"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
so oftentimes it happens that we live our lives in chains,
It is a quiet morning – with little else but the dull roar of the turning rapids, rolling over large, but smooth boulders, as the gentle morning sun touches the water with its light. The sky is open and bright – a vivid, rich sapphire, painted with a single stroke of lavender as the last sliver of night desperately clutches at the very edge of daybreak. The golden flecks enveloping his wide pupils observe the softness of the horizon give way to first light in the distance, and soon, the world will no longer be still.
The breeze is gentle – weaving through the tightly knit oak and pine and their spindly, wiry b branches – rustling through bright, lively vegetation and rattling the dry and brittle bark. The usually vivid sky left dull and gray with a looming storm, and the atmosphere is dense with precipitation as the sun clashes with the boundary line of the heavy haze – letting only bleak, minuscule rays of light gleam onto the thicket canopy, and across the roaring water below. The woodland is quiet, dark – with no light to penetrate the unyielding shadow and the bristling frigidity, it is a serene respite from the warmth of spring.
A heavy sigh passes his dark lips, as his bright (yet tired – so tired; slumber still pulled wearily at his eyelids) eyes settle on the churning river before him – it has become a source of comfort for him; a way to ease his restless mind. Eventually, he is drawn to the light – its bleak rays shining over his golden skin, weaving its light through the dense, finely preened feathers of his broad, russet wings.
The once subtle breeze is soon a forceful gust of his own doing. There is solace in feeling the wind entangle itself in his two-toned mane; in feeling the enveloping power of a harsh squall urging him along. The soft whistle of the air weaving its way between the dark caramel tinted feathers that line the broad plane of his wings soothes him, and even though the atmosphere is often unpredictable, there are very few moments in which he is content to simply be left with the stillness of stagnant air.
And then – there it is; an echo of a single snapping twig – and his hazel eyes are no longer observing the powerful river, and instead, his cheek is turned towards the east and he is faced with a bold presence. With vivid tresses of cerise falling in free-falling waves across the darkness of her skin, and searing eyes boring into him, he stands rather unceremoniously before her, blinking away the lethargy from his drowsy gaze.
She is a sight to behold, and he – well, he is altogether amused.
”It isn’t often someone manages to find me before I find them,” he muses, his voice course and ragged from disuse. ”I didn’t even hear you. I’m Canaan – and who are you?”
05-28-2017, 11:41 AM (This post was last modified: 05-28-2017, 11:48 AM by Merida.)
She hadn’t meant to sneak up on anyone. If anything, she had meant to stay hidden within the shadows and pass by unnoticed. For one who was so eager to explore and venture out into the unknown, she was rather cautious when it came to others – especially those with magical traits. With the wild red of her mane and tail as well as the same wild look in her eyes, she would appear to have traits of her own. However, the magic in her lines seem to end with her unique coloring; that being so, the strong and muscular mare tries to keep to herself most of the time. It is lonely, which she didn’t enjoy, but she has experienced too many manipulative behaviors of traited horses to not be slightly fearful of them.
The hills had proven quiet and a content place to reside. It was called Loess now, but not that the name matters. The land had become familiar and almost homey to Merida, but her ache for new environments drew her away from her quiet home. There was talk of a river, quiet murmurings about a new place that the faeries had revealed. She heard the whispers many times before she could no longer resist, and late last night she decided to leave. Traveling throughout the night to arrive just as daybreak shone over the land, she found herself staring down at a broad, winding river. Her gleaming red eyes take in the landscape, breathing in the clear, springtime air. Bright green grasses waver gently in the morning breeze; the crisp calls of birds rising in wake filling the otherwise soundless scenery. She drew closer to the river, strong ebony legs bringing her nearer at a choppy trot. Ears prick as the sound of rushing water meets her, its spray misting from the current as the water slicks over smooth stones and outcropping boulders. It was a beautiful sight, something quite different than she was used to seeing and it made her happy. She realizes, though, that as she brings herself to where grass turns into a dark, murky shoreline, that she was not alone nor was she the first to arrive here. Merida stops short, snorting sharply with astonishment. Her black hooves stand solidly in the damp dirt of the riverbank, wild and unruly tendrils of flaming red framing her face as she stares on with unequivocal surprise. He’s already speaking though and the stranger has taken it upon himself to relieve the tension of two strangers meeting on happenstance. Unlike him, she is bright-eyed and extremely alert, her skin growing taut over tense muscles. She is nearly frozen in place, unsure how to react. She presses her lips together firmly, ebony lids narrowing slightly over the flaming red of her eyes. His wings are folded casually against his sides, a chocolaty brown against the honey-gold of his shoulders and broad back. “Um, I’m Merida,” she answers with a fumbling voice. “I didn’t think anyone would be down here this early, I’m sorry if I startled you.” She admits with a slightly embarrassed look, a gentle snort leaving her nostrils. “Is the water still cold from winter?” she asks quietly. She wanted to get in.
