"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
I awaken. Every inch of my body screams in agonizing pain, aches and muscle cramps trap my body, I am a hostage to dewy grass. Scars, bruises, evidence of brutality taint my body in a show of misfortunes.
It looks as though someone took a baton and beat me several times over.
Oh, if only such things were true.
No, the real story is more horrifying.
I lift my head, a pathetic attempt really. My neck burns like fire and I feel a slight trickle of blood ease down my body. At least, for now, I am back in equine form. Not human form, with sensitive easy to bruise skin and clumsy legs that come only in pairs. My blue eyes are greeted by four legs and hooves, splashes of brown and milky cream mixing along my coat.
I am back to myself.
If only I felt emotionally transitioned…
I debate on dying. Lying here in the cold grass, fresh dew soaking into my coat and blossoming blades of emerald grass tickling at my coat. I debate closing my eyes and holding my breath, suffocating myself in my own misery. It won’t be hard; it’ll take one, two, maybe three minutes before my brain begins to panic. And then my heart will quicken, my muscles will tense. Everything in me will say inhale but I will know better. I will hold my ground, grit my teeth.
I will die, god damn it.
Dying is better than being here.
Now.
Lids close over crystal blue eyes and my nostrils stop moving with my air flow. I will do it, I can do it.
They don’t want you.
No one want you.
But I want you…
My eyes flutter open at the masculine tone… Was that in my head? Or was that from the shadows?
I don’t move, paralyzed. Who knows what could have followed me from the haunted mansion of hell.
Who knows what could have hung to my soul with claws sharp as daggers, feeding off the fear I so openly showed.
The feeling of heavy pressure presses down on my neck, just above my shoulder. I lay, flat and motionless, as the sound of parting blades and gliding skin tickles at my ears.
You are weak, now.
It is there again, prominent and thick. I lift my head slightly to see pale yellow scale-like skin slither along my neck. It is never ending—the length of this creature petrifying and yet intriguing.
I don’t feel fear.
I feel hope.
His eyes, pupils in a thin diamond shape and a tongue that senses my body by gliding in and out of his mouth, greets my face but resting on my cheek.
They didn’t want you, but I do. I need you. And therefore, you will get up.
I blink, contemplating if I had gone crazy or if this was all real life.
He removes his body from my own, allowing me the chance to rise from what I was hoping to call my grave. He is beautiful in the eeriest of ways. Yellow splotches of butterscotch skin followed by pale hues of white and cream darting along his body. He is so long, almost never ending. I want to estimate ten feet but my guessing game isn’t up to par. His pattern reminds me of a giraffe, bold spots of butterscotch with outlining of a complimenting colour.
“Who are you?” I ask, my eyes adjusting to the sight before rocking myself onto my belly. I outstretch my front legs, ready to heave myself up from the forest floor.
“Turkish.” He speaks. I jolt.
He was in my head.
And now, he is vocalizing allowed.
“Turkish,” I mimic, hesitancy a dominant trait on my tone.
“Yes.” He watches me, intrigued as I pull myself from the field floor and onto all four legs.
I shake, as if to shake off not only the sticky grass blades but the hallucination as well.
“I am not a hallucination, Smother. They deemed you worthy of me. You need me. We need each other…” He is slithering over to me and I am fighting every instinct to run or strike. I stand solid.
He coils himself around my leg, effortlessly climbing aboard my body like a monkey. I pin my ears in slight annoyance.
I have a feeling I won’t have alone time any more.
You’re feeling is correct.
Even in my head, I will never be alone again.
Isn’t this going to be fun?
Not really.
He has wrapped himself around my neck like a loose necklace. His head rests on my withers, and I try to ignore the weight that presses my shoulders. He is heavier than he looks, and longer than I figured. He has wrapped himself at least four times around my neck.
Let’s not forget about the girth on this guy.
Shall we go see who wants to play recruiter? We need a home first, Smother.
you and I both know that the house is haunted and you and I both know that the ghost is me
It is not every day that one sees a horse with a snake wrapped around their neck—let alone a snake of that size. The sight of it is enough to keep Magnus back a step, his gold-flecked eyes watching the duo from afar, deep-seeded prey drive warning him to stay away from the viper. Of course, there was the way that the two of them seemed…so in tune. Despite the poison clinging to her curves, the mare did not seem to fear for her life—did not seem to fear it at all. It was enough to make Magnus wonder.
