03-17-2018, 11:00 PM
hold me in this wild, wild world
'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be
'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be
It is quite convenient that both of the men he has recruited to his cause are of the winged sort; finding the best place to cross the ocean for the land-locked is a calculation of seasons and tides that Brennen rarely has the patience for. He knows some of those who share the islands with him are quite good at picking a place to cross where they will encounter low tide just as they arrive, but Brennen tends to pick the closest mainland shore and just wait it out. But from the Field by air, it is a straight and easy flight over the bay, even with a full circle over the island chain, so that Trekori and Andulvar can see the location of the smaller islands in relation to the larger.
When he guides them to land it is on a wide expanse of white sand beach, many yards of beach stretching behind them into the sea and ahead of them into the dense foliage. He lifts his face momentarily to the warm breeze that tugs on his mane and ruffles his feathers, breathing in the sharp salt scent of the island air. It’s nice, to leave the last vestiges of fierce Beqanna winter for their own little tropical paradise; a comfort he could never have imagined after loving the Tundra for so long. But trading in an expanse of ice, snow, mountains, and permafrost with a coast so cold you might die if you tried to take a swim even in the height of summer for a chain of tropical islands certainly isn’t trading down.
“Welcome home,” he turns to the black man and the golden boy; on anyone else’s lips the words might have been cliché at its worst, but in Brennen’s quiet drawl they seem quite honest. He is truly glad to have new Brothers joining him in Ischia, even if for a while they are just to be Ischians. Time will pass quicker than any of them think. “This is the main island, quite big enough to support many more than we currently have.” the bay turns to take a last look at the water spread out behind them, shining blue and silver in the bright daylight. “As you can see, it’s easy to keep track of who comes and goes. Twice a day there is low tide and there are a couple of crossing places, easily monitored, and most others come by air.” There are the special few who might come other ways, of course; by water, or teleportation, or something – but he assumes they can think of those instances themselves.
Turning his body in a clear invitation for them to join him, he begins to amble towards the trees, in no real hurry to get anywhere fast. “You’ll have to come back to the beach this evening – there is quite a show at night,” he adds as they leave the beach for the shade of the trees. He doesn’t want to spoil the surprise of the glowing sea-creatures that paint their shores every night, because it’s something everyone should experience for themselves – even now years later, Brennen has yet to grow tired of watching their beach turn into a work of art after dark.
Almost immediately as they follow the wide path trod into the jungle by some earlier settlers (there are a couple similar well-worn paths, so fresh water especially, but many more small or nearly invisible trails through the trees), a noise begins to build above them; rustling feathers and squawks and even strange voices. Brennen turns his face up to the trees with a little half-smile, seeing some of his favorite birds congregating quite low on the branches. One large red bird lands heavily just above his withers, talons latching securely into black mane, and screeches a very distinct word: ”Strangers!”, eyeing Kori and Var through suspicious dark bird-eyes.
“Friends,” Brennen corrects firmly, but makes no effort to dislodge his feathered attaché. “These are the only creatures that seem to be native to Ischia,” he explains. “Some are just pretty birds, but others seem quite intelligent. They can speak, though in limited amounts, and seem to understand much more than they can say. I’ve been teaching them some key phrases.” The red bird tilts his head and offers, “Friends,”, though in quite a more dubious manner than he had offered his declaration of “Strangers!”. “It’s a work in progress,” Brennen laughs, even as a small green bird swoops in and attempts to land in Kori’s mane, chirping inquisitively. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to see first?”
When he guides them to land it is on a wide expanse of white sand beach, many yards of beach stretching behind them into the sea and ahead of them into the dense foliage. He lifts his face momentarily to the warm breeze that tugs on his mane and ruffles his feathers, breathing in the sharp salt scent of the island air. It’s nice, to leave the last vestiges of fierce Beqanna winter for their own little tropical paradise; a comfort he could never have imagined after loving the Tundra for so long. But trading in an expanse of ice, snow, mountains, and permafrost with a coast so cold you might die if you tried to take a swim even in the height of summer for a chain of tropical islands certainly isn’t trading down.
“Welcome home,” he turns to the black man and the golden boy; on anyone else’s lips the words might have been cliché at its worst, but in Brennen’s quiet drawl they seem quite honest. He is truly glad to have new Brothers joining him in Ischia, even if for a while they are just to be Ischians. Time will pass quicker than any of them think. “This is the main island, quite big enough to support many more than we currently have.” the bay turns to take a last look at the water spread out behind them, shining blue and silver in the bright daylight. “As you can see, it’s easy to keep track of who comes and goes. Twice a day there is low tide and there are a couple of crossing places, easily monitored, and most others come by air.” There are the special few who might come other ways, of course; by water, or teleportation, or something – but he assumes they can think of those instances themselves.
Turning his body in a clear invitation for them to join him, he begins to amble towards the trees, in no real hurry to get anywhere fast. “You’ll have to come back to the beach this evening – there is quite a show at night,” he adds as they leave the beach for the shade of the trees. He doesn’t want to spoil the surprise of the glowing sea-creatures that paint their shores every night, because it’s something everyone should experience for themselves – even now years later, Brennen has yet to grow tired of watching their beach turn into a work of art after dark.
Almost immediately as they follow the wide path trod into the jungle by some earlier settlers (there are a couple similar well-worn paths, so fresh water especially, but many more small or nearly invisible trails through the trees), a noise begins to build above them; rustling feathers and squawks and even strange voices. Brennen turns his face up to the trees with a little half-smile, seeing some of his favorite birds congregating quite low on the branches. One large red bird lands heavily just above his withers, talons latching securely into black mane, and screeches a very distinct word: ”Strangers!”, eyeing Kori and Var through suspicious dark bird-eyes.
“Friends,” Brennen corrects firmly, but makes no effort to dislodge his feathered attaché. “These are the only creatures that seem to be native to Ischia,” he explains. “Some are just pretty birds, but others seem quite intelligent. They can speak, though in limited amounts, and seem to understand much more than they can say. I’ve been teaching them some key phrases.” The red bird tilts his head and offers, “Friends,”, though in quite a more dubious manner than he had offered his declaration of “Strangers!”. “It’s a work in progress,” Brennen laughs, even as a small green bird swoops in and attempts to land in Kori’s mane, chirping inquisitively. “Is there anything in particular you’d like to see first?”
hold me in this wild, wild world
and in your heat I feel how cold it can get
and in your heat I feel how cold it can get
BRENNEN
@[Trekori], @[Andulvar] here have some parrots
