"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
He was still quite shaken from his unexpected time traveling ordeal. The wild child briefly wondered why his life seemed to be riddled with harrowing events – his tragic beginning to life, his unwilling separation from Ima, his still mostly repressed quest, and finally this latest non-consensual experience.
It was as if the fates had it out for him.
But then he remembered all the joy and love that Ima had given to him. He remembered the friendship that both Refr and Shual freely shared with him. And he remembered the comfortable familiarity that the desert provided him. There were always good things to life as well; they were free for the taking if only one was patient enough.
His hazel eyes were ever watchful now – glaring at all others who even came within five feet of him. The wild child felt he couldn’t take any more excitement for the day. He was also staving off all touching from random strangers from now on as that apparently leads to other universes and worlds. Munroe was quite comfortable in the here and now. He didn’t feel the need to explore past what his capabilities were.
The wild child wasn’t a stranger to magic. Ima was magical and did many wondrous things such as allowing his fox friends to speak to him. Plus she had the most billowy wings of gold which held him close when he needed the comfort. Her magic was warm and soothing and cradled him during the darkest of times. But all the other magic that he has come into contact with was meant to disrupt and disconcert.
The wild child hoped to avoid any more strange magic as he tried to retreat back to the sands. He was almost to the line of trees that lined the outside edges of the large clearing. Munroe slinked closer and closer, successfully scaring off most of the strangers who had even taken one step towards his direction regardless if they had intended to approach him or not.
But, of course, nothing ever went the way he planned.
And one individual coolly stood in his path just as he had reached the safety of the trees.
11-24-2015, 12:32 AM (This post was last modified: 11-24-2015, 12:34 AM by woolf.)
the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight {drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
It is the first time Woolf has left the Chamber—the first time that he has left his sister—and he was surprised by the physical sensation of her absence. It was not that he missed her per se, although she was the closest thing he came to love, but rather that he missed what her presence did for him. Woolf could still feel the magic simmering beneath his skin, still feel that natural pull toward it, but it was dulled. When he reached for the source of it, he felt as if he was beneath water, sluggish and slow and inept.
Needless to say, it soured his mood, and he frowned as he stood within the shadows of the meadow, watching the crowds of horses milling around one another. It seemed as if they were engaged, most of them at least, in some sort of mating ritual. It was odd. The pageantry of the entire ordeal did not ring true to Woolf, did not strike any chord of empathy within him, and it felt hollow—forced, contrived. Perhaps one day his view on it would change, but for now he could never imagine engaging in it.
Of course, Woolf’s silent observation was disrupted far sooner than he had hoped. He was drawn out of his own thoughts at the lurking presence of the pale stallion, and he turned his forest-green eyes toward him. Woolf was young still, but there was an unnatural gravity to the way he held himself, as if he was more developed than his coltish body let on. There was more strength than was immediately evident in his lanky legs and newborn muscles. It could be seen from the curve of his neck to the flare of his nostrils.
“Munroe,” he said simply, having no concept of privacy and thus having no idea that stealing thoughts from companions could be seen as intrusive. It seemed silly to pretend like he could not access the other stallion’s mind if he did not wish. “I am sorry to say your wish has not been granted,” his voice was deep, ringing without emotion from his throat, the sound distant and echoing. He did not even bother to refer to the thought he was replying to, simply picking up on the other stallion’s aversion to any more magic.
To prove the point, he simply called upon the wind to rush down around them. What started as a breeze became a gale, whipping their manes back and forth until it was matted against his neck. As suddenly as it had begun, it died, and Woolf winced slightly. He had not realized how tiring it would be to call upon magic when his sister was not near—especially when so young. The pain, however, was brief, and he was soothed quickly. Straightening, he turned his eyes toward Munroe, studying him without further words.
The stranger appeared to be very young, but his eyes and commanding presence told him otherwise. The wild child wouldn’t be fooled by his outer appearance; he simply knew better. Munroe was aware of what it was like to grow up far faster than what others expected. His start to life didn’t allow for any fanciful thoughts or childish actions. He struggled to get by – barely surviving by the skin of his teeth.
His already tense muscles tightened even further when the unknown boy uttered his name out loud, as if he had simply plucked it out of thin air. Munroe didn’t trust the unknown (he had been burned too many times) and this boy was setting off all his warning sirens that signaled oncoming trouble. His exasperation has hit an all-time high. Didn’t he just get himself out of a mess? He supposed there just wasn’t any rest for the wicked.
Of course, his wish wasn’t going to be granted.
Because apparently the whole world was out to get him.
“Why no one leave alone?”
This was accompanied with a deep sigh and uttered in such a defeated tone that one could almost feel sorry for him. All he wanted at this point in time was to tuck tail and make it back home relatively intact. But, at this rate, this goal was slowly becoming mountainous and even unobtainable.
The mulberry boy has to seemingly make it a point to do everything opposite that the wild child actually wanted – a demonstration of even more intrusive magic. It was as if they had entered into a wind tunnel. It gusted about them violently, picking up clouds of dead leaves and breaking a couple of the more brittle tree branches. He took one step forward in an effort to catch his balance and stabilize himself. The burst of wind then disappeared just as suddenly as it had started up and it left the wild child bereft of any semblance of security he might have had.