Still, he is hesitant in his approach, double guessing the recruiting attempt for perhaps the first time in his life. It took a lot to overcome his natural aversion to the snake, but he eventually did. Pulling himself away from the cool shadows underneath the boughs of a tree, Magnus stretched lightly, shaking his handsome head and sending the matted strands of his inky mane each which way.
He supposes that there is no time like the present to face your fears—or a giant snake.
“Hello there,” he greets casually as he makes his way toward them, staying far enough away to protect himself from any sudden movements. “My name is Magnus.” He meets the gaze of the mare briefly before flitting toward the snake, not bothering to hide his curiosity. With a friendly grin, he continued, “You two are perhaps the most interesting pair I have ever seen in the Field—and that is saying a lot.”
Throughout his years, Magnus had seen all kinds of couplings in this area of Beqanna; more untraditional than the opposite. Still, he could honestly say that he had never seen any that matched the curious pairing of the two of them. “Are you two looking for a home,” he makes a point of addressing them both, naturally uncomfortable but doing his best to make eye contact with the snake, “or just enjoying the sun?”
11-06-2015, 02:29 AM (This post was last modified: 11-06-2015, 03:41 AM by Smother.)
Smother
I wish I was as friendly as I appeared. I know I appear friendly—beautiful facial expressions, wide eyes, curved nostrils and a sculpted frame—but I am a dangerous soul to surround yourself with. My mind is consistently wandering to my devil’s aid, consistently yearning to stir the pot.
If only I knew how heavily grandmother plays in my genetics. Much like her, I long to be remembered whether that be as good, or as evil.
I hadn’t taken into account how I might appear with a dangling male python clinging to my neck like an over-knit scarf. Someone played too much with heavy needles and sewed a pale yellow scarf a little too thick and plentiful, and somehow I ended up with the mess of an accessory placed along my body.
Turkish was far more flattering than some tacky wool accessory, however.
We have a stalker.
I follow my partner’s gaze, intrigued more than anything by onlookers. I liked strangers, I liked how they analyzed me before coming. I liked how I sparked caution. It meant I was intimidating.
Or, Turkish was. Regardless, we played with hesitation.
He is plenty handsome, and I say that with honesty. I have played with relatives, and crazy newborns, and a couple elderly souls but I have yet to play with someone who I feel reflects my maturity. He is intelligent, wading in the distance before deciding to approach.
Stop gawking.
I am not.
He comes in long strides and the entire time I keep my eyes steady on his figure. I did not get this far, living, by letting off my guard. Thankfully (a bitter sweet feeling, really) my father had gifted me the art of intellect as well through genetics, and I knew better than to take for granted the safety of the field.
I don’t like him.
I don’t believe I asked your opinion.
“Hello,” I respond, my voice far more firm and dominant verses the usual female “harp” like song. I got my boldness from my father, my strength from my father, and my aura from my father. Everything about me is because of my father. I can only reflect the one who raised me.
Of course, I certainly must mirror my mother in some way or another, but because of her famous abandoning well… Your guess is as good as mine.
He called us interesting. He thinks we are fools.
Enough, Turkish.
I should eat him to stop the mockery.
You’re proving his assumption right.
He is smiling at me…
Say something, then.
“Turkish,” he practically snarls. I don’t react to his animosity, certainly I would be threatened if looked at like an alien. I do not correct his behavior, nor justify it. I just let his comment hang in the air like clothing on a laundry line.
I continue to watch him momentarily as he eyes Turkish with an uncomfortable smile. He plays the greeting game well, perhaps better than I have yet to experience. I feel Turkish tighten around my neck momentarily, correcting my glance and reintroducing my attention to the general conversation.
I am not a fan of small talk, I have the attention span of a fruit fly.
“Smother,” I pronounce somewhat guarded, my attention redrawn to evaluating the quality of stallion before me—he is a reflection of his home.
Turkish draws from my neck, slithering down my neck like a vine. The whole process is quite enticing really. His body takes a full minute to unravel from my neck, slip down my shoulder, wind down my leg, and glide on the ground. Ten feet of him stretches out like a child’s slinky being pulled from window, to window.
He hisses, momentarily coiling himself within his own body. I personally hate snakes, I hate their demeanor and how flexible they are. I hate that he is fast in water and can climb higher than I can see. I hate that he can break my leg by just squeezing his body, compressing my bones till they shatter beneath his grasp. I hate almost everything about him, except for the fact that he has been the only creature to truly understand me. Do you know what it feels like to finally feel… relatable?
I must have certainly been a snake in another life.
Whatever he is selling, I am not buying.
Fine, live in the field by yourself then and see how long it takes you to get around without a taxi service.
