"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
03-09-2017, 12:57 PM (This post was last modified: 03-09-2017, 01:00 PM by Charlemagne.)
Charlemagne
TOUCH MY OWN SKIN AND HOPE THAT IM STILL BREATHING
She comes in search of him. Once upon a time, she had made him smile. She had brought a smile to the broken man’s face, with a quiet confidence and serene fragility that allowed her her to hide her wish to seek out that which was lost to her. They had talked, and laughed, and she had been invited back to his home… Nerine. She had bowed her head, showed her flank and the strength of her body, but had quietly declined his offer. With a promise to come visit him one day, she left him and attempted to make her way through the forest—in search of what, she was not sure. But she had gotten far more than she had bargained for. Had it even really been a bargain? What would you do for your magic? Had she really said she would do anything? Magic was an intoxicating drug—one that could easily allow a body to ride the high, to crave and beg for more. Charlemagne was no prude. She had enjoyed her fair share of women, and Djinni’s body had been delectable… But what had happened after that in a fog of pain and disappointment was not what she thought she was going to get. Even if she had ended up with nothing, it would have been a far less crime than what had occurred. Instead, she felt less than nothing. And now, she was in need of a protector. Her body was still bruised, and she had attempted to clean herself, but the bruises were still there, and the scent of blood and emptiness. She was alone. And she was looking for—she didn’t even know. But at least I have the information I was looking for, she thought bitterly as she moved through the forest where she had stood and talked with him. She had a feeling this part of the forest was where he went to seek some peace from—whatever his real life was. Whatever had caused him to find her here in the dark. Would he still be here? Her voice is cracked, staccato and gravely. “Lior? Are you there?”
I HAD A WAY THEN LOSING IT ALL ON MY OWN I HAD A HEART THEN BUT THEN QUEEN HAS BEEN OVERTHROWN
Where Nayl sought to rule, he quietly stays at her side like the loyal subject she asks of him. But sometimes he must slip away from the salt ridden shores of Nerine, burn away the sea air with the scent of decaying vegetation, blot out the sun with tall tree limbs. In this time, he can reflect, reassure himself that he is doing what is asked. He protects the painted queen, guards her, is whatever she asks of him.
But on this day, he has gone to visit the forest to replenish the quiet solitude he seeks, fill his lungs with the chilled air of a cave long since gone. The heavy male stands in a small trickling creek, hooves wet and glinting as he enjoys the caress of the water, lips tasting the earth and all her bountiful richness.
Then he hears his name...
The dragon in him snarls instinctively, his sight and hearing sharp and suspicious. The leather wings remain tucked at his spine, claws careful to snag any careless challenger that tasted his name. Heavy skull lifts against the backdrop of the forest, silver eyes watching for a break in the scenery, the drop of dead leaves minor distractions against his abilities. In the next beat of his dark heart, the familiar buckskin mare, from a month or so ago, appears.
She is the taster of his name, creaking and damaged upon her dark lips. Lashes and lids fall over the mercury eyes eyes temporarily as he blinks, wondering what this woman wanted of him. Legs pull him from the cobblestone creek, sloshing the water with him, spattering his dark skin. "Carli." He speaks low with a nod. His head seemed so heavy with thoughts of Nayl, their child, what the future held that he lacked typical formalities between friends.
The scent of raw pain, fear, hurt washes over him in the next press of chilled winter air. The black booted mare from before, lively and coy, is replaced by a fractured replica. Lior does not understand. "What happened?" The question is direst as he looks down to her, enough space provided so he does not crowd her, as he always remains respectful above else. Both ears rotate forward in the nest of tangled locks as he listens for her reply under the weight of his gaze.
She bleeds for him. She remembers his face and scent, and lives to see him smile.
Carli does not remember the last time she saw a friendly face. The last smile saw was Djinni--and to be fair, the last smile she gave earned her a spot tied underneath a dark stallion...mare, thing. Gender bending magic. That heady scent of her abilities just barely out of reach. She had screamed her pleasure as much as she had screamed her pain, and had woken up used and alone.
But she knew where she needed to go.
The mountain.
Her body is sore and broken. Her pelt is a drab yellow, and her hair is in tatters. She is not sure how to feel about what has happened to her. Except that she is angry. And when she goes looking for her black, brooding cave man, she seeks the solidarity of a stone to rest against, to hide in his shadow and make the world go away.
Just so she could feel safe again.
She had made him smile. Could he do the same for her?
He breaks out of the bush and looks at her, alert and confused. His ears rotate forward and erect before recognition sets in--except it is not recognition. She is not as she was when last they spoke. She has been made different.
She realizes for the first time that she is alone, and so goes back to him. What has happened? he asks. Even Charlemagne is not quite sure. She flutters her burned wings on her back and hangs her head low.
"I was...not alone last night," she says, shifting her weight in the ashy dirt. A throaty cry builds up in the back of her throat, her thick black hair falling in front of her eyes as she allows the tears to begin to flow, all the while inwardly chastising herself for them. She never cries. Ever.
Who is he to judge? Was he a god amongst horseflesh? No. He is but a dark monster that merely sews together the black skin to pass as one of them.
He notices the tears along her skin, the marks of teeth along her withers. He listens to her confession with quiet attentiveness. She had been with a man yet seeks him to tell? Lior does not understand but he does not pretend he can. This tawny woman with eyes once bright. Her hair falls in tangles rather than curls and waves. He knows what may have happen but it is not his place to utter the words.