But he was certainly good at bluffing his way through most things.
He just had to hold out until he could sneakily make his way out of the situation.
His hazel eyes remain fixed on his adversary and he attempts to hide any nervousness that might have appeared in his body language. It wouldn’t do him any good to outwardly show any of his apprehension.
the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight {drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
“Maybe you do not want to be left alone,” is all that Woolf answers with at first, tilting his young head to the side, watching the pale stallion with a renewed interest. It was beyond him why anyone would want to avoid magic in their lives—why they would actively seek to hide from it. Magic, to him, was everything; it was what bubbled in his veins and flooded his mouth and tied him to the universe with its many threads. He could not understand a life where magic was anything but it all, where life meant anything without it.
As the wind dies down, the violent gusts becoming nothing more than quiet breezes, he continues to watch the other stallion, tempted to root through his memories some more, but refraining from now. Woolf was not intentionally cruel—he just could not fathom most everyone around him. They were foreign to him, alien in their emotions. He just couldn’t comprehend their fears and desires and thus often acted in ways contradictory to them.
When he discovered that was the case, he didn’t feel any guilt.
Guilt, too, was foreign to him. He could only be who he was.
“I am not bad,” he said with an exasperated sigh, as if scolding a small child—despite the fact that Munroe was most definitely his senior. “And neither is the wind. Don’t be dramatic.” The breeze picked up a little and floated around Munroe, teasing his mane and crawling around his legs. “See?” The wind became playful, winding around the duo before it fell into stillness once more. “You shouldn’t be so quick to judge,” he stated simply, snorting as he watched the stallion with an interested gaze.
12-21-2015, 12:48 AM (This post was last modified: 12-21-2015, 12:51 AM by munroe.)
MUNROE.
He scoffs in response to the other’s statement. It was true that he greatly relied upon Ima’s company and those of his fox friends. But, for the most part, he was content to keep his distance from the other desert-dwellers. He didn’t need the extra stress of determining their intentions and the irritation of dealing with the superior attitude that came with them assuming he was slow just because of his complications with the language.
When one was raised by another who was both mute and deaf, then the development of language was practically nonexistent. When Ima had found him, he could barely manage simple words. He’s since moved onto poorly structured sentences but it was enough for him to get the general gist of his thoughts across.
Magic could be both sides of the coin.
Ima’s was everything that embodied wonder and comfort and warmth. But all his encounters outside of the deserts had resulted in kidnapping and mentally painful experiences. Sometimes they had been so painful that he has unconsciously chosen to repress the majority of his memory of them of ever have even occurring. He’s learned that it was better to be overly cautious instead of naively trusting.
The mulberry boy appears to be almost offended by Munroe’s declaration. He seems to be of the opinion that the wild child was of the dramatic sort. Instead, it was just the opposite for he did everything in his power to stay downwind of such troublesome things. But he appears to be a magnet of sorts for drama and he can’t help but barely keep his head above water at times.
This time the wind is soft and gently cards its fingers through his windswept hair and gently caresses his sides. But Munroe could not be gentled by an obvious ploy to let his guard down. Not after that first showing of intimidation. He couldn’t quite trust someone who was swift in flaunting themselves before a mere ‘hello’ could even be spoken.
“No. First was bad wind. You shouldn’t quick to scare.”
the wolves will chase you by the pale moonlight {drunk and driven by the devil's hunger}
In some ways, Munroe and Woolf were not entirely different. In fact, they were surprisingly similar in their lack of foundational knowledge regarding social graces. Where Munroe remained slightly feral in his nature—rudimentary in conversation—Woolf remained impassive. His mother was graceful and sweet, but he had not given her the opportunity to rear him. His mind had already billowed outward, more interested in the nebulas swirling overhead and the molten rock rushing beneath them to ever truly care about learning how to behave correctly in social circumstances. It left him awkward, although he did not have the wherewithal to be ashamed of it.
He simply behaved and spoke his mind however he wished.
“Perhaps you should not be so quick to be scared,” he countered lazily, growing bored with having to defend himself to the pale stallion. “Stop calling the wind bad. It simply is—it can neither be good nor bad. Assigning it characteristics is futile.” He couldn’t understand why the flexing of magic was so terrible to the other. It wasn’t as if he had ripped his flesh—although he could have—and it wasn’t as if he had lifted him from the ground—although he thinks he could have done that too. The latter would have most likely required some small sacrifice though. Woolf had not dabbled too much with the depth of his blood magic, but he did not fear having to bleed for his power. It was simply a truth of his world.
Taking a step forward, Woolf tilted his mulberry head to the side. “Why do you despise magic so much?” He could, of course, just root through the stallion’s thoughts and memories to find the answer—and was still tempted by the idea—but, for now at least, he wanted to hear the reasoning from the wild one for himself. Perhaps knowing why he thought he hated would help him flesh his view of the world out more.
