"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
10-12-2021, 03:12 PM (This post was last modified: 10-12-2021, 03:16 PM by Xi.)
xi
our gospel is living flesh sprawled in dust
Despite the years she has spent at the periphery of the Field, Xi has yet to grow weary of the quiet solitude it affords her. Nearly two trips around the sun and there are only a handful of substantive conversations she can remember ─ even those were short-lived, snipped at the bud just as quickly as she was able.
She holds out hope that today will be similar to nearly every other day she'd spent meandering the expansive Field at her leisure. Quiet, uneventful. But the summer sun has drawn even those who typically remain hidden away at home out to play, leaving the ivory and peach woman to concentrate a bit more that usual on the art of evasion.
Eventually, the long verdant grasses prove ineffective in shielding her from attention, prompting Xi to take to the clear skies for a bit of casual flying. She coasts from thermal to thermal, flapping her lucid wings as minimally as possible, and watches the grounded goings-on from high above.
10-31-2021, 11:21 AM (This post was last modified: 10-31-2021, 11:21 AM by Chemdog.)
His mythical animal wardrobes are only limited to his education; he can be the wild and mystic creatures he’s seen or knows of. Luckily for him he has a varied arsenal because he can draw from the well of the dead. His relatives, old friends, even dead strangers, they follow the pull when he calls for them and they come and chat, or tell tales, or laugh, play tricks, tell riddles or sometimes literally do nothing at all but be creepy. It’s an interesting array of talents he’s collected over the broken decades of his life.
The Winged Lion of Saint Mark. What an interesting series of stories brought this particular creature to his mental library. He often remembers the odd angelic creatures that came forward one eerie night, drunk with glee and fat with their stories, ready to tell.
On days like today, when he takes the lion’s form, his wings full feathered and jet black with white speckled feathers at its edges; he remembers the stories, a crooked grin on his face while he mulls the details of the encounter. It’s certain the original creature isn’t colored the same, but as most of his outfits, the colors are always his own. An enormous lion with a white splashed face and chest, his mane lush and mostly black (some white). His eyes the shining teal they always are. Black smoke curls off of him as he flies, fading quickly in his wake. The sun is warm and bright up in the sky, the thermal currents grabbing and releasing him as he plays back and forth through the cloud tops. He’s playful and unaware there is another flying through, he’s got no agenda or plan in mind as he usually does when he spots someone. His mind is fairly blank as he’s tipped on his back and just floating with his wings extended. As he’s looking up he can see her flying above. The polite and not weird thing to do would be to look away and fly on – he’s not usually either of these things, so he stares on. Looking up to see her wings glint like those of a dragonfly, her reddish, white and pink swirl of colors, the dance of her hair.
Xi flies mindlessly. She has no agenda to ruin her airborne meandering today; instead, the thermals carry her where they may. In and out of the ivory clouds she bobs and weaves, her two-toned body laced with the mist of unfallen precipitation each time she dips into the clear skies once more. Her ears remain attentively pricked to appreciate the rush of the wind around her, though there is a brief moment they register a different noise. Close, but not too close. Just near enough to register.
She barrel-rolls, orange and ivory tresses flying madly as her dragonfly wings extend to support her swift horizontal spiral. And in the midst of this maneuver, just at the peripheral of her violet gaze, Xi notices that she is not alone. A shiver works its way down her spine as she gazes below; the winged lion is majestic, full-maned, and it floats in such a way to gaze up at her. XI lays her pointed ears upon her poll as she adjusts her course to circle above the large feline, a two-toned vulture assessing the prey that rests below her.
Opting not to give the lion something to chance, the ivory and orange woman tucks her insect wings to her thin sides and plummets downwards. She spins as she goes, a tight spiral with her ivory tail streaming behind her, until she snaps her wings open once more, positioning herself in such a way that she can stare directly into the obsidian lion's face.
