"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
Despite having lived with her brothers for the majority of her childhood, Wound was doing well for herself. She’d spent the first six years of her life under their doting protection. They had spent every moment together, curled around one another like gentle kittens. Wound had spent her whole life hidden in the cobwebbed corners of Beqanna, a sob story that was often sung too many times. Her reasoning was different from the common ones.
Her family was a mismatched bundle of disorders. Malfunction had been the most ‘normal’ of the four of them. He suffered from occasional seizures when the world grew too loud. But the rest of them - Skid and Smear and Wound - were a bewildering, terrifying combination of saliva and deformed limbs and lumpy skin. They were monsters from their mother, who was a monster from her father.
Wound was determined to depart from the shadows her brothers clung so desperately to. She’d urged them to join her into the social world of Beqanna but their stubbornness kept them from truly living. Perhaps once she had made a name for herself, Wound figured, they would join her in the home she would make for herself.
She’d left them after six years in their company. It had taken another year before she found herself in the field, ombre forelock swirling against her coffee eyes in the fall breeze. She felt their gazes from the moment she limped into the field. Her undeveloped right front leg (inherited by her mother’s own) cursed her with an awkward gait. On particularly bitter days, she could feel the ache of the movement in her joints, but today it was only the ache of anticipation.
Today was the day her life would truly begin.
Wound lifted her chin against the shaming expressions of those around her. All they saw was the deformity of her leg (not the way her skin would itch and flake and her eyes would swell around sand, or the way that a cut would bleed for days and render her fatigued and ill if she didn’t cover it quickly) but she would not let that stop her determination. Her face was delicate (a strong sign of the Arabian heritage in her blood) and her neck slender. In truth, Wound was delicately pretty aside from her bum leg.
She settled herself on the outskirts of the field. While her bravery was strong, she didn’t feel the need to stand as though the center of attention. Wound rested her hip against a comforting birch tree and watched for anyone approaching.
Femur has no idea how she ended up in the Field. She knew the Forest bordered it on the eastern edge but she always took great care to not end up there. Truth was, she had no real reason to be there in the first place - the Forest was her haunt away from the smoky sulphuric mire of Tephra. She supposed that shacking up there with Longclaw meant she was a resident but she’d done nothing to further her status there as anything but not did she care to. Femur had what she wanted out of this life so far even though it wasn’t much; it was enough to her.
Of course she is in her favorite state of invisibility when the trees begin to thin out, growing sparser and farther from one another here as wide swaths of field take over. A multitude of smells hits her nostrils making them wrinkle in distaste - too many, too much, she thought sourly. Her mouth turns visible, revealing a frown that pinches it from corner to corner and shows the fangs that poke out from the underside of her upper lip. Normally she held a Cheshire grin on those lips when she’s frightening horses in the forest but here is different - it reeks of sadness and she’s gives herself further away with a rather loud snort.
Might as well let them see me, she thinks as she suddenly the rest of her just sort of pops into being. Her eyes are black and have that rich shine to them that is characteristic of the bloodline she stems from; they pass over the dumps of those with their tails turned to her and their heads lowered to graze or talk with each other. Femur is interested in doing neither until she hears some gasps and sighs of revulsion and surprise. She turns her own lovely little head in the direction that all the noise seems to be coming from.
Why, it’s nothing more than a little mare with a beautifully dished face and a bum leg! Femur gives a little shake of her head; the others had no right to stare or murmur in hushed tones about the mare’s state. It disgusts Femur but gossips are gossips though they sound more like a horde of ridiculous fat old bees. She glares at a few of them as she passes, even snaps her teeth at them until she is close enough to the silver bay to see that’s she in a much more precious state of existence - up close, Femur could see the flaky skin but it didn’t bother her one bit.
She was more so impressed by the brave face the gimp-mare wore. “You’re doing a fantastic job of ignoring them. They’re all idiots anyway.” Her teeth and fangs are bared in the nice but toothiest grin she can manage.
OOC: posting while at work so no html and it’s a little messy but love Wound! <3
There was no way for her to count the number of times she wished she could have disappeared. For every disgusted stare, mother pulling her child closer, or cold shoulder given Wound had a wish for invisibility. It would be so much easier to push herself into the background - to melt into the tree trunks and fade into the grass - rather than endure the emotional torture that followed her every move.
For years she hadn’t been happy in her body. It seemed to be a phase every women went through - dealing with the curves that came with adulthood - but Wound’s unhappiness was more severe than your average teenager. She suffered through the awkward stages of life with a malformed limb swaddled against her growing breasts, and those uncomfortable stares became even more so.
She had to hand it to her brothers; they had taught her to raise her chin against the gasps and looks and shunning. They might have been rough on her during the nights she would cry against their strong chests, when her confidence was broken and her insecurity rising like a tsunami. Smear had been especially doting, though his mouth never formed words. Skid was perhaps the most tough on her; making sure she knew her moments of weakness would rise to years of strength.
