"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
Nayl is unaware of its name, but she has edged close enough to peer down into the empty dust bowl huddled against a jagged mountain range. Its expanse extends far beyond what the eye can see, but it lacks grandeur. When her head turns she expects to see at least a forest somewhere, but there is nothing. No greenery, no great watering hole, or anything of the like. It’s a barren wasteland, but when she inches closer it’s as though the magic is trembling underfoot threateningly. The land knows she doesn’t belong here; there is a deeper power horded in the bosom from having been created from a much different power than the faeries. Understanding, Nayl heeds the muted warning and remains at an unchartered border.
In the distance, she can see horses scattered across the threshold where the magic is strongest and where they have collected to live. From her vantage on a lower-lying ridge Nayl is able to see the kingdom spread out and reach hungrily into the ocean. It’s truly a sight to behold, but certainly far-fetched from being considered beautiful. That opinion, however, doesn’t waver her curiosity to know more. With the Nerinians having kept secluded for so long they lack the knowledge of other lands. They are as ignorant as newborn children, but Nayl’s initial plan of action is to change all of that and to figure out what lies beyond their coastline.
Hugging the new border, Nayl waits while her eyes continue to drink in her surroundings.
He finds beauty in conquered things.
In between the scarred, gray thighs of those razed cliffsides, slow and thick, the only wetness for miles gurgles along in a thin, grey line that splits the kingdom in two. Around the perimeter edges of the gorge, within the tight and twisted corridors of scaly rock, where the wind whistles in earthy tongues.
Sad, angry, vengeful.
Conquered.
When Carnage left it could not be doubted that some of those shackles were loosed. Like a disease, contained and expunged from the body, his leaving had allowed Pangea to… grow. Stunted and sluggish, but because Her will is great, that rotten earth had incubated treason in every seed he had stilled. Slowly, as winter pulled away its icy grip and began to fill that slow and thick stream with new meltwater, sprouts began to reach from the ground like many undead fingers.
It works well enough for him.
He has mouths to feed that cannot be sated on dust alone.
He follows that slimey water across the endlessness that is his and its quiet drives him to distraction; the grayness of it reminds him that it could use a little colour.
(Blue, green, gold, red.)
He follows it until he meets the violent nothing of ocean on one side, crashing against the sick skin of his kingdom’s feet, far below.
The salt in the air reminds him of disappointment and a distant, quaking memory draws him from the edge and sends him back across the wastes to wander.
But, so like a hound, today he scents her.
Of course he does. Before he was a king, he was a huntsman.
“Hello,” he resists that primal urge to sneak up on her, instead he comes to her as he is. Dirty wing dragging like a snake belly in the dust at his left; his great horns – like a brutal and crudely-made crown – curving away from his forehead; rich and ruddy gold, those black eyes like flat stones eyeing her appraisingly. “Can I help you?”
Pangea is truly not a place for the weaker hearted. It had been formed out of greed and power. It was a place formed for those that wanted what was rightfully theirs that had been taken from them. For Rodrik though, it had been another various reason like a few others. He needed this place for its power, its protection against what has chained him up for many years.
Rodrik has been unsure of what his duties had come to be since being in Pangea. There had been no system in place, or so yet one he has been told. In this way, he takes to old instincts he knows best. He patrols the grounds, but merely out of curiosity to finally get to know the lands around him. It was far past time that he understands this new world instead of sulking in the old one. After all, there must be something this Reckoning could offer him.
The red devil spots the duo at the border (borders that haven not really been set up quite yet). It is perhaps with respect that she stands there. She, however, smells of salty air and the ocean. It is a land he does not know about, except that Pangea is close to the coastline as well. Eventually, he joins the two at their chosen spot. “Hello,” he greets them both with a nod. Rodrik sets his gaze on Pollock for more of a moment. He has seen the resident in distance but never close up. If anything, he knows nothing about him and not even that he rules this land now. Rodrik has been in the shadows of the waste far too long since Carnage had formed these lands.
At last, his nutmeg eyes return to the mare. “I am Rodrik.” A name that had once meant something, but is likely another forgotten monarchy name in the chapters of history. Rodrik had once wanted his name to be remembered by all, but these days he does not dwell on such fantasy anymore. It had been a careless dream when he could have found other ways to be someone else. If anything, he had been someone before the new world came. He had been the devil—could be if he still wanted it. This world changed it though. The darkness laid dormant for now, and so he takes advantage of this newfound freedom.
Rodrik
angels banished from heaven have no choice but to become devils
He was bored today, too restless to seclude himself to his cave. It was a rare thing to happen but, then, here he was. Sleek and wet, as was his usual, the magnificent black traced the coastline. His hooves dragged lazy paths in the sand as he followed his queen at a distance. Grit caked to his damp feet as seawater slid down his legs. His inky hair was still soaked from his dip in the ocean and cascaded down either side of his neck in random sections.
