"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
You sit there in your heartache, waiting on some beautiful boy.
My red mare found herself playing along the edge of the river, absently pawing the surface of the water. She loves the water. She splashes and makes bubbles, smiling to no one. She is lost in memories this evening. The grass is green, the stream is warm after being bathed in sunlight all day, and she is content. She is remembering the moments in these common lands with her family.
They had been separated and reunited, made love, made enemies. She had helped raise two boys near this very river, and though they've grown and now they're gone, she was part of their lives and thankful for it. One was mad at her and the other was mad at the world. They'll be alright though, the pair of them. Just like their parents, the Wolf and the Wind. They'll get back home eventually. She thought of the new filly in her life, how special and perfect she was. She felt the strange inkling that soon she'd be nursing another, within a year's time. She could only await the dreams from the Earth-Mother. The love and fire she had for her mates burned so fiercely within her, she couldn't wait to contribute her own offering to the family. Her and Spirit-in-the-Sky had finally broken the barrier that Wolf-of-the-Water had crossed so long ago, and everything felt complete.
She relents, allowing the bubbles on the water's surface to float lazily away. She exhales, still wearing a grin. Her muzzle dips low to sip from the river. Once she's quenched her thirst, she turns and finds an especially lush patch of clover, she'd been having a terrible craving for their blossoms lately. She proceeds to dine, surrounded by the comforting glow and flash of her electricity and her fireflies.
Her breath is quiet, but quick, as her agile limbs carry her through the woodland with ease –weaving through the thicket with deft refinement – she is slim, slender, and yet lined with heavy muscle along her haunches, where the indigo of her silhouette fades into the very same blackness of the impenetrable copse of trees, and she is an unstoppable, unmoving force – as wild and as unwieldy as the ravenous, roiling river itself.
Her dark gaze – two-toned, one a dull and dreary gray, the other as dark as the blackness surrounding her – glitter dangerously at the sight of a familiar shadow, outlined by the softness of a celestial sky, still awash in remnants of a vivid and lustrous sunset. A wry smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth as her gaze studies the roundness of her hip, the curve of her thighs – parted, but not splayed – and the soft swell of her barrel. She is carved of thick muscle and fortified bone; a sight to behold – with sharp wit and a sharper tongue, mischief dancing within the gleaming light of her soulful stare.
Quietly, she emerges from the thicket, breathing softly across the ridge of her hipbone, yearning to taste the sunlight and wisteria that is so heavily infused into the very flesh wrapped around her broad, but feminine bone structure. The darkness of dusk does hide away her wicked smile, drawn along the edge of her dark lips, as her insidious gaze lingers too long where it should not.
”Dark-Moon,” she muses aloud, her voice a sultry hum along the surface of her skin, as her mouth brushes tantalizingly close to her shoulder – stirring a warmth within her chest; the sheer magnetism of her presence luring her closer. ”you called me Dark-Moon. And what should I call you?”
The scent that wafts through the air is one not unfamiliar to my mare, the gamey mix of wolf and equine actually quite a comfort to her. She raises her head, still chewing, and closes her eyes. the scent is faint, vague, but there is enough there for her to know it doesn't belong to one of her shifters. A rustling in the underbrush tells her that whoever approaches is unafraid, comfortable. They are subtle yet not silent. They want her to know they're coming, they want her to know they're there. Her muzzle twitches as she attempts to put an identity with the odor, and illuminates the area brighter. Then she sees her, the bluebird of death.
The dark female slinks forward, oozing confidence and self-assurance, the title of Nightmother seems to suit her well. She answered to none other than the white wolf, and even with him it was a crapshoot. Fighting or fucking seemed to be the only option for that pair. She is beautiful in the moonlight, even as she wears that heinous grin on her delicate features. She was so opposite of my mare, day to night, life to death, yet the Earth-Mother seemed to keep crossing their paths for a reason. Her muscles shift and roll beneath her scarred pelt, and even my flower child can't ignore her allure. Her ears are perked and she's watching, transfixed. She must catch herself, break the spell, she's seen this game before(trust in me). There's a swaying to the beat, a longing look in the eye, then the serpent strikes(just in me). @[Thana] is just like the beast, mesmerizing, exquisite, deadly(close your eyes). She speaks to my mare, and Jah just smiles(and trust in me).
The other mare steps in and caresses her, hot breath along her withers and shoulder. In one continuous motion she turns and faces the girl, letting a spark pop off dangerously close to her ear. There is chemistry between them, undeniably, but the red wytch is different now. A husky chuckle escapes as she licks her lips, shaking her head and making her feathers dance. The girl wants to know her truename. ”I am many things to many individuals, Dark-Moon, healer, lover, midwife, flame. What am I to you?” A smirk tugs at the corners of her lips as she speaks in the riddles that she loves so much.
The pale and delicate moonlight illuminates the darkness within her watchful gaze – the insidious abyss of her blackened iris roving over the length of her feminine physique, while her heart is thrumming excitedly within her chest. She is tantalizingly close – she can almost taste the dogwood and pine lingering along the scarlet of her roiling flesh – tendons fluid; bones shifting.
The air is rife with the electrical current seemingly stirring within her very skin, and she is drawn to her, magnetized by the sheer energy moving within the gleam of her wild, ravenous gaze. She does know desire when it is shown to her, and she can see within her dilated pupil, with her subtle shifting under the warmth of her breath - snap!; electricity sparks close to her ivory forelock and near to her erect and forward-facing ear, and she cannot contain her trill of laughter.
”Ooh, Sparky,” she croons as she has turned to face her, while her nostrils flare, inhaling the tantalizing scent of her – enveloping her, luring the predator closer to a prey she yearned to covet, to explore. Her breath mixes with her own, and she can almost taste the sweet grain that is lingering across her tongue, and she is left wondering if she can taste the metallic copper of blood lingering on hers, too. ”pop, electric. I like that,”
Slowly, her shoulder presses against her own as she presses past her, writhing the length of her slender physique into the heavy dips and ridges of her curvaceous figure, encircling her – though the dangerous gleam of her dismay gray eye never strays from her own. ”You must feel the same .. spark that I do,” she muses, her smile wicked and impish.
”You could be so much to me, Sparky,” she breathes across the swell of her hipbone as she rounds the swell of her rump, tempted to rake her sharp incisors down the length of her spine but seeing her quiver beneath her soft ministrations of exploratory delight is more than satisfactory. ”a muse, most of all. You have a lover, don’t you? His scent is all over you – and the scent of another; you have two.” She pauses, aligning with her shoulder then, looking toward her through her two-toned forelock, draped over her two-toned gaze. ”Sylva is having an .. autumn festival of sorts; an armistice in the spirit of the season.”
Then, her dark lips press against her shoulder, lingering for only a moment, warm and lurid. ”Come. Bring your lovers,” she croons, her smile deceivingly demure as she begins to retreat into the dense woodland lining the ravenous, roiling river. ”I hope to see you there.”