so oftentimes it happens that we live our lives in chains,
He, too, knew the familiar ache of wanderlust – it kept him moving; always searching for adventure along a constantly shifting, changing horizon. He is as unruly and as unpredictable as the wind itself – as the wind that is a part of him as much as he is a part of it.
He had always been restless – since the moment his lungs had been filled with their first gasp of air, the adrenaline surged within his veins, and the wanderlust lingered in the very marrow of his bones. Though he had once been content to be nestled against the flank of his mother, the time had come in which he had to come into his own. Soon, the familiar ache for something else, for somewhere else had become overwhelming, and so he tore away from the proverbial heartstrings that kept him tied to the volcanic ash and molten rock that had been his own.
The sun had risen and fallen many times since the day he finally pried himself away, tucking himself within the shadow of a dark, hazy evening without so much as a word to anyone. The days had turned into months, which eventually faded into years, and still his wandering heart urged him on, never sated to simply remain in any one place for too long. There were moments in which he longed for the familiarity of his mother’s touch, or the company of his sisters, but those were often fleeting and brushed away with the same stirring zephyr that lingered somewhere inside of him.
He can see the very same uneasiness bubbling beneath the surface of her dark skin, perhaps in part because of the tension within her muscles – but the driving force behind their wanderlust is seemingly different; he feared nothing. There was nothing that he had found yet during his years that had stirred any sort of dread within the rolling pit of his belly, and so he cannot suppress the faint smile pulling at the corner of her mouth as she seemingly unravels, uncertain as to what to do, or how to react – she did not seem at all comfortable outside of her solitude.
”Don’t worry about it, Merida,” he quietly utters, a rumbling chuckle rising from the depths of his throat, his gleaming hazel eyes settled upon her and her tangled, fiery tresses, tracing their wavy shape as they cascade over the curve of her cheek. ”The water here comes straight from the snowfall at the top of the mountain – so to answer your question, it’s freezing,” and his slight smile spreads into a lopsided grin. ”but what is life without a little risk?”
His voice is gentle and certain as it reaches out across the wide berth that she has given them. He chuckles, and though she sees nothing funny to be chuckling about, she finds a hint of a smile tugging at one side of her lips. She is not herself, that she knew, but she could not help but feel as if this stranger, this Canaan, could tell too. The idea is not a pleasant one, the fire in her belly that lingers like smoldering embers seemingly dying into smoke within her. It needed to be stoked and stirred, for oxygen to enter and breathe the flames back into their burning splendor, for the light to once again reach her eyes.
It had diminished, fallen quiet beneath the silent of her now home, suppressed by her solitary restlessness and fear of weakness. Something had begun to rekindle her spirit though, but it was perhaps not in a way that most would imagine a ‘reawakening’ would appear. Of course, Merida’s personality was probably not what Heda was imagining when she announced her reign over Loess.
‘But what’s life without a little risk?’
Was he challenging her? Her ebony lids narrow over the burning red of her eyes, her smile pressing into a thin line as she contemplates him. The last time she had been in freezing waters she had almost met an icy death beneath the surface and the thought makes her wrinkle her nose. She flicks her tail against the freckled red of her haunch, glimmering like embers on her skin in the sunlight. “Little?” she repeats to him incredulously, staring at the rushing waters of the river with a single brow rising in amusement before her eyes roll unabashedly upwards. “That’s mighty big talk for someone who could easily fly away when a risk becomes too dicey.” She nods pointedly to the feathered wings at his side, beautiful and rich against his golden coat. She then lowers her head to sniff curiously at the freezing waters that mist quietly below her, her flaming red tendrils falling into her face.