A small river played as a border between the territories, Nayl standing just on the other side. He paused as he watched, glancing over the two males that had approached her. They all three stood apart, like strangers, but the men on their side of an invisible line, and her alone on the other. He felt hunger pluck at him and, staying along the coast where the sea reach out and touch him, he resumed his approach.
Sand was swept back to the ocean as the river rinsed his feet, gliding through it with that beautiful trickle of playful water. It licked eagerly at his limbs like a pet, sending an electric buzz through his veins. He joined them in time to hear the chestnut's name, Rodrik, as he slid in place a few feet from Nayl's side. The man was not quite as fiery and vibrant as her eyes, but close.
With a subtle acknowledgement in his cool eyes for this Rodrik, his gaze flowed to the other, the horned one. He looked on in dull curiosity, but said nothing to either of them, or even to Nayl, content to simply observe and be present.
come down to the black sea swimming with me go down with me, fall with me, lets make it worth it
He finds her just as easily as a hunter would, but he lacks the stealth that one would have.
From afar she could hear the droning noise of something being dragged across the dry dirt, the scraping sounds like nails in her ears. Her skin flinches as though pelted with flights, but it’s the grating of flesh and feathers against earth. When she turns to face him Nayl is slow and deliberate, almost expecting. Her critical eyes find him and she picks him apart until their gaze levels onto one another. She can still see his crowning horns but it’s his abysmal black eyes that draw her closer. Inch by inch she creeps toward him until they are more comfortably space, their internal fires blazing in one another’s company.
”I’m Nayl,” she offers, intent to spread her name across Beqanna, ”and I take it you are the king?” He is proud, dominant, lustful. There is an air about him that he has conquered something great, something he has wanted. Nayl glances over her shoulder toward the dust and murky streams before looking at him again. She takes interest in how he carries himself, how his fathomless eyes drink her in like nectar. Nayl is not a temptress; she doesn’t carry herself with enticing smiles desirable eyes. A sudden pang of discomfort reminds her of the miles she has traveled on an injured shoulder. There are a couple cuts, but never anything to fret over. Fresh and covered with a layer of debris Nayl carries signs of being a soldier and there are still so many years still in her.
A warrior queen, but more. She will reign with an iron fist; she has seen the curiosity, excitement, and worry in the eyes of her peers. Either she will simply be strong, or she will be dangerous.
Their time alone is brief, but Nayl shows no inclination as to whether she preferred their solitude to company. Indifferent, her gaze flickers to the russet male as he introduces himself. He, too, carries a deep hunger, and she can sense the tales that he has locked deep inside. ”Nayl,” she repeats her name, flat but not unkind, before footsteps growl against the earth from behind her. Stillwater’s scent has clung to her and although she sensed his presence she never acknowledged it until now. A moment passes to grant him time to reach her. Contently, he settles not far from her side and roves his eyes across the stallions. ”And this is Stillwater,” she adds with a feeble, lopsided grin. Of everyone gathered in Nerine, it was he that she least expected to accompany her, but she doesn’t complain.
”We are from Nerine, just north of here,” she indicates the miles expanding behind her, ”and are just branching out to see what lies beyond our borders.” Because she is unafraid and she is bold to face this new world and new rulers.
"Welcome to paradise, Nayl," says the palomino waif, no longer disgustingly pregnant and endlessly angry. She seems actually light today, a complete 180 from her normal dark, annoyed demeanor. Well - not normal, but the new normal. When the fairies stole her magic she was forced to act like a normal upstanding citizen and socialize. She couldn't hide behind vapidly wide eyes and her magic, she had to be fierce to prevent being prey. It worked only for a bit - she still got pregnant and carried that horrific thing through all 11 months. The thought of it made her actually ill.
But now the baby is born and in an uncharacteristic display of affection the foal is still at Harmonia's side, not dropped in the adoption den with artificial orange eyes and a horrific stutter. Well, that happened to one of her failures. The rest faded into obscurity.
Ajatar stood near her mother, curiously peering at the king and his great horns. Since her birth a few months ago she was very sheltered. Mother had no (outward) traits, she met her grandfather but he just had wings. Pollock looked like a whole new beast, not quite horse, not quite demigod. She stared openly, aware how plain her scaled skin looked in comparison.
If only they knew what Ajatar was capable of.
"Harmonia," she greets at long last, not bothering to introduce the foal that peers between her legs.
Like a water monster in a vast, briny ocean; like a maltreated hound, slavering from his jowls.
Smells them for the skin and horsehair, animated by a billion electric charges under their bones, that make them them.
Strangers.
(She may not be a temptress, but he is a fanatic – a junkie – for the small, soft places he knows she has. Knows because he has known many like her.