Make your confession if you will.
But the wetness that carves through her tender cheeks, darkening dramatically. He does not feel the urge to go to her but he knows it is the was expected. Never had the male ever dealt with an injured woman, a crying creature. He shifts for a moment curiously but the silver of his eyes watch, willing him closer to her now. "Carli." Her name, small and delicate on his beastly tongue, conjures up a soft strain in his throat. He does not like to see her tears. "What can I do?" The male asks with blatant confusion moving over his features like an eclipse of the sun, the question mostly rhetorical as he is not entirely sure why he asks.
He does not move closer anymore but his stands so he may cover her from any shame that she felt. He does not touch the woman but he is close enough that she may feel the warmth of his concern. He would stand there as long as she required him to. He would ask no more questions but hopefully his presence was enough to quiet the pain, the soreness in her body. He is but a simple man but he would do what he could to comfort her in this time of distraught and pain.
03-11-2017, 11:55 AM (This post was last modified: 03-11-2017, 11:58 AM by Charlemagne.)
Carli takes a step back, sniffing the last of her tears away from her, wishing them away--much like the genie had seemed to do. Crying had never suited her; but the memory of the loss of her power, and the way she had given herself away for the cost of that power.... To receive nothing and end up more alone than ever.
It was humiliating.
The haziness of the memory was blurring itself together like a fog. The explicit details of such, she could not recall. But one thing was for sure--she would not give away herself to anyone again. Taunted and teased to the brink of pleasure and then carried off into a fog of her own forgetfulness, because magic was the drug that flowed in her veins.
She did not know how to cope without it.
"I don't remember everything," she whispers, more to herself but loud enough so he can hear. Her black mane was still hanging in strings in front of her face. "But I remember the magic. And the loneliness I felt afterwards." Never had she felt such loneliness, or emptiness. She looked up then, a slight breeze blowing her hair back.
She raises her head to look at him then, before one last tear escapes down the side of her face. Her sadness is put away behind a mask of determination. A hard look. She says nothing more to him, and just revels in his company. The beautiful swathe of black he cut across this scenery of white snow.
She could not be alone right now. She was not sure she wanted to be alone ever again.
The price of magic was no longer worth it.
And so, as a snow of renewal starts to fall, Carli captures a glance at Lior. "I'm sorry," she says.
Lior stands there like a dark stone. Quiet, observant, useless. He does not reach to her nor would she allow it, he assumes.
The tears that flooded her eyes are slowly stifled but he still sees the cracks underlying her efforts. She is a fragile creature beneath the hard mask. She is vulnerable despite her strength. A small frown accompanied by a furrowed brow distorts his features as he listens to the small words that trip off her lips. She talks of remembrance (he has longed to forget his early years), she talks of magic...of loneliness. It makes the frown deepen as he breaths shallowly with a slightly dip skull, looking for her eyes beneath the curtain of dark hair.
When she raises her head, he does so as well, noting the last single droplet on the side of her cheek. He seems much of himself in her. Broken and rebuilt many times. Perhaps that is why she sought him in the depths of the cold winter woods. "Don't be sorry...it's fine." Weighted words split his dark lips as he watches her. He is a stupid man and is not well acquainted with crying mares so he stands there, silent and watching. With a bit of effort, he attempts to avert the conversation, the only way he really knows to heal, is to ignore it. "Magic? What kind?" The words grind together, rusted and gritty, as he asks. Beqanna held so many different facets. He wonder what kind she spoke of.
03-11-2017, 01:02 PM (This post was last modified: 03-11-2017, 01:32 PM by Charlemagne.)
He is so beautiful, she notes to herself. Tall and imposing. A fortress unto himself. Only the greatest would dare attempt to scale his walls.
Only the best will succeed.
She indeed broken, cracked and repaired many times. But she has always had her blood to fall back on. Power to manipulate and control her surroundings. Her need for control... to conquer. To never let them see her vulnerability. To see her cry her weakness into the dark. She does mentally note the irony in this man before her. She barely knows him, and has already showed him the worst sides of herself.
What else is there to hide?
The thought of being so exposed to someone--anyone--makes her feel more than a little uncomfortable. The fact that it is this one... She turns a particular shade of embarrassed and attempts to put her emotions away.
He would never care for her in that way. So it would mean nothing to him.
She looks past Lior, her eyes trained on the place behind him. Trying to forget her previous thoughts and the heat in her face as he asks about magic, as if looking to ground himself to a different conversation. She speaks absently and without thought, too focused on trying to banish the thoughts of him and her from her mind. "A powerful magic. Peculiar and intoxicating. Different from mine. It was beautiful. But... I'm not sure how it was different."
He stands there silently like many of the very oaks that stood in Beqanna. Tall and unwavering despite the storms that roiled within. He watches how the tawny woman blinks back a source of pain. She tangles like tigers on the jungle floor but it is with herself.
Lior can say nothing of any relevance but simply nod with a small grunt. "I see." His reply is small, two worthless little words. He can not begin to relate to the magic this woman speaks of for he has never possessed such skill. Instead, Lior stands there as he has done for so long, quiet and listening. Silver eyes watch her from beneath the thick of his forelock as believes he looks sympathetic but fails and the stoic features remain upon his face.
"And so you miss it?" He inquires with a touch of curiosity, reading her expressions.
