"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
12-02-2018, 10:51 AM (This post was last modified: 12-02-2018, 10:52 AM by North.)
She's grown to dislike mornings.
It reminds her of how old she's getting. In the warm light of sunrise her curves grow sharp, her air of mystery grows small and solid and real. There is grey flecked on her muzzle and across her withers, there is a weary hardness in her eyes that can only be explained by time. If she is beautiful, it is in a subtle way.
It is clear she has been traveling by the mud that cakes her legs and underbelly, and the brambles in her long silver tail. It is impossible to tell if she is tired. She wears an expression that suggests she is used to always being tired, the sort of look that should be reserved for grandmothers and lawyers-- although she falls in neither of those categories.
Handsome men were never high on her list of priorities, so when the world began to end she had forgotten about the golden buckskin and the way he made her feel a bit like a field a wheat when the wind makes it dance.
She does not recognize him at first. When he approaches, volcanic steam billows between them in waves. Sometimes he is just a dark shape barely visible through the haze, like a dream or a ghost, and other times he is so very real. And then he stops a few lengths from her and the curtain of steam between them is thin now but she can still see all the details of his face that she had either forgotten or not noticed to begin with.
She had forgotten how he made looking good seem so easy. (It is vaguely infuriating.)
She had not forgotten his name.
"Hello Magnus." After hours, maybe even days, of silence, her voice sounds unfamiliar to her own ears. She hears it as he might-- defensive, surprised, pleased.
"It's North," she politely reminds him, with a teasing smile that suggests "but you didn't forget, did you?" She gestures to the black cat curled in a tight little ball on the small of her back. "This is Arty. He found me after I died. Maybe because I died." The circumstances are a little fuzzy (death will do that to you) and the cat had not been very forthcoming with the details. Arty groans at the mention of his name but does not stir. It is unclear if he is asleep or busy ignoring them.
She peers at him, looking for signs of the contagion-- bloody nose, ragged breathing, the hangdog look of a man waiting to die. He appears healthy, but she needs to be sure. She had always been a straight shooter, time and even death had done nothing to change that. "Are you infected?"
Her voice is carefully neutral, but between the two of us, she's hoping his answer is no.
N O R T H
"In her the earth was silent, as it is silent at sunrise,
and the earth in her was profound, like the sunrise."
She is a memory that has stuck underneath his skin, something that breathed of the old Beqanna and all of his memories associated with it. So he doesn’t hesitate when he sees her coming up on the border. He doesn’t hesitate when he swings his heavy-jawed head in her direction, his gold-flecked eyes peering at her through the fog and the smoke and the haze. She is like a dream as he approaches, something that makes complete sense and yet none at all, something that dips in and out of reality.
When he finally gets close enough to make her out completely, the thickness of the air abating enough to see the gray flecking her muscle and the dark brown of her eyes, his handsome face grows warm. Her voice is not as dreamy as the rest of the atmosphere, something about it clipped and short, and it only serves to deepen his crooked smile, reminding him of the edge she had worn even in the field.
“North,” he repeats her name, his whiskey-voice wrapping around it lightly—part greeting, a part rebuttal that of course he had not forgotten her name. Still, he doesn’t defend himself in such ways, letting the glint in his eyes do the speaking for him. Instead, his gaze turns to the cat curled on the back, one ear flicking forward in the tangles of his mane. When she mentions her death, something in him tightens, something that makes him taste saltwater on the back of his tongue, the pressure of waves in his bones.
He shakes it from himself quickly, refusing to let the sticky fingers of his memories drag this down.
“I would have liked to find such a friend after my death,” he muses, the faraway look in his eyes clearing as he shakes his head, focusing on her more fully. “ I am not,” he says simply, “although I do not think that it will take me long to find it. I am not exactly quarantining myself to my home.” His lacerated lips curve upward, and he wonders if she will understand the drive that takes him outward, the need to see the other lands, to travel to the field, to check in on the other kingdoms. “How have you fared?”
He shouldn't look so pleased to see her, and she shouldn't feel so flattered.
(whatever they say about old dogs and new tricks-- she could learn to bend over backwards, tie myself in a pretty little knot for that crooked smile. She hates that she would do it, but she would still do it.)
But we are who we are, and the show goes on.
"Good," North says, and her lips curl in a little catlike smile. "You don't belong in quarantine." A cage is a cage no matter its size or purpose, and no wild animal deserves that. She steps closer, bumps her nose to his shoulder as though they were old friends and not slightly-more-than-strangers. He smells like a word she's forgotten. (we know each other, like the river knows the sea even before it gets there) From here the flecks of gold in his eyes look sharp enough to cut, and she realizes with a sinking feeling that his bones are full of stories she could never dream of.
