"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
06-20-2016, 12:00 PM (This post was last modified: 06-20-2016, 01:47 PM by Rowling.)
Rowling
Fall is a grand time if you ask Rowling. Leaves changing to magnificent hues of orange, blinding lemon yellows and harsh tones of crimson. The grasses underhoof turn as well, yellow and dull and dry, though he can’t help but like that too. The Dale is a nice place, a quiet place but a nice place if anyone was to ask the little blue colt. Well, if they could ask him, if he could hear their questions.
Rowling had been born deaf, gifted, but also deaf. Where others could hear the chirping of the birds in the grand towers of trees, Rowling could hear the absence of it, only silence, only nothing. To say that he heard these things isn’t truth, only a wish, only an idea of pretend. Instead of learning the art of speech, the act of eloquence, the roaned boy learned something else. Something quite different, even by Beqanna standards it seems. Instead of speech he learned writing, he learned letters and numbers, Rowling learned to use what he the fae had given him. Of course he could never read an actual book (havn’t any lying around you see), he would never hold a pen to paper, but he did have something that would serve. Rowling had snow, he had ice-
Rowling had Christmas.
Of course the whole thing was Mother’s idea, best to learn, best be taught. Mother had Christmas as well, Mother knew words and letters and shapes. Now it was small things he had learned so far, short words and ideas that he could ask or express, but it was terribly hard to converse with those who did not know the meaning of what was written in the snow. Needless to say, Rowling spent a lot of time frustrated, feelings of disclusion sitting heavy on his otherwise perky disposition. Sometimes he had to use pictures, statues to try and convey his meaning but even then- have you ever played pictionary with a horse? A one sided game?
Today he was at the center of the meadow, nosing about in the changing grasses and nibbling tenderly at a wilting wildflower. This flower tastes good, I wonder what it’s called?” he thought as plucked the weed from the earth and steadily chewed it up. He was just within eyesight of Mom and Eira but otherwise they had left him to his exploring, far too busy swooning over one another he expected. Instead of moping the little roaned boy began to gallop about, jumping and bucking in intervals trying to rid himself of his boredom. When that wasn’t enough he began playing with a small drift a snow he had summoned himself, checking once over his shoulder for the hue of red and bay just on the horizon. Once he deemed no one was to interrupt his game, he began tossing himself in the cool mix and rolling about. Tiny snowflakes clung to his long lashes and spattered his ebon hair with polka-dots, his bright amber eyes peeked about their surroundings, always hopeful for someone to play with.
the mind is not a book to be opened at will and examined at leisure
This body of mine has a talent, a rather unexpected one given my fathers and their less than malleable shapes. A quirk of genetics, Dad’s ancestry showing not just in the tiny spiral horn growing in twisted silver and obsidian on my forehead, but also in the delightful ability to shift. I can match the lovely ravens that haunt the depths of our home, waiting to scavenge the carcasses of Grandmother’s kills. I can mold my body into the shape of inconspicuous little songbirds, and though their twittering nature grates on my nerves I can’t deny their usefulness. A sparrow is, after all, a much better spy than a screaming falcon.
Though I do so love the falcon.
A quiet little crow though, that’s still subtle and innocuous but doesn’t chirp so brightly. That feels right. I nod to Halo, who was surprisingly the mastermind behind this little adventure, and she sets off to cause a suitable distraction. I don’t know what she came up with, that devious little imp, but I’ll not hesitate to take eager advantage of the opportunity. I have, after all, given my word. A reconnaissance mission, gathering intelligence about the surrounding vicinity and reporting back to my sisters about what delightful mischief we could get into together.
When there are no eyes on me, I slink quietly toward the shade of a large oak tree and shift into that quiet little crow shape, nearly panting with the effort. It is becoming a familiar form, a favorite that gets a little easier every time my body wears it. Muscles remember how to contract and reform, bones remember what shape to take, and how to hollow out for flight. Organs remember how to rearrange. Still, it is such work.
