"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
Winter has settled well over Beqanna. Blankets and drifts of snow cover near everything that the weather can reach, oftentimes giving the Common Lands an almost idyllic appearance. It doesn’t snow now—at least not yet; instead, the sun shines brightly (almost blindingly) over the pale landscape. Tracks plowed in the depths of the ivory flakes are currently the only sign of life in the Meadow, save for the twittering of birds miffed by the endless low temperatures.
Rosemary walks quietly through paths tread well before her, hot air blowing in and out of her nose. She had spent the morning watching the sunrise, aquamarine eyes reflecting the brilliance of a cruel winter dawn. The sun, still low in the sky, illuminates the shimmering peacock hues blending across her body. The stars splashed across her face sparkle as if she might actually wear the night sky. There’s a buzzing yet content air about her, a mostly hidden energy to be released once she finds what she is looking for.
For now, she is as serene as the morning she experiences, humming her siren song low enough to keep other’s from hearing it. Simply enjoying herself and the seemingly endless day awaiting her.
It is not Reave’s bone armor, nor his vibrant chestnut, nor his confident air that draws Rosemary to him. She spots it the second her eyes lay on him: a brilliant yet dark aura, mists of gray shimmering with rainbows of color, like an oil-slick ocean. She blinks at first, basking in the opportunity before her; then she pushes into a lazy canter, nickering a greeting once she draws closer.
“Fine morning,” Rose purrs, settling to an eager, restless stop. “What brought you out to enjoy it?”
He had torn himself raggedly from Nerine early that morning, launching himself into a reckless drive across the land. He had felt trapped, though he couldn’t say why. His thoughts had scratched across deeply etched scars he didn’t want to acknowledge, and so he had left. He had given himself over to something distracting. Something that would pull him from the wretched prison of his own mind.
When he finally settled in the meadow, his breaths had heaved from his lungs, billowing in the cold air around his face. The weight of the snow beneath his legs had dragged him into exhaustion, but there had been pleasure in the pain of his abused muscles and skin torn ruthlessly from bone.
Slowly his breaths had calmed, and now he stands in the midst of the snow-blanketed meadow. Blood and sweat have frozen against his skin, betraying his wild disregard from earlier that morning. The tender skin had not been able to hold up under such misuse, though his bones have nearly stopped growing as his immortality settles. One day soon they ragged edges might finally be strong enough to hold fast, but not quite yet.
He isn’t paying attention to his surroundings, so the nicker that sounds behind him draws his attention around with an abrupt ferocity. It settles when he spots the star-faced mare loping to a halt nearby. He tilts his head as he studies, rising curiosity remaining undisguised. Her throaty greeting brings a smirk to his lips as he glances at the sparkling snow around them before returning his gaze to her.
“Indeed,” he replies, his own voice a low rumble. His smirk widens as he quirks one brow at her. “Who says I’m enjoying it?”
The sly smirk that Reave offers Rosemary makes that overpowering curiosity pound infrequently in her chest. For a moment, Rose holds her breath, aquamarine eyes glittering with unbridled excitement as the stranger eventually finds his way back to her. She might as well be purring with how pleased she is by his gaze. He doesn't possess the same shadows as her old haunts, but there's a certain . . . dishonesty about him. That grayscale morality that Rosemary's thoughts always waver on.
"My apologies," the little mare answers, dipping her head in mocking modesty. For a second, her pale eyes flash up at him, rays of blue glimmering mischievously behind her dark lashes. "How rude of me to make an assumption of a stranger." She can't hide the quiet laughter in her voice this time. The stars on her face glitter when Rose draws her head back up. Her mouth twists into a lovely - if biting - smile.
There was once a time when a man could leave Rosemary on innocently bated breath. When all her thoughts spun with the darkness of others, the evil of their actions, all the mechanics of their mind. How little she knew, then, and yet still too much. Now, through years of seeking some twisted satisfaction, Rose has found she is the biggest mystery of them all. Why is it that she searches for a certain misery, whether it be her own or a friends? Though curiously, the bone-armored stallion is just different enough that Rosemary finds herself perplexed. She wanders a few steps closer to him, almost subconsciously.
"Then what are you doing," Rose pauses, her smile dropping to something small and inquisitive, "if not enjoying yourself?"
Rune has long been his compass, though one he does not consult as often as he should. The large eagle is as stodgy as Reave is impetuous. Even now he sweeps overhead, whispering his admonishment for the heedless sprint that had brought Reave here. As usual, the bone-armored stallion ignores his companion.
His gaze drops to the mare’s delicate features as she offers her pretty apology, wry skepticism written across his shrouded features. Just as she cannot hide her laughter, neither can he hide his cynical amusement. It seems this morning had been perfectly ripe for the cutting banter they now share.
Reave is perfectly content to leave this as yet nameless stranger the mystery she cloaks herself with. It tantalizes one to peel it away, but there is too much fun to be had in plucking the frayed edges first. It is the journey that appeals to him far more than any destination ever had. And that is perhaps why he always remains so fickle and inconstant.
His eyes gleam as she sidles a few steps closer, roaming so openly that one could almost believe he has nothing to hide. Her question causes him to tilt his head slightly, blinking slowly as a smile begins creeping across his lips. After a silence brimming with anticipation, he finally replies, “Distracting myself.” Shifting, he steps closer just as she had, until only bare breaths of space separate them. “And is that what you want? To be a distraction?”