(no, we don't know each other at all)
"How did you die?" Her heart feels uncertain, like she isn't sure she wants to know, but that's never stopped her before. She breathes Magnus in and it centers her, for some reason we don't know.
North should feel small and weak next to him, brittle, but she doesn't. She feels nimble and light, moonlight made flesh. How has she fared? Well, "I'm not sick, and I have at least one friend in the world." The black cat, sensing he is the subject of conversation, opens a single green eye. This eye stares at Magnus for several seconds without any apparent emotion, and then closes once more with a quiet sigh. "I should be good, but... I'm bored. It's just always more of the same, you know? Even when the world's falling apart, it's not really." Not if you don't fear death. Not if you don't have anyone to lose anymore.
She had not intended to say these things but out they come. Blame that stupid smile of his and the way it sidles in right next to her bones.
N O R T H
"In her the earth was silent, as it is silent at sunrise,
and the earth in her was profound, like the sunrise."
Gods, how he could lose himself in a moment like this.
She is shadows and light and he is fascinated by the play between them, by the moments of the silence in between. His gold-flecked eyes brighten, betraying his interest, and he watches her intently, gaze only sliding away to look toward the familiar that curls on her back. “No one belongs in a quarantine,” he breathes, trying to imagine what it would be like to have your heart and soul caught in such a vice. “The soul withers behind bars.” He looks up for a moment, just a breath, and feels the wind rustle through his mane. “I was born and raised in the jungle. The Amazons don’t raise their young to enjoy containment.”
Twinge would have gone mad in quarantine, and there is something like a nostalgic spark in his eye as he tries to imagine his mother calming down long enough to be caged. Trying to imagine his panther of a father, a more ferocious version of the animal on her back, listening to rules of borders and boundaries. No, neither of them would have listened to such a thing and there is a wild spark in his chest that raises its chin and balks at the mere thought of it, that bristles at the idea of ever having to remain trapped.
Still, he breathes out the disquiet, reminding himself that he is not trapped.
He is free to come and go as he pleases.
Free to risk the danger beyond the border.
She mentions his death and his face remains neutral even as the waves churn beneath the surface. “I was murdered,” he says simply, and part of him is amazed that he can say it now without flinching. “I watched as he killed the mother of my children and then as the waves washed us both out to sea.” He hadn’t been strong enough to stop Trashlip. A single misstep had been his downfall, enough to give the other stallion the advantage—enough to spell destruction for him and his lover. Enough to drive him below the water.
He shakes slightly, letting the dust rise from him, letting the memories fade. “But you didn’t come to listen to such morbid stories from a stallion as old as me.” None truly did. None came to listen to him wax poetic about his youth or his death or the time in between. “I am glad that you are not sick,” he says softly, returning the touch of her nose with one of his own, letting it linger in the curve behind her jaw. “But I would disagree that you only have one friend.” His smile deepens as he finds her gaze.
Her words rattle the ribcage surrounding his heart and he laughs slightly beneath his breath, turning his eyes toward the border and what lies beyond. “Can I tell you a secret?” The Tephran summer is warm and he feels a familiar sweat build beneath the tangled, matted pieces of his mane. “Part of me wishes the world falling apart was louder, more destructive. There is a very dark part of me that grows bored with the quiet—even when I know it means safety for the ones I care about.” He finally drags his eyes away from the horizon to find hers. “I have a hard time reconciling the need to protect them without numbing every inch of myself. How do I find a balance between peace for my family and adventure for myself?”
01-03-2019, 03:52 PM (This post was last modified: 01-03-2019, 03:53 PM by North.
Edit Reason: oopsy
)
They say the past is in the past, but they don't know--
( She was born by the sea and raised wild, whipped by the wind and cradled by cold salt water.
Later she died in that cradle, and even when she was reborn,
a part of her stayed behind.
She can feel it still out there in the ocean, that sharp-toothed ghost of hers.)
They say the past is in the past, but they don't know. So when Magnus speaks of the Amazons, and then of how he died, North can only guess at what scars he carries in his heart, and if they're anything at all like hers. Technically she was murdered too, but really... she only has herself to blame. North signed her stupid self up for a stupid game without having a clue what the stupid stakes were. (In her defense, who goes trick or treating and expects to die??)
"But you didn’t come to listen to such morbid stories from a stallion as old as me"
She narrows her eyes at him a bit and almost snorts "I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to hear the answer," but she grudgingly lets his words be what they are-- a change of subject-- and nods her head. (She doesn't know why she holds back-- didn't she warn him that she fights with words instead of tooth and hoof? Maybe it has to do with the fact that she's relieved he didn't ask about her own death.)
