"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 moved through the forest quickly, as he had once dreamed of doing.
His cloven hooves barely touched the earth, the mulch barely flattening underneath his juvenile form. He could feel the power that had once been denied to him pounding in his chest, in his head. He could feel it and it felt natural. The last year walking along this year, stripped naked of his true form, felt almost like a bad dream—almost. He kept the memory of it tucked away, careful to not forget the powerlessness of it or the anger of being denied, but he indulged in the return of it. The gifts that he now flexed.
Soon, he would find his father and let him enjoy his gifts once more.
It would be the good thing to do, as a son. It would secure him a place as a favored child.
For now though, he simply enjoyed the moment—the power of being able to run faster than any around, the ability to run for hours without being winded, the agility that let him weave through the trees without care. It was only when he saw the brutish stallion that he slowed, that he checked himself first into a gallop more akin to a normal horse and then to a leggy trot and then, finally, to a walk.
It was only then that he made his way toward the other, a studious glint in his eye, a promise of something more flaring in his chest. Call it intuition. Call it whatever you may. He did not call upon the Fear—not yet. Instead he simply paused before the other, angling his head toward him, the silver of his forelock covering the bruised darkness of his left eye. “Hello there,” he greeted in a throaty whisper, the sound careful and calculated.
“What would you do to take back what has been stolen from you?”
It would be a question he repeated often in the coming year.
A brush of noise interrupted his thoughts. He'd been gone somewhere. Missing. Like a wicked warp of time he was thrust on the earth in a strange place, with a stranger's memories. The rustle was as though an angry wind ripped through the forest, shook the trees in its wake. Then, like a sentient being, it angled towards him. Let it come. He could not be seen.
A boy materialized from the bustle, slowing his pace in steady increments and -staring right at him. Nier's ears tipped back in annoyance. He'd thought his wings felt a little odd when he awakened, and now it was clear his invisibility either was gone or did not work on this young man. Something was amiss, and it was infuriating.
"Hello there," the lad greeted. Bitter frustration burned within his eyes as he withheld a response. The child should not even be able to see him. Of all his lasting memories, he knew this to be true. He turned away, his slate gray mass swallowing the light trickling through the canopy. Let him take a hint and bugger off.
Then the brat spoke again.
"What would you do to take back what has been stolen from you?"
His cold eyes narrowed and he scrutinized the boy over his shoulder. "I'd stuff your little face to the ground where it belongs, -six feet under. Gut you and let your bowels poison the earth, mark your grave with a dead, hollow tree for all to piss on as they passed by," he said instantly. His stare swept over him again, taking in his disfigured feet, dark and gold coat, sturdy horns.
"Damn, you're ugly," he sniffed. "I can't find you a lady, if that's what you're wanting. Don't think anyone could." He squared up and stared at him. If this little creep could restore his invisibility, he couldn't imagine what he'd want in return. What did Nier even have to offer?
What do you want.
ooc: super quick temp html and sry still gotta feel him out a bit. ^.^
He did not burn like kindling, set aflame at nearby flicker. Those who did were foolish, quick to the trigger but the first to be snuffed out. They lacked control, discipline. Anger was but one bruise in an artist’s toolkit—but one hue. It could be magnificent, but it had to be wielded correctly. To dip the brush into the crimson paint, one must be ready for the wound it would create on canvas. If you controlled it, anticipated it, the end result was magnificent. If not, a disaster. Bruise had every intention of of creating a masterpiece.
So he did not rile at the stallion’s snapped threats, although he did not take them idly either. Instead, he simply gave a slow, empty smile—the gesture barren and frighteningly controlled on his coltish face. “It is a shame you must yell so loud to distract from the rattling of silence in your mind.” He watched him then with thinly veiled disgust, irritated at the lack of disrespect, at the crass display of aggression.
His mind reached outward, crawling toward the threads of the Fear that tenuously hung between them now. He plucked at them like a violinist, playing them carefully. He did not want Nier on his knees trembling, but he would not mind teaching him a lesson. You did not spit on the Fear; you did not take it lightly. To curse Bruise was to curse Pollock, which was simply something the boy could not ignore.
“You should learn to be grateful when offers you a gift,” he hissed under his breath, pulling the threads of Fear more surely, more deftly now. “And you have the gall to ask what I want.” His eyes were brighter, but he remained still, the young muscles underneath his coat hard.
“What is it you seek?”
Bruise
head like a hole; as black as your soul.
no worries! same thing here regarding the fear induction. up to you how he reacts or if he even feels it.
11-20-2016, 12:11 AM (This post was last modified: 11-20-2016, 12:14 AM by Nier.)