“We might be in search of something… That all depends on what you are offering, however.”
Something tells me Magnus doesn’t offer anything short of his own standards.
I also have a feeling those standards are relatively high.
Needless to say, I plan on buying what he is selling.
you and I both know that the house is haunted and you and I both know that the ghost is me
Magnus knows all about the deception of appearances—the subtle power they could hold. For all intents and purposes, he looked every inch a man of the Gates: golden, strong, handsome. It was only when you took a second glance that you saw the truth of him: the scars, the knitted flesh, the marred skin. Then you could see the tangling timeline of his life; it was then you could trace the time spent racing through the Jungle as a youth and then serving in the Chamber and then fighting in the Gates and the Dale. His coat was a map of all of the kingdoms that he had served in over the years; all of the wars that he had fought.
Looking at him, seeing the easy smile and gold-flecked eyes, it was easy to miss.
But it was all there, laid open for anyone who was glancing too closely.
Still, there are worlds passing been the companions that he is simply not privy to, and he waits patiently for them, still feeling the tickle of unease in the back of his mind at the size of the snake. He realizes for a second that the snake reminds him, however briefly, of those that called the Amazon home. The thought was comforting, and he felt himself relax in the snake’s presence after that. He was just like the jungle.
“Turkish,” he repeats to the snake’s terse greeting, and then shifting his gaze to the mare, “Smother.” He pauses for a second, considering them both, “It is a pleasure to meet you both.” And, in its own strange way, it was. There was something different about the mare—besides the obvious. Something in the guarded way she looked at him and the directness in her voice. If only he knew she was his niece, if only he knew that she came from the same cursed bloodline as he did; perhaps then it would all make sense.
“My offer is more of a proposal—or an invitation—depending on your perspective,” his voice is husky, and he continues to take care to include them both in the conversation, feeling his legs itching to dance away whenever he glances at the giant snake coiled on the ground. “I come from the Gates, and we are looking for smart, strong souls to join our kingdom.” A pause. “But I only like to discuss details of such an invitation with those who are interested; I hate to waste people’s time.” One corner of his lacerated lips rises into a crooked smile, inky forelock covering the dusk of his gaze. “Would you like to hear more?”
He hopes that they will. The Gates could use a little fire, and they looked like they had it in spades.
Something looks vaguely familiar. Something… Something about him feels like I have seen it before. In his expression, in his stance, in how he pronounces some words and how he cautiously eyes myself and my daemon. He is so intoxicatingly familiar that I feel as though the very drug he gives me is the feeling of memories.
But it can’t be, because I swear I have never met Magnus before.
Instead, I try to refocus my attention on his proposal as it were. Though, to be completely honest I find it very difficult to focus with the annoying disagreement of Turkish rambling off.
The Gates? This must be some sick, twisted joke.
Maybe it needs some fun.
It is a good kingdom, you moron. Do we look like a “good” kingdom duo?
Oh but Turkish, don’t you see the fun in this?
…
We will be within a kingdom of naïve residents who will not know what hit them.
… I will consider it.
He is first to voice, edging closer to the stallion, practically feeding of Magnus’s hesitation and consideration. “So you mean to tell me that a light kingdom wants a Python shifter, and Burmese Python resident?”
I watch for Magnus to react, to see if doubt crosses his face. If he feels we will not be a match, there will be no need to considerate a home. I will not be tossed out again, this I can promise you.
“Tread carefully, Magnus. False promises don’t bode well with us.” My voice is cold, a heavy statement now lingering the air. If he wishes to not waste our time, he will only invite us in full belief we will be welcome at their door step.
If not, we will just chalk it up as another kingdom to destroy.
you and I both know that the house is haunted and you and I both know that the ghost is me
The conversation shifts, and the warrior, the soldier within Magnus responds. His gold-flecked eyes burn, and he watches them both, taking in their cold words, their calculated gazes—but it is not hesitation that can be seen in stance, it is power. “The Gates has welcomed murderers and sinners into its fold long before the two of you walked into the Field,” is all he answers at first, and the truth of that rings in his chest. What he does not say is that he was both of them. He had killed his brother and thirsted for blood; he had been King of the Gates and he had been a warmonger—hardly the material of a Light king.
“My offer stands, and it is a genuine one. If you two are looking for a home,” there is a flintiness to his gaze now as he looks toward them both, “and if that is what you actually want, then the Gates wants you.” He thinks back to the last kingdom meeting when he had declared his vision for the kingdom—for the Gates to be a place where anyone could rest their head free of judgement. To him, the Gates had always been a haven for those who were looking for somewhere they could live in peace and in quiet.
