"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
the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight {drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
This world was strange and different and…unsavory.
It was the only word that Woolf could think of to truly articulate how he felt about this new version of Beqanna—one perhaps more dangerous than the last, albeit quieter, but one where he was given no tools to protect his family. He was placed upon this earth as an anchor—not just a child, but one given a very clear purpose. To close the gap, to stabilize the dynamics between Life and Death so often disrupted by the stubborn souls within his family. So many of his bloodline had been arrogant, reckless, foolish. They had fallen into Death’s trap and then demanded an escape. They had manipulated timelines, pulled back the fabric of the Beyond and the Here until the very threads of it had grown bare.
Bright and he had been a last resort to fix what had been ruined.
They had been placed to anchor those souls to Life and help bring stability to the bloodline—and they had been given great powers to help them in their pursuit. Magic. Powerful magic that had rattled in his bones from a young age, but not without cost. They could use it, but they paid the toll each time. So Bright and he had worked together the entire expanse of their lives to protect the family, to keep them alive. When war had brewed upon the horizon, they had grabbed who they could and pulled them into a safe haven.
(Not that all of them had agreed. Woolf still grew exasperated when he thought of how ungrateful they had been, how hard they fought—as if he was not saving them.)
But now? Now they had finally made their own way back to Beqanna but stripped clean. For the first time since, well, ever, Woolf was but a stallion. He could not feel his family, flung out along the coast and the forests like constellations. He did not feel the pull of them and the desire (nay, the need) to look after them. He couldn’t feel them at all—not even Bright who was as much part of him as his own limb.
It was disconcerting and uncomfortable. Enough that the stallion found his mood darkened, his mouth pulled into a frown as he walked along the edges of the Forest, alone as he usually was. It wasn’t until he saw the mare that he paused, his gaze narrowing as he studied her. In another time, he may have dipped into her mind as casually as he glanced at her (little would he knew that he would not meet a vulnerable, open mind but a magician more powerful, more practiced than he). Now, he was simply left to his own devices of observation and conversation. Like he said before, unsavory.
Still, he was curious enough that he walked up toward her, dipping his head formally.
It's easy, I think, to underestimate Sunday. She does not stand tall, nor muscled, nor impressive. She is average sized with an average face and an unimposing stature. Where others pride themselves on their ability to scare, to maim - Sunday does not. She finds great solace in her congenial ways, her empathy, her everything. To her a great strength is kindness, it's not a weakness. She is at odds with most of Beqanna in this way. Her childhood showed her just how cruel and unkind the world could be. She vowed, never ending, to never be that way.
She is rarely unsettled. The approach of a stallion who fits many of the qualifications of Large Scary Brute does not upset or frighten her. It's not in her nature to be offensive, or even defensive. Everyone is met the same way - that easy smile, the body language of someone willing to speak and engage. The smallest nod of her head, flick of her tail, it's all inviting.
"Sunday," she responds with that easy smile. "It's nice to meet you, Woolf. What brings you to the forest this time of night?" The same question could easily be asked of her - whats a nice girl like you doing in the place like this?
SUNDAY
never put your faith in a prince. when you require a miracle, trust in a witch
the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight {drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
It is not so easy to underestimate Woolf, although most size him up for the wrong reasons.
He is, indeed, a Large Scary Brute—standing at an easy 17 hands high, roped with muscle, heavy head slung from a thick neck—but his power did not rest in brute force. While he could enter into the fighting arena if he wanted, he had never felt the urge. It was messy, chaotic—nearly feral. What was the point in causing so much destruction? Woolf was not a wrecking ball; he was a scalpel. He approached life with the delicacy of one much more obviously refined, his own interests more cerebral than physical.
As such, he knew that others were not often what they seemed.
(After all, Bright was more unassuming than he but as sharp and dangerous as a blade.)
So he didn’t cast her off as weak. He didn’t categorize her at all, not yet. Instead he watched her with his calm eyes, studiously taking in whatever details that he could. “I live here,” he answered casually, glancing around to the trees that loomed above them, their shapes opposing and twisted in the shadows. “I have never found somewhere more convenient.” Where you slept was such a menial matter, after all.
“What about you, Sunday? Why venture here when so many have chosen to go home?”
Sunday rather liked Woolf. Of course she rather liked everyone with rare exception. Even the surliest of beast had some redeeming quality she could focus in on and extract. Without empathy things were harder but her natural charms worked well enough. She was quick with her smile, easy with her words and - overall - kind enough.
"Home is relative these days," she told him. She thinks of the Amazons and the thick jungle air that was equal parts refreshing and suffocating. She thinks of the way the sun felt through the trees, the electricity in the air...and now? Now she loves her home and her sisters but it's missing something. The spark that made the Amazons who they were was gone. She wondered - idly - if they'd ever find it again. She wasn't sure if she was the one to help or hinder.
So she rolls her shoulders and looks to the horizon, thinking. "I am not opposed to change but I've found the transition difficult, I suppose. A loss of self, maybe?" She asks him as much as herself, deciding. Then she laughs at herself. "I've become serious in my old age."
SUNDAY
never put your faith in a prince. when you require a miracle, trust in a witch
the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight {drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
He finds her interesting, which is perhaps why he continues the conversation even when he could simply choose to turn and leave. There was nothing keeping him here, after all. He could very well turn and look for a place to be by himself, to rest in his own thoughts and observe the changing tides of Beqanna without feeling the need to muss them. There was no overwhelming urge to submerge himself just yet.
Without his powers, it wasn’t even as if he could do any good for his family.
Still, she was frank and open and he appreciated the candor with which she answered his questions. So he did not leave, instead cocking a back leg and regarding her with his his cool green eyes. “Home is always relative, don’t you think?” He had always found it amusing how so many pledged loyalty to a land that could not truly love you back. Sure, he had heard the stories of how the Chamber had interacted with his family, but even though she seemed alive in her own right, she had not loved them. It was not love that had caused her to dip in Atrox’s chest and rip out his heart; it was not love that kept Makai alive.
He never could understand why his family kept serving her. Why others tied themselves so deeply into other lands. What did they possibly get in return? What was in it for them? He shook his head to rid himself of the thought and focused again on the mare. He did not quite smile, but his expression warmed slightly at the sound of her laughter. “You do not look old,” he commented. It was not in Woolf’s nature to flatter, and the words were not intended as such. Instead, he offered them as they were: dry commentary.
