"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 walks slow and steady (yet with a dance in his feet, a limp to his long strides, and a bounce in his gangly legs). Although it is the heat of summer, he can feel the nip of fall approaching steadily. It won’t be long until the green leaves will melt into yellow and orange and red (and then snap to the ground, to crackle as he steps across them). It won’t be long until the humid breeze will whip into a blustery one (one that pulls against his shoulders and sends him seeking shelter). It won’t be long until fall will morph into winter and then winter bleed into summer and another year will have passed.
Although it is the heat of summer, he is always looking ahead.
He comes to a halt (an entirely ungraceful one, but a halt nonetheless) beside a lazy stream. Flickers of fish dance among the shallows, their bodies shifting quickly before one might hit the other. He wonders, briefly, how they might know their company is too close for comfort (intuition or instinct or movement or senses or thoughts). With a smirking lift of his lips, the trickster takes a hoof and splashes it roughly into the water. The fish vanish, leaving behind only a wake of ringlets from his movement.
The cool of the water is refreshing on his leg (especially while the humidity of summer presses against his flanks and burns at his skin). The trickster drops his muzzle to drink down some of the stream’s portion. When he raises his head, he finds himself royally bored. No problem. Someone will find him eventually. Or he might have to find someone.
Things hadn’t turned out as she had expected them to be. It only felt like yesterday that she had left her father’s herd to find her own place within the Beqannian lands, but somehow things had gotten messed up quite badly. To Esileif it had only felt like a few weeks, but in reality years had passed. The peachy two toned girl had been stuck in time, as the world around her evolved. The mountains no longer belonged to her father, instead a pale winged stallion ruled those lands. She knew that her father was around, she had smelled a whiff of his scent, but she her mother had vanished.
The bay and faint orangey white mare lingers underneath the shadow of a tree, as the water of a small creek flows past her. Esileif wonders if she should change the comfortable shade for the water. She’s tired of doing nothing – for the past few weeks all she had done was linger around in the Meadow – and thus she moves her body forward, towards the cool water. The sun burns on her back and the cold water is almost icy if you would compare the two. Slowly and carefully Esi starts walking down the stream. The coolness of the water makes her think about her father, who has the power of manipulating ice, and she cannot stop the small smile that pulls up the corners of her lips.
Lazily she continues her stroll, sometimes stopping in favour of dipping her head towards the water to drink some of the water. She enjoys the peacefulness of the moment. Esileif actually likes the summer, she likes to feel the warmth of the sun on her back and the lazy afternoon naps. But she cannot say she would miss the flies that gather around her and create an itchy feeling on her skin. Snorting softly she stops again, letting her eyes wander across the plains of the meadow. When she had left Esileif had honestly thought she would find a new home in no time, but that was something that also hadn’t turned out as she had expected when she had left her parents’ sides.
The trickster watches her as she walks. He is a predator to prey (the suppleness of her curves sending shivers down his spine, the knowledge that her blood pumps beneath her skin making his teeth ache to puncture, the lilt of her steps causing him to wish to cease them dramatically) and his lip curls in barely-withheld desire. She is a lone fish swimming in the sea and he is the shark rising from the depths.
He pauses before approaching her. He could easily probe her eyes into thinking he is someone else (someone impressive and deep-voiced and handsome and love-able) but he decides against it. He is content with his two mares for the time being, one already having a child on the way. So he steps deeper into the creek, scattering the fish that had drifted back in while he thought.
“Summer fits you well,” he says by way of greeting. His tricks itch to play, his sandstorms complaining that the water does little to bring them forth. He hisses in his mind at them (crooning for them to silence their whining, promising they will have their turn soon, whispering that they will not have to wait forever) while turning his bruised gaze (blue and black in the right eye, blue and white in the left eye) toward her splashed face. “The name’s Lokii.” He doesn’t ask for her name. She will give it if she wishes.
While his tricks and storms whisper and beg to be let out of their cages, he waits patiently for her answer (mischief and chaos twining between the colors of his eyes).
Her gaze meets his and as she watches him approach she tilts her head a little to the side. Just like herself he had made himself comfortable in the water, through which he now wades. The bay and faint orangey white girl cannot help but to let her eyes wander across his skin. He is marred with multiple scars that stand out against his still colored coat (as other places make her suspect that his coat would gray out sooner or later).
A smile pulls up the corners of Esileif’s lips as his words – or compliment as she takes it – reach her ears. Like the little princess she is those words flatter her, yet at the same time she takes them for granted. After all, he only spoke the truth, right? The young girl nods her head as he introduces himself, but she does not lower her head to her senior as she replies. ”Esileif.” Her curved neck is stretched as she steps forward, reaching out in his direction, to take a sniff of his scent as she offers her breath to properly greet him.
Esileif cannot take her eyes away from him. It aren’t just the scars, but his eyes too. Both blue, but also one black and one white. Loki’s eyes are strange and unlike hers, as she is just odd eyed. She can feel a sense of danger, but at the same time his mysterious appearance is alluring. ”I’m quite a summer lover, I’d say.” Her words are meant as an indirect reply to his first greeting and as she flicks her tail to scare some flies she waits for his reply. Her eyes never leaving those strange eyes of his.