North loves a secret, and she thinks anyone who doesn't is a terrible bore. She believes secrets should be kept that way-- secret-- and so she is not in the practice of sharing secrets, but she gladly listens to them. So she leans in toward Magnus with an eager gleam in her hazel eyes, and for all the years between them they still could be just teenagers hunched over a conspiracy.
He speaks and she is silent. He probably knows the effect his voice has, how she wants to swim in it. In case he doesn't, she is careful not to let her eyes meet his. "Maybe they're stronger than you realize. Look, I don't know who these loved ones are," and here she feels a strange sensation, like a helium balloon let go, like who does he love and what are they like, are they anything like silver, like me. "but they probably don't need your protection as much as you think."
Since we're talking secrets-- she hates the way his smell makes her feel reckless. She hates the thought that him or anyone could have that power over her. She breathes in deeply anyway, and it feels like somewhere a shotgun is fired.
"Let's walk."
N O R T H
"In her the earth was silent, as it is silent at sunrise,
and the earth in her was profound, like the sunrise."
@[magnus] <3 (sorry if you got notified twice! I edited)
although this world is made of fearsome beasts that bark and bite we were born to put these creatures through one hell of a fight
Something about her is nostalgic.
Something about her is completely new.
He is caught off guard and mesmerized by it, enamored by the way she goes hard and soft, sharp and sweet within a breath, her eyes narrowing even as her lips pull into a laughing smile. He wants to ask her more, wants to peel the layers off of her until he’s left with the ripe core of her, until he can feel the very pieces of her that make her what she is. He wants to know what makes her tick. What she is thinking. Why it always feels like she would just as soon draw a knife across his throat as press a kiss to his jaw.
“They’re a hell of a lot stronger than I am,” he admits, although it doesn’t pain him to do so. He has always known that he is surrounded by souls made of sturdier material than he. He doesn’t pride himself on being the strongest in a room or the most intelligent (if anything, he prides himself on being able to work the hardest, but that’s neither here nor there), and it doesn’t wound his pride to admit it.
Still, he rolls his shoulders, a self-deprecating humor in the glint of his gold-flecked eyes.
“I suffer from a typical male disease of assuming everyone needs me more than I am actually needed,” he sighs dramatically, although his lips still quirk in the corner. “There is no cure. It’s tragic.”
He laughs, soft and low, nodding as she suggests the walk forward.
They move companionably forward, his shoulder to her own, the warm breeze of Tephra winding across his back and through the tangled locks of his mane. For a second, and then several more, he remains quiet, content to hear the sound of their hooves striking the earth and their breath filling the space.
Finally, he breaks the same silence he helped create.
Every moment she wants to break and remake herself anew. She wants thunderstorms, and the sleep of oak trees. She wants to be touched like something holy, and she wants to roll in filth. This is what he might see as he looks at her, this wavering indecision that rages like a young god behind her eyes.
For a moment, she is a girl.
She laughs, delighted by his response. "You're smarter than you look, Magnus," she teases. They both know her words are hot air. "Lucky for you, your disease isn't fatal." Again she breathes him in. Again it feels like pulling a trigger.
For a moment, she is a monsoon.
As they walk in silence, she is thinking about how his shoulder is not hot. She had expected him to feel as though the life and the mystery inside of him was smoldering through the skin. She had, maybe, wanted to sizzle where their bodies touched-- instead of just slowly melting like she does now. But before she can ponder his delicious skin further, her thoughts are gently interrupted by his question-- "why did you come here."
She does not think the truth would offend him-- that she could just as easily be in Nerine today, or Ischia, or the meadow-- but a part of her realizes that's not the truth, not this time. She bites her lip, bides her time. It seems there's no rush with Magnus, in fact there's the opposite, and she considers her words very carefully before she says them out loud.
"You intrigued me, that day in the field." Her tone is casual, light-- it takes a good amount of self-control to keep it that way. But there is a subtle breathlessness, a sly betrayal of how quickly her heart beats, and it is embarrassing. It is a scramble to cover her shame with levity- "When the plague hit, and I had nothing to do anyway, I was curious if you were still alive." She grins suddenly, sly and toothy, but only looks at him from the corner of her eyes. All she can see that way is gold, gold, gold.
Her tail swats at his flanks and she continues before her nerve is lost. "Beqanna would be a far uglier place without you." It feels good to say something that's true, even if it makes her feel like hot glass.
n . o . r . t . h what if I want to go devil instead? Bow
down to the madness that makes me
although this world is made of fearsome beasts that bark and bite we were born to put these creatures through one hell of a fight
Her contradictions do not grow less intriguing the longer that they walk together, and he does not bother to hide his interest—does not bother to hide the curiosity that sparks and gleams in his gold-flecked eyes. It feels right to walk through Tephra with her by his side and he hopes that she chooses to stay; that whatever it was that drew her through all of her options to the volcanic island was enough to keep her.