Wound would never be able to thank her brothers enough for everything they had done for her. They all knew how much she appreciated them and how much they appreciated her. There wasn’t anything like the bond of siblings, especially siblings who loved and fought for and raised one another.
Her heart ached as she reflected upon her darling brothers. Lost in a daze, she didn’t notice the golden spotted girl until she was speaking. Wound startled at the sound of the other girl’s voice. Her head jerked up, coffee brown eyes scanning over the stranger. It had been a long, long time since anyone had approached her first. An immediate desire to protect herself washed over her head before she realized the other woman had been complimenting her.
“I’ve gotten used to the stares,” she commented. Her voice sounded particularly low, though it was smooth nonetheless. “Though it isn’t often someone approaches me first.” Her gaze travels over the frame of the mare, slightly critical. Wound’s brothers often told her about the lack of decency in the social world of Beqanna, no doubt trying to protect their lovely little sister. Their words echoed in the back of her mind as she watched, waiting for some sort of hint at the woman’s intentions.
I love the way you rake my skin, I feel the hate you place inside.
Femur never gave much thought to appearing or disappearing.
She never had a real reason to want to disappear, she just liked to because she could. One moment, she was there and the next, she wasn’t! Of course, there was always a thin watery vague outline to her if one looked hard enough. Nor could sunlight or shadows pass through her, so those were often telltale signs that one like her might be lurking about. But truth be told, Femur took immense delight in scaring the bejesus out of those that did not suspect a fanged invisible mare to be there.
If she ever received looks of disgust, curled upper lips in disdain, or mares crowding their foals closer; than it was because Femur had just given them one hell of a shock by seeming to appear out of thin air. She shrugged their looks off, sneered back at them, and played the wolf to their lovely little lamb-like babies. Frightening them was far too easy and it became her favorite game, especially when played in the woods of the unusually dark Forest. That had become her favorite haunt for the longest time. Now she blinks in and out of the thick hot air surrounding the volcano that guards its islands. She spends more time being visible there, just because.
Femur could not guess at what it is must be like to wish one’s self to disappear, since she gave it no thought. Could not imagine the hardships that this mare has had to endure. From the looks of her though, she seems far more durable than her gimp leg suggests and Femur likes that about her. It is something that she can spot immediately with her black eyes as they flick over her time and time again. Others might think her just a pretty face until they get to the malformed leg, then they might begin to pity her and pass her by, thinking her unfit for their plans. Femur though, has other considerations and was never one to look a gift-horse in the mouth so to speak.
She can see that she gave the girl a bit of a start but makes no apology for it. Femur certainly lacks a shred of common decency; she was not the kind to be spout all poetic and philosophical about life. “They have no right to stare though,” she remarks offhandedly, throwing a dark look towards those that continue to look their way and gape open-mouthed at the pair of them. “They really have nothing better to do, do they?” as she says it, she realizes it was more of a thought spoken aloud that should not have been. Too late to take it back though, and she blazes on ahead.
“Hm, well… that’s a shame. They’ll never know what they’re missing out on.” she turns her dark gaze from them back to the mare. “Do you typically have to seek someone out? That hardly seems fair…” Femur can tell the girl is rather astute despite the leg and whatever other ailments might be more than just skin deep; she can feel her looking her over, forming an opinion and perhaps even growing curious as to why she is there. Yes, why are you here Femur? Good question! She smiles, cannot help the fangs that kind of ruin the friendliness of her look. Not that Femur has ever been all that friendly before.
“If you don’t mind me saying, you look as though you’re in need of some place other than here. I think I can offer you that if you’re interested. It’s better than staying here, with them.” She jerks her head towards those that slowly start to lower their heads to graze, content to leave well enough alone with their stupid judgmental stares.
There’s a drastic difference between purposeful frightening (when there’s some sort of enjoyment gained, whether from the scarer or the scared) and unintentional frightening (when there is fear struck deep in both hearts). Wound wishes for the type of terror that would end in giggles, maybe with her own children snuggled against her belly.
She often dreams of that; dreams of stepping from the shadows to startle her family, to tickle their ears, to draw them close at the end of the day when the darkness grows and the sun sleeps. With her brothers to protect her, Wound never had the chance to encounter other boys her age. Malfunction, Smear, and Skid all whispered to her about the devilish thoughts men might have regarding her, though they never had those ill-intended thoughts. But as she grew older, Wound felt the deep longing to have someone’s arms wrapped around her waist, or her belly to be full with a child formed out of affection.
It would all have to start with an end to those disgusting glares. Wound knows it might take her a long, long time before she finally finds the right partner, but she’s hellbent on eventually coming across him. In the meantime, she will stick to her guns and ignore the curled lips, angry eyes, and nervous children.