Good thing Halo’s so good at making noise and drawing attention.
When I am done, and even the stubborn little spiral horn has finally receded and my head is smooth and feathered, I pause a moment to catch my breath. When I can manage it, I launch myself into the air on wings not quite as steady as they will be with a little more practice, and take to the sky.
We agreed that I would go south to explore beyond the river, where it is harder for any of us to sneak away to on foot. Following the plan, I fly over the water, over forest all the way, though the mountains to the left are incredibly tempting. Sharp and craggy and glorious, but I did give my word. South, to the land beyond the river, to see what I can see.
Turn out what I can see is a curious splash of white that seems very out of place. Oh, there’s some on the tops of those mountains too, but this? This is surrounded by greenery, not by jagged rock and sky. Curious, I circle down to land at the edge of the drift, staring at the way it glitters in the light. Shiny. Ohhh, shiny. I peck at it, burying the black of my beak in white and playing with the tiny crystals of ice.
Oh! I. May have gotten slightly distracted by the sparkly pretty snow, and missed the fact that there is someone in the middle of it. Someone covered in those entrancing sparkles himself, even on his thick eyelashes. I tilt my head, my silver-grey eyes going wide with curiosity. A stranger? One little hop forward has me standing in the snow, and I let out a quiet little inquiring caw? Another hop, just a tiny step closer, and the snow whooshes up a little with my movement as my clawed feet pull out, and billows up just a little as I land in it again. Ohhh. I meant to focus on the boy and saying hello and all, I did. But it’s so pretty when the light catches it just so, and I can’t stop myself from rolling in it and wiggling ‘til I’m covered in sparkles myself.
Finally satisfied, I hop over to the boy and let out another quiet little caw? to say hello.
the moonlight glow on sallow flesh, there's beauty in our dance of death
Little one’s can only play alone for so long. I mean, it's okay and all, he made due but its not the same as having company to frolic with. Thankfully Rowling had quite a few brothers and sisters to keep him company, but not every day. Sometimes they didn't feel like playing or sometimes they just wanted to do their own thing, Rowling had learned of this easily enough. They never shooed or shunned him but he could take a hint when someone needed alone time. There was that certain look in their eyes, the way the lines crossed their features. Also there were even point blank times when they girls would tell him to go away, and Rowling didn’t need to hear them say it to know to be on his way.
Girls were silly like that, or at least the little roan thought so.
Anyhow, there he was rolling in the snow, kicking his legs wildly as he tumbled on his back. He probably looked absurd but he didn't care- Rowling did not embarrass easily. Besides, he didn’t have time to care what he looked like, not when there was fresh snow on the ground.
As he tossed flurries sprinkled about him, flew this way and that. Some of them still clung in his ebony hair, unyielding to the sun because Rowling willed them to stay, A few dotted his lashes and even more coated his feet, caking around his hooves like thick shoes.
It takes him a while to notice the bird, even as it calls to him, caw, caw. Rowling couldn’t hear a peep of it, not a sound at all. Instead he takes note of the inky colored avian when he rolls back over to his side, shaking his head to spray snow like a sprinkler. His head tilts to the side, curious of the creature before him. Of course he has seen plenty of birds in his life, plenty like this one, dark and plain. Nothing strikes him as out of the ordinary about it except that it is unusually close, much closer than most birds would have come. He doesn't mind though, actually, he likes this new closeness.
Now if Rowling was sure of anything it was that birds did not know letters, so he didn’t bother with the usual ‘Hi’ in the snow. Instead his little ears wiggled happily on top of his head with his excitement as he formed his own bird. One like the bird that was so near, except his bird was made entirely of snow and though it opened its mouth, no sound came out. Rowling didn’t know what sounds birds made, he had never heard them.
After his creation is done he looks hopefully at the real bird, proud of his work and hoping that it too likes it.
the mind is not a book to be opened at will and examined at leisure
My quiet little caws go unheeded, so I try a much louder one, my throat vibrating with the raucous sound of it as it makes its way out through my mouth. And the boy just keeps playing, rolling and tossing about and sending lovely little flurries for me to play in. So naturally I do, not minding the lack of attention when there are sparkly snowflakes to dance in, and to snap my beak at, and to stir up with a good hard flap or two of my wings.