It was a vision he was willing to bleed to protect.
Of course, he also recognizes the ice to Smother’s words, and the underlying meaning to it, and his gaze levels with her. “Besides, were said Python shifter and Burmese Python resident ever to cause trouble after being welcomed into the Gates, I have no doubt that I could handle the problem just fine.” He shifts, and something of the soldier shines in his expression; it was a fierceness that he often battered down, a steely resolve he had inherited from his parents. The moment passes though, and he lets the tension bleed from the air. “How is that for treading carefully?” False promises did not bode well with him either.
They are bound to run into each other again; Beqanna is only so large, and Magnus is very active in The Field, while the rest of her women are… not. At the moment. A few weeks after the sashayingly seductive Zebra chose the Jungle, she’s at it again, never satisfied until they prove themselves. That one may not be what they’re looking for, but the next one might. Words are words. Action is what counts. So when the horned, iron gray mare spots Magnus in The Field again, talking to a mare with a.. python? wrapped around her neck, she wonders if this is Fate just being a little bitch. She hasn’t an answer for him yet, and that is a little embarrassing on the Amazons’ part.
Lagertha does not like indecision. This Khaleesi does not like the waiting game where she must hold back until every puppet and their strings are revealed. And to top it all off, she really hates being pregnant. Irrationally, that part is more towards showing that she is not super-Queen to the stallion. As if she should be above such things… Or maybe in this almost-bursting state, she is a credit to her Kingdom, working up until the moment the foal drops. Part of her very much wants to draw the buckskin stallion aside and say that things might go his way anyway - but this is neither the time nor the place.
Pregnant, but doing her best to be as stately and strong as possible, Lagertha holds her head high and trundles over to the pair. Flint-gray eyes linger on the curled python wrapped around the mare’s neck, and all of a sudden she recognizes the face. A couple of years or so ago, she was in The Field before. They were joined by Camrynn and oh.. someone else. She hadn’t made a decision then - so perhaps this is Lagertha’s second chance. She wear a thin smile, dropping in smoothly. “I can assure you that Magnus does not make false promises,” she says in greeting, giving a small nod to the Gates man. “I can also assure you, Smother, that you and your python would be quite at home in the Jungle.”
It’s a ‘traditional’ home, but sometimes being where one is most comfortable is best. And besides, Lagertha could use someone on her side who has a little bit more bite than bark.
Conversations with diplomats are like the communication between fingers and bomb wires. The delicacy, the hazard, the chance that a conversation can switch from balanced to hostile, that is the true art of disarming a bomb.
She adjusts her stance, feeling the energy of Magnus turn from steady to shrill. Feeling his entire body seize, and his aura go red. Her eyes narrow, though she doesn’t flinch.
Something about him.
Something incredibly familiar about his anger here, now.
Almost too eerily like her father.
“I know you.” But do I?
I flick my tail, a sign of annoyance and aggravation. My blue eyes are scalding with intensity as he speaks. The Gates may be open to having past murderers and sinners, but are those scoundrels not searching for a place to better themselves? I wish not to better myself, I wish to put myself to action.
I wish to kill, and eventually be killed, and would the Gates tolerate such longing?
I hear Turkish to my left let out a slowly painful hiss that tickles my ear and sends the slightest bit of a chill up my spine. My eyes flicker to him, to his expression that appears to vague and blank. He is a master of controlling his outward emotion, a wizard at presenting himself without going over the line.
I envy his talent in remaining calm, but firm.
I am either a level one, or a level twenty, there is no in between for me.
I go to speak, for the first time really without Turkish mumbling in my head when a female arrives on the scene.
I watch her, I recognize her.
I like her.
Of course you do.
“That offer still stands?” I question, my voice still a chilly ice cold from the previous energy of Magnus, it still wafts over me like a breeze. I ignore the consistent complaints of Turkish in the back of my head, the complaints of choosing the Gates over the Deserts and the consistent mumble of poor decisions.
We are a partnership, after all.
“Magnus I appreciate your offer,” and although I long to push forward how I know him… How I can place his characteristics in a line of recognition, I know this is the best decision for not only I, but Turkish as well. “Unfortunately, I don’t see myself in Heaven’s Gates. I am not sure if I will fit anywhere, to be completely honest. However I am more of a Devil’s Door sort of girl, and I won’t be thrown out of my home again.”
Thank you.
Yes.
“Lagertha, would you rather me follow you there, or am I alright to just head over?” After all, I had never needed anyone to hold my hand.
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