Wound’s ears flick toward the other woman’s voice. A tingle of interest spikes at the edge of her mind. It interests her how perturbed the fanged mare is that others would gape and stare all day long. She mentions that having to seek others out seems rather unfair and Wound’s shoulders are rolling into a nonchalant shrug. “I truthfully don’t get out much,” she comments.
The next sentences surprise Wound. She feels a flutter of hope deep in the belly of her stomach and it nearly takes her breath away. She had never been invited anywhere - let alone offered someplace to call home. She stares for a blunt moment, as stock still as a deer listening for danger.
In truth, this might be what it is. Danger. Could the fanged mare just be calling her into a trap? Could she just be beautifying an ugly trap to ensnare her? Could she be leading her to a place of ridicule, of destruction, of self-doubt? Wound has been the first of her family (from her mother down the line of her three older brothers) to step out into the ‘real world’ so to say. Yet they had all whispered of being experimented on, of being tortured with teasing, of being judged.
Wound regards the woman with blantly critical eyes. Would she rather stay here and feel the prickle of judgemental eyes on her back? Or would she rather adventure into the shadows of unknowing? Although her bravery had waned slightly, Wound suddenly remembers the reason she came to this field anyway. She’s looking for a new beginning. She’s looking for a purpose. She’s looking for a family that doesn’t flow through her blood.
11-10-2017, 08:22 AM (This post was last modified: 11-10-2017, 08:23 AM by Femur.)
I love the way you rake my skin, I feel the hate you place inside.
Femur was fed the kind of terror that leaves even your bones shaking inside your skin through her mother’s milk. Not that her mother had been the most fearful sort, quite the opposite in fact - she was one of the few that stood up to the gift-giver, the one who could reach inside you and rip your deepest darkest fear right out of you and make it tangible and terrifying. Her father was a lowly sort of god that had looked down on her momentarily in disdain though she showed more promise than her older twin brothers, from the moment he glimpsed her little fanged mouth sneering back at his face. Some dim dark part of him must have loved her just a little bit, but her mother loved her enough for both of them. Her mother had been wise like that. So, she liked to cause a little mayhem here and there but nothing too awful that left them fearing her name like her father’s was.
She has not the aspirations that Wound does.
For kith and kin, babies fattening the belly and a stallion to slobber all over her. Truth is, she never considered it but it is fast becoming possible thanks to Longclaw. How the shimmering blue stallion had crept up on her in the woods and snuck his way into her dark little heart will forever remain a mystery but he’s opened up parts of Femur that she never thought existed. Never dared believe existed. Maybe Wound looked for something similar and that, Femur could understand just the tiniest bit even if she had just lucked into love rather than sought it. Even seeking it, she is certain that this mare will find the things she desires in this life. She just has that look of sheer determination about her despite her leg and the continued stares. Femur thinks she’ll do just fine, there will be some stallion that will sweep her off her feet, lame one and all.
Besides, how many love stories have come out of the ash and smoke of Tephra?
Countless. The blind, one-eyed and the scarred call that place home and she’s seen enough of them in her invisible lurking to know that the land harbors a fair amount of messed up partners. Yes, Wound would fit in nicely there…
“Oh, well that can complicate things then can’t it?” No wonder the mare is unused to the amount of stares despite her unbothered facade. Still, Femur has to commend her for holding up so well against the looks and the whispers. Perhaps her own perturbance stems from the fact that she was raised in a place where the grim and gaunt looking was a natural state of affairs, maimed and malnutritioned was a preferred norm. Here, too much emphasis is placed on how correct one stands and looks from the beautiful dish of a face showing desert heritage to a straight limb and a good back. No, Femur prefers those like Wound that show their inherent ugliness on the outside. But that ugliness is something that Femur finds attractive and more real than horns and wings and cheerful fake smiles.
It gets awfully quiet, almost awkward like as she awaits an answer from the mare. Perhaps she is still considering? Though Femur has no clue what there is to consider: remain, amidst the gawking or go, make something of herself? Okay, as an afterthought, that does bear some amount of consideration because it is easy to stand here and suffer the stares and another thing entirely to go be someone, someone grand and purposeful who takes life between the teeth and gives it a good shake. She feels the critical gaze of the girl on her and meets it with a blunt stare; Femur realizes the girl is giving it some thought and then, her mind is made up!
“Good!” she declares.
“That settles it then. We’re off to Tephra.” and without so much as a backward glance to make sure the mare follows, Femur sets an easy pace for the volcanic realm with her new charge in tow. Smart girl, she thinks, to reason out whether to stay or go. Smarter for deciding to go, she decides with a toothy smile and a glance back at her newfound companion. Won’t Longclaw be proud of her now for doing something useful in his prolonged absences from her side?
