"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 old familiar sting. The fucking Field.
Ugh. What an annoying fucking place.
Still though, after all these years, it’s the best place to get shit done. You can either listen to the loud-mouths spill all sorts of information, stalk recruits to hear their painfully practiced monologue, or simply stand there like of pillar until they flock to you with said recited material. There are a few more options, but nothing worth the attempt, really. She is rather too old for this shit, she thinks, but it is worth at least one more try.
The girls are somewhere on her trail, they always are. The freckled mother leaves signs for them, or word with a passerby of her whereabouts. They’re keen on tracking anyway, and Oleandar could find her mother, or anyone, without any assistance if she ever had to. Their independence could be had, the daughters that is, but something strings the three together and probably always will. Even the grandmother’s ghost lingers in the tree-line, or drifts in the fog to stay present.
City appears alone though, and in the morning mists she is only a pale silhouette. She grazes idly, almost feigning the deed while she watches. The fodder here sucks and most of it is trampled or cropped to nothing, so she browses a few acorns instead.
there was a heaven in youbut god there's a devil in me
Experience has brought him away from the Volcano today, meandering between the many bodies of the field with a less than a kingly presence with each step of his navy colored legs. His wings are folded neatly against his sides, each feather saturated with the smell of smoke and ash. He comes here to be unnoticed, to hide beneath the small talk that so often surrounds the area, keen on melting into the background and merely observing in silence - perhaps to find relaxation beneath the autumnal sun and to be alone with his neverending thoughts.
Everything you have, I had first. Are there not wolves at your door? Your rule has been long, your throne unchallenged...the pressure of ruling should be another’s burden, someone younger.
Someone that will thrust Tephra into greatness.
The Overseer snorts sharply, the cobalt-tipped color of his ears flicking back into the tangled mass of his mane. There is a curve of his neck, muscles flexing as he visibly bristles beneath the clear, autumn sun. His stature keeps others from striding up to him - it is clear that the King is in no mood for the usual pleasantries that ages ago once were so natural to him.
He has grown idle beneath the crown, becoming a weak ruler that flourished on the idea that there is goodness in each soul he came in contact with. He realizes now the foolishness of his endeavors; harboring forgotten souls and misplaced families has only brought disease into Tephra, as well as betrayal and fear.
No longer.
Nearest to him there is a woman that catches the dark oceanic of his irises, grazing idly in the morning mist. She seems well written, much like how he assumes he appears as an older and versed stallion among the chitter and chatter of the busy field. She is close enough that her presence is not begging for attention, and he is far enough away that there would be no impoliteness if he simply continued walking. But the King stops with a heavy sigh, his cerulean gaze flickering out over the sunlit field.
“I never thought I would find myself here again.”
His voice is passive, and it could easily be mistaken for him talking to himself. Part of him believes that the woman wouldn’t respond or acknowledge him at all (he is certain he would not have responded to anyone if they had found the courage to direct a comment towards him), but part of him remains curious about the maroon-colored stains that marred the speckled grey of her coat and the way she remains further from everyone else, just as he does.
She’s aware of him before it is obvious he’s going to pass by. An ear laid twists to scoop the sound of his footfall and her nostrils quiver to analyze the smell of gaseous smoke and lava-rock. She blinks at the smell and internally something thoughtful stirs, a distant memory perhaps, or a faint sign of hope. It’s not until the navy tipped stallion stops somewhat off of her shoulder that she lifts her head and looks over to him. Her gaze is brief and mostly focuses on his face. She does not recognize him, but his posture, his condition, he isn’t a wandering man without purpose; she can conclude that at least.
When his voice cracks open into the still air she is already staring ahead into the same direction as him. She is silent except for a slash of her long blond tail across one hip. The mare finishes chewing the stale grass between her teeth, nodding after a quiet delay, “…I thought I would be dead before finding myself here again.” Her prediction is almost half right.
She’s sure he’s here with an offer and normally the battle worn woman would sneer, roll her eyes and ask any approaching recruiter to just get on with their bit. The itch isn’t there, but neither is the urge to open the door more than a crack; he’ll have to swing it open himself. She blinks slow and thoughtful as she looks off into the distance, same generally direction as the stranger beside her. Mostly everything is still aside from creeping deer and the commotion of birdlife around them.
07-26-2018, 01:22 PM (This post was last modified: 07-26-2018, 01:22 PM by Warrick.)
there was a heaven in youbut god there's a devil in me
The grey woman is idle in her posture; studious yet at the same time not at all entertained by his presence. There is a certain weight that seems to fall across the broad plane of his shoulders, settling into the dark navy of his gaze. He is burdened (a feeling that he has come to welcome as normalcy) and it shows, restlessly stirring in the way he manages to hold his heavy head high as he continues to stare out into the golden grasses of the field, musefully remembering the moments he had spent here many years ago - when things had been different.
So very different.
Warrick snorts thoughtfully, his steely gaze flickering towards her casually as her voice draws him from his reverie, blue-tipped ears shifting towards her. There is a semblance of a laugh within his exhaling of breath as well as a slight nod of his head. “Perhaps we are, then. I am Warrick,” he replies amusedly, his voice thick with years upon years of exposure to the ash and smoke of his home, the deep throatiness of his baritone strong yet broken by sulfuric air. He says nothing else for the moment, his stoic gaze leaving the strong lines of her face to glance back towards the open field, inhaling deeply.
A rumbling sigh follows, rattling from his cobalt lips with a weariness and an exertion that has unwantedly become all too familiar to him. After a moment, he idly says to her: “The tides are changing and I must change with it.” He could feel it in his bones, deep within his soul; the moon and stars are shifting, pulling him towards the emptiness of sea and the ravaging waves that boil tempestuously in the beyond. “Peace in Tephra cannot be secured without an iron fist.” He’s learned the hard way - too long has the benefit of the doubt saved those who deserve death; too long has he sat by while wolves slink into his home and sink their teeth into the soft flesh of his family and his people.
“I need an iron fist.”
It is then that his gaze finally falls back to her. It is an offer, though it is not a question.
An assumption, really, that she would know exactly what he is searching for.
WARRICK
@[City]
that is SO okay! i literally just got back from disappearing for nearly a month, so the timing is perfect.
09-06-2018, 09:05 AM (This post was last modified: 09-06-2018, 11:38 AM by City.)
His voice is a welcomed rumble to her bent gray ear, her sulfur-yellow blinking quietly at the horizon. Between words the grasses brush and sway in a slight breeze, crickets begin a song or two; a chill creeping in. They’re not a young pair standing on the shallow hills, both beaten by separate battles with scars that do not necessary mar just their hides. Neither makes it obvious, but almost sure they both feel it, she certainly does.
“City.” Her frigid voice breaks the stillness and she turns to look at him off to the side of her. She reads him while he speaks, whether it is an accurate reading she’ll never know, but she carefully watches him anyway.
Tephra. Her inner voice rattles like the tail of an aggravated diamondback, her eyes still set firmly on him while her ears flick back and forth with thought. “I’ve only known one of those my entire life.” Her mother. Her tail slashes and her jaw grinds with a blank chew, casting her eyes back to the horizon. “Maybe you’ve struck iron today, Warrick.” Her ears lay gently back, “Because I’ve nothing to do lately.” Her eyes find him again, keeping to the details of his gaze, his expression.