She continues to tease him and he laughs, the humor clear in his scarred lips. “That’s not saying much because I do not look very smart.” He rolls his shoulders. “What an incredibly low bar for me to clear.” His teeth flash white behind the ink of his muzzle and he playfully nudges her with his nose, smelling the exotic and the familiar on her flesh, the way it combines into something new, into something only hers.
Her answer stirs a spike of joy in him, and interest, and he tilts his head in her direction so that he can study her a little more closely. His gaze is direct and unblinking and unreadable, his thoughts nothing but undercurrents beneath it. There is a bruising there for a moment but it’s gone before it can full develop, before it can flourish, and in its stead is a spark of mischief and something almost flirtatious.
“I would be lying if I said you hadn’t intrigued me,” his voice is a touch huskier, the smoke and the ash finding their way into the syllables. “You still do.” His lopsided smile deepens on one side and he turns his gaze to the path before them, feeling the edges of her tail as they find purchase on his golden hide.
“Perhaps a smarter place though,” he quips, unable to keep the self-deprecating humor from finding its way to his lips. It softens though when he looks back at her, when he reaches over and pulls softly on the edges of her mane. “I don’t intend to leave again though.” He inhales the thick scent of flowers and sulfur on the wind, that floral and bitter bite utterly unique to Tephra. “At least not for a while.”
North doesn't do well as a kept woman. She needs space, and solitude, and a steady supply of secrets. But she might be inclined to stay here for at least a little while. The road gets lonely after a while, and too much loneliness weakens the mind. She needs her wits (they're her only strength) and so she tells herself that it might not be so bad to rest here a minute. It's safe from the plague, and calm enough, and Magnus keeps flashing that damn gunpowder smile that encourages her make bad decisions.
He tugs gently at her mane and she feels a thrill run down her spine. "I don’t intend to leave again though... at least not for a while." There's a certain grit to his voice that wasn't there before, and it sinks in her like a hook.
(She tells herself she's smarter than this, she's better than this, but she thinks the hard truth is that she might not be.)
North breaks eye contact to look up at a sky that's so blue it almost hurts. Annoyed by the tension in the air, Arty stands to stretch (casually digging his claws into her rump in the process) and then he gracefully hops to Magnus' back. He stands like a captain of a ship, looking out intently across a sea of grass. In search of field mice, no doubt... she almost laughs out loud at how serious he looks, but his choice of transportation offends her more than his comedy amuses. He must sense it because he mutters, in their private way of communicating- "No offense, love. He's taller than you." before he leaps off and disappears in a streak of black.
She rolls her eyes and turns her attention back to Magnus. "Excellent." she says finally, feeling a little like electricity, like danger. "Not much point in me staying here otherwise. For a little bit." Her voice is carefully casual. "Is this pretty much it, then? Steam and occasional rivers of lava?" She is playfully unimpressed. The truth is that although they've already walked a long stretch of Tephra, she hasn't been paying much attention to the scenery. She can't, really, with him standing so close, but she can at least appear to try.
n . o . r . t . h what if I want to go devil instead? Bow
down to the madness that makes me
Magnus has always been a sucker for a sharp-tongued woman.
Perhaps it was his childhood home of the Amazons or his fierce Queen of a mother. Perhaps it was his sisters, both blood and kingdom, or the warrior women of his soldier days or his friends as quick to cut you down with their tongue as their brawn. Regardless, he has always had a soft spot for them; in many ways, he is the best version of himself in their presence. He is humbled and cunning and far more interesting than he could ever claim to be when not drawing on their unique brand of energy.
Regardless, he glows in the warmth of her humor, her friendship, and her mere presence. So much so that he nearly forgets about the cat on her back that jumps the space to end up on his back. Magnus snorts a little in response, spooked by the sudden weight on his spine, but he settles quickly, one ear flicking back to the cat that stretches out atop of him. His grin grows lopsided as he slides his gold-flecked gaze in her direction. “Just a good hundred pounds or so heavier and I’d think you had my dad spying on me.”
He chuckles a little, ignoring the pang he feels whenever he imagines his parents. He never had the most loving relationship with his panther father but it was difficult to not mourn him.
But he is able to shake off the feeling, compartmentalizing it for another time, and focusing his attention on the mare by his side. “It is mostly the steam and the lava and the scent of sulphur.” A flash of white against the dark of his muzzle. “But we also have some beautiful beaches if you’d like to see them.”
He takes a dancing step to the side, motioning her forward.
“Fancy a run?”
MAGNUS | I don't belong to anyone, but everybody knows my name
![[Image: gqYjsHr.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/KjqNDKxc/gqYjsHr.png)