NIER
He studied this odd creature before him passively. Of course he wanted his invisibility back, otherwise he would not still be standing here. It irked him that this child seemed to have what he wanted, or a way to retrieve it perhaps, and was clearly aware that he held the power here.
"It is a shame you must yell so loud to distract from the rattling of silence in your mind," the boy said smoothly, a deadly grace in his demeanor. Nier ignored his insult. His own response was simply an easy barb ready to throw at anyone who bothered him, tossed out in annoyance. Normally it did the trick and people tended to back off. Not this one, but then he didn't really want him to, did he. He had something Nier wanted.
The colt's pretty face twisted into something akin to disgust, and the elder's eyes narrowed warily. As though it were entirely natural, cold fear chilled his blood. Gooseflesh broke out across his skin and he glanced down at it. He was old, perhaps older than he looked, and was no stranger to the vast variations in abilities some possessed. Had he not been so experienced, he perhaps would have easily fallen prey to the sensations that felt so genuine. The boy was powerful.
Golden child tugged harder at his emotion as he continued his speech. Nier's ears flattened, locking away the building terror that he knew was not truly his but he still felt as surely as though it were. Didn't your mother teach you not to play with your food, he ground out evenly, leveling him with a pointed stare. He had no intention of becoming anyone's meal, his old bones were much too dry and bitter for even the most vile creature's taste.
".. and you have the gall to ask what I want," he'd said before finishing with a question.
You asked what I'd do to get back what was taken from me, he explained to the child, sore that he even had to do so. Was he so focused on his games he couldn't even follow their short conversation? I asked what you wanted for it, if you even have such a power. Now you ask what I seek? Is it not clear that I seek what you have offered?
Tell me what you want for it, and restore my power. Then you can be free to play your games on one more easily fooled. He stood solidly, bloodless wings folded naturally across his slate-gray ribcage. Whatever this boy would ask of him, it probably wouldn't be good. But did he really give a damn? For his invisibility back, he'd no doubt follow through with anything easily enough.
He appreciated when they fought, when they bit back, when they eyes grew steely. It stirred the predator in his belly, that which hungered for the hunt, for the struggle. For a moment, the black fingers clawing out from his mind considered toying with this stallion further, for playing upon the threads of the Fear until he broke into cold sweats, until his knees hit the ground like the green-eyed mare who named him.
It was an appealing idea and he mused over it momentarily before dismissing it.
He had too much to do—too much to accomplish.
At the mention of his mother, his eyes flashed, turned cold and his smile turned sharp. He did not like to think of her, plain and powerful, curled up (he assumed) somewhere on the Mountain where he had left her. One day, she could be his undoing, suppression that she was. She was the only thing that could damper the gift that now flowed through his veins. He would have to end her eventually. Just not now.
“I want a favor, of which the timing and details will be my own choosing.”
Loyalty was hardly earned nowadays, Bruise thought. It was better to buy them now. To carefully place them like grenades so that they were easy to detonate when kingdom come. But, to be honest, the whole process was growing boring and he yawned slightly at the man before nodding. “You shall have what you seek.” He flicked his tail against his haunches as he played upon the threads of the Fear.
It would Nier well to correlate the Fear with the return of the gift.
“Remember what is owed,” he reminded quietly once the deed was done.
Then, with an uncharacteristic wink, “And have fun.”
"I want a favor, of which the timing and details will be my own choosing."
His ears flattened at the words. But for the price of his gifts, he would oblige. The boy could hardly be all that bad, right? Fetch a girl here, knock someone's lights out there. Simple stuff. Simple boy. Just strange, funny-looking, and incredibly annoying with that Fear-inducing of his.
Ah, yep. And there it was again, a little pluck at his senses. He bared his teeth, yellowed with age. But with the Fear came a zip of magic. His cold eyes drew to his wings. A flow of magic riddled across the foreignness of them, and with a rustle and one good flap, the offending strangeness dusted and became the wings he'd been born with.
But that wasn't all he'd lost.
He stared at the boy with a malicious grin. Whatever you say, boy, he growled to him.
And in a blink, he was gone.
He stirred a mess of leaves and debris as he lifted himself from the earth, climbing higher and watching the colt. Higher and higher, where the sound of his effort gradually drew quieter. Then he needled himself straight down in a dive-bomb, a bullet for his troubles. Just as he got to the boy, his wings blasted outward and raised him back to the air, letting out a good kick in merry defiance as he left him, a broad grin on his invisible face. He didn't aim, didn't care whether he hurt him or not. His point was made.
He owed a debt, and he would honor that. But he was no meek peon to do be at his beck and call.
