the same hope in her eyes matching his. They are much alike, their souls very much akin to each other in their gentleness, and he likes to think that they are friends rather than just acquaintances. He watches her rise, at first sheepishly and then, thankfully, somewhat comfortably, her mocha-colored eyes finding his waiting for her. He had not forgotten about her mangled leg, a deformity that still holds her back (though lately, he notices a shift within her and he rather enjoys it), and makes a point to not cast his gaze over it. She is much more than the malformation, and he silently hopes she is beginning not only to see it, but to feel it.
“I wanted to congratulate you personally.”
He offers her a contrite smile, his face receptive as she offers him her compliments, glad to see the pride swelling beneath her sparkling eyes - it is an expression he hopes that came to all residents when they heard of his promotion, though is exceptionally happy to see it on her face.
“Thank you, Wound,” he replies, genuine and earnest. “And you are absolutely correct - it has been no easy feat and already proves to be more challenging than anything I have ever faced...” His voice trails off slightly, his blue gaze falling downcast as the weight of it encumbers him once more, but with a toss of his head, he shakes away the thoughts and allows his attention to be set on Wound fully. “It is a good thing that I have you, and many others, who are ready and willing for whatever Tephra needs. It lightens the load,” he finishes with a laugh, not wanting to worry her. His eyes lift to meet hers, a smile on his cobalt lips.
“How have you been? Since we met last? Have you met anyone else here?”
She cannot fathom the weight he must carry. The only thing Wound can compare it to is the constant burden she carries with her from her malformations. That is something she feels each day, throughout the tides of the hours. However, her confidence can lessen the force of the emotions (disgust, doubt, appreciation, love, frustration, disappointment) that follow her. In retrospect, the crown is a burden that is — ultimately — carried alone unless there is a equal counterpart.
Wound can see the effects of the crown already in her friend (she does consider him a friend, especially compared to the ratio of other Tephrans she knows). His eyes are dimmer, darkened by the crises she does not understand. In enough time, perhaps lines of worry or stress might drag themselves along Warrick’s handsome face. In Wound’s opinion, laughter lines are the best sort of wrinkles rather than those formed from negativity.
She is proud nonetheless. There are few achievements higher than ruling (or in Warrick’s case, protecting) a kingdom and Wound hopes his time spent in the position will be well-worth it. The navy and bay stallion speaks of his hardships already and the silver bay, in an action of bravery, steps forward to place her chest against his and wraps her neck over his withers in a comforting embrace.
The touch stirs her darker thoughts once more, but she pushes them away in favor of innocence.
After a moment, she pulls away from their close proximity and offers him an encouraging smile. Warrick inquires about her own personal life and Wound’s coffee gaze meets him with an expression of mingled apprehension and contentment. “I’ve been well, actually. It feels good to finally have a purpose. I haven’t had the chance to meet others besides Femur and Longclaw.” Her ears twitch at the thought of the fanged mare and her blue mate. There is prospect of a friendship to blossom between the three, but Wound thinks it will take a longer bit of time to stoke the flame in contrast with her relationship with Warrick.
“I love it here though.” Maybe someday she might be able to bring her brothers to Tephra and show them the gracious joyfulness she has found. “It’s quickly becoming home.”
01-05-2018, 07:18 PM (This post was last modified: 01-05-2018, 07:18 PM by Warrick.)
like the sun swallowed up by the earth
Uncharacteristically, Wound steps forward to meet him, embracing the large stallion within the curve of her slender neck. He is surprised by the gesture but not at all does it show, and she is greeted with a warm and comforting smile when she withdraws from him. He is comforted by her presence - she is light and refreshing, and the fact that her uncertainty seems to have begun to melt away from her, the stallion is nearly breathless as he smiles at her. Warrick will not allow her to step too far away from him, and closes the gap with only a few light steps forward, ears pricking towards her as she answers his questions.
He is fierce in his loyalty to Tephra and to its people, and the newcomers that find their way here are searching for a place to fit in, to feel at peace, and he fully intends to bring that to them. He can see it now, the beginnings of it unraveling on the gentleness of Wound’s face, and with delight, he reaches forward to gently brush his cobalt lips across her cheek, lost in the exhilaration of her confession. Tephra is becoming her home, and a wave of relief washes over him - she won’t be leaving.
Warrick brings his muzzle to his chest, smiling. “Longclaw and Femur are good people,” he tells her genuinely - his commander and his mate are truly two very extraordinary characters, one that he is glad to have represent his country. They are both strong and reactive, never sitting in one place for too long or becoming lost within the smoke and salt.
His face becomes serious for a moment, a softness that still remains stern somehow overcoming him. “Wound, I hope that Tephra will be a good part in your story.” He smiles gently, unable to keep himself from taking one more step forward to bring her chest to his again, only this time he was the one embracing her. “I hope I will be a good part in your story.” He says breathlessly in a gentle whisper, his wings fluttering lightly at his sides as he absentmindedly begins to groom the tendrils of her mane, intermittent with brushing the navy of his muzzle against her skin gently.
Warrick
@[wound]
i am the WORST and i am so sorry that i am being such a slow poster! i am totally okay with keeping this in the past until it's done, but if you're wanting to make a birthing post and all that, just let me know and we can skip this or do whatever you want! i don't want you waiting on me to give her the baby <3
