"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
I had a dream that we were dead, and we pretended that we still lived
He should be used to the fickle vagaries of this world by now, but he is not. He is not certain he ever will be. For a time he had thought himself whole and healed, a bit less, a bit more ordinary, but not a monster. Something his father could have been proud of (he still remembers the aversion he had had, the thinly veiled distaste and alarm. Remembers it as though his father still staring at him, those hated emotions clear in his eyes).
For a while, he had been almost beautiful.
No longer. No more is he the handsome, well-filled out stallion of glistening black and glittering gold. He is once again what he was, once more exactly what he had been born. He is still black with vibrant points of gold, but his skin now stretches taut against his bones, the patchy fur dull and lifeless. His eyes are once more a sickly, milky blue rather than pale, shimmering gold. He can almost feel the rattling of his bones, the rough slide of skin against protruding hips and shoulders, the sharp sting of splitting skin. It does not matter that he can stitch the flesh together as quickly as it breaks. There simply is no hiding what he is.
A monster.
And so it should come as no surprise that he lingers amongst the shadows of the forest. His black skin blends almost perfectly with the thick, inky darkness of the shaded groves he has called home for so long now. Were it not for the occasional flash of gold, the faint, irregular flashes of light amongst dark (he cannot seem to keep himself from reaching for it, toying with its silken caress. He had missed this part, the feel of bright purity molded to his touch, perfect light to brighten his darkness), he would be all but invisible.
With a sigh, he leans against a nearby tree, thin neck rising as he lifts his head to gaze at the world, intense longing deep in his pale, deathly gaze. For a moment, he feels almost brave enough to take on that wide expanse, but his feet do not move. He might long for the light, a tug to his soul almost impossible to ignore, but he belongs in shadow and night. A creature of two worlds without a home in either.
Hearts will never be practical, until they can be unbreakable. (But I still want one.)
Magic. This was not a secret, any more than how some of the horses (the Tin Man included) were quietly lacking in it. But it was one thing to see a horse with wings or one shooting fireballs, or any number of additional powers or weird colors, and another thing entirely to see a dead horse walking around.
"...Okay."
The snowflake Appaloosa had to take a step back.
Well, make that two.
He has seen a few nearly-dead horses who'd gotten to the walking-skeleton point, but this one's hide was splitting with each step and there was a distinct lack of blood that freaked the Tin Man out even more than rivers of crimson would (because that would imply a normal heart, after all).
Nayl’s eyes gleam curiously when she sees him, when she sees how his flesh splits apart then stitches back together again and again. She sees how his points almost glow in the sunlight, much like her grandfather. A fleeting memory, really. Tiphon played very little in her life as he had been more trained on his real family – his two loves – and less interested in the dynasty he helped create in the Jungle.
It never bothered Nayl. She only ever had mother, but even that had been brief. Father passed not long prior.
But to see this man, cloaked in the reminiscence of her family, draws her from the shade of a deciduous tree. Much of this forest is dappled by the canopy, but for a heartbeat he passes beneath a sheet of light so that she may glimpse his face. Her leg lifts for another step, but then she takes pause upon noticing another male sidle closer. It doesn’t escape her notice how drawn aback he is by the undead stallion. An amused chuckle slips past her lips as she finally edges close enough to be seen and heard. ”You aren’t quite use to the wonders of Beqanna, are you?” Her brow lifts up, but furrows when her head turns to the undead male. ”You’re related to Tiphon, no doubt,” her lips are pursed tightly as she weighs the situation and scrutinizes him. ”Although I always thought prodigy of an angel would be a hell of a lot better looking.” She had only known a couple of her aunts and uncles, never extending a hand to them, but even in her experience they had all been beautiful specimens.
He, however, is something entirely new.
”What’s your name?” She finally asks, first to walking corpse, then to the wary stallion at her side.
07-06-2017, 06:50 PM (This post was last modified: 07-07-2017, 01:21 PM by The Tin Man.)
Hearts will never be practical, until they can be unbreakable. (But I still want one.)
"Well, I'm used to magic, just not this kind," the Tin Man points out. "Also, who are you to say he's not good-looking?"
The Tin Man didn't have much of a special opinion on himself--both humans and horses in his old life had liked the contrast of white spots on a black coat, but it wasn't like the spots helped his jumping or made him run faster, so he'd always been neutral about them.
Plus, how utterly not-caring do you have to be, to come right out with "your family is pretty, but you aren't?" In front of strangers, too?
The Tin Man shook his mane out and took a step towards the not-dead horse. He'd never had much patience with the stereotypical "herd leaders," and Miss Boss-Mare was no different.
07-17-2017, 04:07 PM (This post was last modified: 07-17-2017, 04:08 PM by Jinn.)
Jinn
I had a dream that we were dead, and we pretended that we still lived
He should be used to garnering attention by now, but he had had a blissful respite. He had been normal, for once. Unexceptional. Unfortunately the undead draw notice. Eyes follow him like flies, and it is distinctly disconcerting.
It is why he travels by forest, from the shadow of one tree to another. He is not invisible in this dim light, but perhaps he can escape some notice.
Today though, he could not be so lucky. Today, when the thought has just barely entered his mind to venture from his sheltered home, he is struck hard by reality. By the truth. Perhaps, in its long absence, he had grown more sensitive to the way he looks. Or perhaps everyone else had simply forgotten. Of course, he is not particularly inclined to believe the latter.
Still, when the dark stallion dusted in white stumbles upon him only to quickly retreat, he flinches. The sharp jerk of his frail body is hard to hide, but the man’s exclamations cause him to draw into himself almost reflexively. And then the mare comes, appearing from the trees like a ghost, an amused reprimand quick on her lips. In that moment, it becomes too much.
It takes only a thought, almost instinctual in its nature, to draw all the light from their closely nestled alcove, to push it away until he is all but invisible in the darkness. Drawing a shaky breath, he closes his eyes, as though he might block out what he is from his mind as easily as he had sight. They fly abruptly open though, when his father is mentioned by name. Tiphon.
He exhales sharply before allowing the light to trickle back in, to illuminate the painted mare and snowflake stallion while leaving him in shadow. After a moment, he roughly responds in a barely audible voice. “My father.” He hesitate a moment before asking, “How do you know him?”
He tries valiantly to ignore her rather scathing comment on his appearance, it is only among the first of many after all. But he cannot quite contain the uncomfortable shifting of gilded feet. When the other stallion comes to his aid however, he smiles. A faint curving of his lips, more pained than happy, but true nonetheless. “Thank you,” he responds a bit gruffly. Clearing his throat, he continues, “She’s right though.” It hurts to say so, but even he cannot deny the truth.
After a vacillating pause, one in which he debates the merits of excusing himself now or waiting to see what might happen, he answers the painted mare’s question. Albeit slightly hesitantly. “I’m Jinn.”
Hearts will never be practical, until they can be unbreakable. (But I still want one.)
Oh damn it, the not-dead horse had powers PLUS whatever crapshoot magic made him look like a corpse! The Tin Man tossed his mane as the dark swelled up around them. Not that he couldn't see in the dark, but night was when the predators came out and they HAD to watch for threats.
He let out a breath as the light came back after a blissfully short pause.
"That was... exciting?" Well, it was exciting in that his heart rate went up and he was ever-so-slightly on edge, so it wasn't a LIE. "Hello, Jinn. I'm the Tin Man."