When the boy finally looks over, I pause and mirror the tilt of his head, then hop closer and tilt my head the other way. I suspect he might not be able to hear me, because he looks a little startled to see me so close to him. He wasn’t ignoring me, then. Good, because that would have been a little bit rude, but just not hearing, well that’s a whole different story, isn’t it?
Oh, and then! With a wiggling of his dark little ears, something amazing happens! The snow condenses, gathering together and taking the shape of another bird just like me! Except white, of course, and made of snow instead of flesh and blood and feathers. It silently caws at me, and I caw right back with full voice, utterly delighted at this fantastic new trick. So much so, in fact, that my grip on my crow shape slips, and I stumble back into my filly shape, all wide eyes and baby fluff and tiny horn.
“Whoops,” I murmur, shrugging. I’ll change back when it’s time to go home. It’s still hard if I do it too much, though it’s getting easier with practice! Oh well. More important by far is my new friend! My whole body wants to wriggle with glee, but I manage to mostly restrain it to my tail, and a little waggle of my ears just like he did when he made the snow crow for me. I take a step closer to the boy, stretching out my neck so I can breathe in his cool, crisp scent. “Hi!”
Oh right. If he can’t hear me, talking is probably not the best way to say hello. Hmm, okay. Well, hopefully the huge smile and the bright eyes and the wiggly-happy all of me will convey it better than one little word could anyhow.
the moonlight glow on sallow flesh, there's beauty in our dance of death
Rowling wouldn’t know the first thing about being rude, not intentionally anyway. He simply could not hear, not a peep or a caw or a hoot. The little roan had not intentionally ignored the bird, it was something that couldn’t be helped. Even as the little avian roused calls louder and louder from its clacking beak he could not decipher the notes, nor would he ever. The surprise is not an unwanted one, it was simply that, a surprise. A brand new experience right in front of him and he was just a bit taken off guard. The remedy to such is easy coming, for Rowling was eager to accept a playmate, even if it was a bird.
The boy looked happily from his own mimicry of the animals shape, the one he had fashioned for it with snow. He was pleased with his work and was happy to see that his new bird friend seemed just as delighted in its making. For a moment he thought that if the bird liked this creation then perhaps it would like some more. However, before he could summon a shape of another feathered friend the black bird before him was rolling away- tumbling. How strange, Rowling could not recall ever seeing a bird tumble back in such a way, perhaps his new friend was ill. Ill, how dreadful and they had only just met. It isn’t that though, a sickness, it is something even more unusual and he took jerks his head back wildly as his friend takes a new shape.
Now before, there had been a bird, black and dark and happily clacking its beak. Now, now there was another horse, a girl, all fluff with a tiny horn on her head. Rowling was so very confused, not knowing what to make of the situation. His amber eyes widened, the whites peaking around the golden hues of his iris, uncertainty with a lick of fear mixed in. He can’t help the squeal of surprise that leaves his sooty lips, she had completely bewildered him in the blink of an eye. Then he is finding his feet, pushing himself up from the fresh powder in which they play and reeling back a few steps, chest heaving. What kind of Magic was this?
She is up too, pressing near him again and reaching out her nose, ears wiggling, tail happy. Rowling would have liked to be just as friendly but he didn’t fully understand what had happened. The girl’s mouth moves and he knows she must be speaking, or making noise at him of some sort but of course he can’t hear that either. In response frosty shapes spin in the air, question marks littering the space around him as he doesn’t know how else to express his concerned thoughts that roll about his head. What happened, why did it happen, how did it happen? Rowling had seen some interesting things in his short life but he had yet to see anyone shapeshift, especially not a child. Would he have been less taken back if it were an adult? Maybe.
the mind is not a book to be opened at will and examined at leisure