His nose crinkles, pulling for scent.)
Smells, too, the strangeness that makes them not from here (his kingdom come – their firmament of dust and dead magic) but from parting mists elsewhere. “Yes, my name is Pollock.” He replies, gravel and smoke, and nothing more. But he takes that name (that power, too) and finds it somewhere safe to play.
Pangea is too empty. They are found, by feral things like vultures. He turns his eyes from her to the chestnut stallion. He smells like the crags of the hinterlands – stale and dirty. A stranger still, come to the shepherd, at long last. Pollock cannot see the devil in the red pelt, but he would have appreciated the glisten of organs beneath it.
(Pity.)
The other man is silent and still – Nayl’s man, it would seem. And then, a familiar voice. Harmonia, still a queer and unknown entity, like a knot he hadn’t figured out how to loose (like a weapon he yearned to fire), with a babe at her hip. He eyes, with no gentleness, the small girl at her side. “Congratulations,” a sardonic drone, as he lingers for a moment longer on the delicate filly.
Lingers, and wonders, and then nothing more. He looks away.
“Yes, welcome to Pangea. Magnificent, isn’t she?” He smiles his crooked, crocodile smile. He turns, then, to Rodrik, head tilting (jarred by the lopsided weight of his great headgear), “Rodrik, right? I hope you were not hiding from us out here,” he motions to Harmonia, his dull eyes containing a trace amount of some perverted cordiality, “welcome to the fold. Now, Nayl of Nerine, did you have anything specific you wanted to talk about? Or, perhaps, you can tell us more about your home, hm?”
So like a feral thing smelling after a prey animal.
Names are introduced. Lands are stated and best depicted as possible to out win the other. These are the traditions. The customs and behaviors old the world, clinging so heavily upon all of them. It seems that the old world guides them still, leading them through the darkness during this Reckoning. A guide that may simply have no use anymore in this world.
He acknowledges the newcomer at him only due to the fact that he had come at the time he introduced who he was. Rodrik had little need for names and groups as such now. He had been a king once, and surely cared little for others outside his kingdom at one time. However, it was queens and kings, perhaps loyal subjects as well, that made him pay closer attention to. He looked for those that held power and those that might possess such character to grasp for it. These were the things a king once did to save himself and sometimes his kingdom.
Then again, this all had been a time long ago. Rodrik had no need for kingdom tricks. It was all for his personal gain from now on. There are no friends, family, or loved ones holding him back. He regards little of everyone else now unless he can get what he wants. And Rodrik always got what he wanted.
The smoky black tobiano at last gives her name and place. He says nothing as of now. Rodrik has always simply enjoyed sitting back and watching others. It was a time for him to learn about another, to learn what made them strong and weak. If anything, Rodrik enjoyed a challenge if someone made it harder to see what laid out so openly. Perhaps that is what he had always liked about the stronger and independent woman—he had admiration for the women of the jungle, in the old world.
Harmonia approaches next, along with her foal. Rodrik is quick to flick his gaze away from the golden mare and daughter to goat horned stallion. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he says with a flick of his tail and soft smirk edging at the corners of his lips. It is all he needs to say now that formal introductions were given and the main task at hand has come up at this moment. He falls silence again and turns his nutmeg gaze back to Nayl.
Rodrik
angels banished from heaven have no choice but to become devils
Nayl introduced him, sneaking a feeble little grin his way. Oh, those grins of hers. His eyes flickered in interest and he flashed a handsome smirk back, then melted back to the others blandly. Watching.
There was a reason he didn't come on these excursions with her. He well remembered what she'd said at the meeting, that anyone wishing to be a diplomat would be required to show just as he had. To tag along like a good little pupil. Diplomacy was certainly not in his interests. He didn't want her getting the wrong idea. It was boredom only, today. And that telltale leash she had around his neck, though she may not even realize it even existed.
Another joined their little meeting thing, gold and light on her feet, a child beneath her. The dreadfully dull gathering turned into something more. Murky gray eyes settled on her, the filly. Of all the strangers, she was the most interesting to him. She didn't have to do anything to attract his attention, his senses already sought her out, just standing there with her mother and watching the horned one so curiously and careful. So small.
He smiled kindly, a methodical thing. His eyes lifted to say what he didn't need to. She is beautiful. And then his attention easily slid away again, settling on the apparent king. Everyone seemed to stare at him, this Pollock. He was the power here, then. Everyone answered to him. Interesting.
The other man, Rodrik, seemed to take a similar stance in this place. Watch and observe. Study them as they interacted amongst themselves. Plucking bits of knowledge others might not catch on. It amused him. And then the ball was in Nayl's court, and all their eyes, two by two, made their way to her. All but his.
come down to the black sea swimming with me go down with me, fall with me, lets make it worth it
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