"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
02-28-2020, 10:47 AM (This post was last modified: 02-28-2020, 10:47 AM by Popinjay.)
The smoke and fire and ash of the battle had attracted her north, but she cannot compete in strength against dragons, and she has no true taste for the same sort of wanton destruction as they, nor for the work of rebuilding. It is just the chaos and the change that draws her in, like a buzzard following a scent on the wind for miles. Now, she returns, spirits high and the scent of smoke and lightning clinging to her feathers. Even the clear air high above Nerine is unable to cleanse her of the smell.
For a time, she simply soars, and she is able to do so for hours, perhaps even for days if she didn't always become bored or distracted by something below. Today is one such day. The fields of Nerine bear scorch marks that do not fit the course of the battle that raged above the Isle, and in the midst of those scars, dark, sharp eyes spy a curious creature chasing the rabbits and hair-sheep that flee from his flames. She tilts her head curiously to better see him, those eagle-eyes able to pick out the details even from far above, and she tips her wings to bring her lower, a steadier descent than her first attempt, made easier by the windswept and mostly treeless meadows below. She lands in a great, wild, flutter of wind that flattens the unburnt grass around her. Even as tall as this stallion is, she dwarfs him in this shape, an enormous black bird with flecked breast and red-barred wings that she shakes in the air with a loud buzzing noise to settle the feathers smoothly against her body. Claws flex, digging into the rocky soil and she shakes again, all over, until she is a horse again, hollow bones shifting to solid, beak to soft lips that part in a mischievous grin, and those dangerous, taloned feet hard grey hooves that carry her smartly towards him.
Gods, but he's strange.
"Why are you chasing those sheep? Is one of them your Ma?" She presses in close to him without a thought, though now he is so much taller than her and far more dangerous. Her merry hooves are careful not to step on his claws, for all that she dances around him, nearly vibrating with curiosity. Scales and horns and stars and wings and flame! She aims an irreverent nip at him, teeth closing on air with a a bright clack, and tosses her head so that her thick forelock flicks away from sparkling near-black eyes. Ash and a stray feather drift up into the air, loosened from her mane. Beside him, the smoke-smell clinging to her skin is not so noticeable but the chemical smell of ozone cuts through it all like lightning.
i can take you there, but baby, you won't make it back
He finds the north more tolerable in his nest of soot and ash, which he occasionally drags fallen branches into so that he might continue his destruction in earnest. The embers soothe him to sleep but they have since grown cold, leaving him to search for some other source of entertainment before he gathers more kindling. Ghaul pauses mid step like a hound on the trail of a fox when the scent of feathers finds him, one talon flexed open as he waits. The memory of the angel of Loess descending on him draws his attention upward and he lowers himself to the ground as she lands. He could pounce still, he knows, and rip the thin skin of her throat, but he remains poised.
She is entirely feathers and he traces the points of his teeth with a black tongue at the realization. But then she is changing and he responds with a snort as he stands upright at last. Now her meat will taste like every other creature he comes across, he thinks with a brief frown. The stars across his face dim with disinterest until she speaks, making him tilt his head curiously. Why would he not chase the prey animals?
“My mother is dead. Sacrificed,” he explains as she closes what little space remains between them. He doesn’t seem to take offense nor does he flinch when she snaps her blunt teeth at him, but he does snatch a loose feather from the air like a viper catching a songbird. Ghaul idly chews on the feather for a moment as the static of it tickles his gums, but he ultimately chooses to spit it onto the ground. “Do you live here in Nerine?”
His head turns as a single talon extends to flip the feather this way and that, lamenting that he did not strike when he had the chance. Perhaps an albatross will come near enough to this shore that he might pluck it from the air, he thinks. They are large enough to warrant the patience and effort required to catch them. Or maybe Brine will come home and he can take her wings? He chitters quietly as he considers his options, still toying with her lost feather.
It is her turn to frown when he asks if she lives here, and the once wild-child of Taiga looks at the vast emptiness of Nerine, then back to him, chewing at the drifting feather like a long blade of grass. Live here? What a strange question.
"I live everywhere I am. I'm not dead. Do I look dead?" And, awkwardly, she twists as though to try to look back at herself, as though she could contort herself just so to confirm whether or not she does, in fact, appear dead. There had been that time all the dead horses came back, and maybe he thinks she is one of them, though what would give him that idea, the dark young mare hasn't a clue. "Well, I don't think I'm dead. I did fall off a mountain once, though, so maybe! But look, I can't walk through things, see?"
The words fly off her tongue quickly, rushing together, and just as quickly, she leaps into him as though she might phase through his body, but without the power to do so, there is only a thudding of chest to shoulder, the dull sound of bodies colliding and her breath escaping her lungs with a loud huff.
"See?" She says again, shaking her head and loosening soft contour feathers that drift from her mane - the Bird has started molting and even in horse-shape she finds that they slip loose, inexplicably, "For sure not a ghost, nope. Unless I'm just really bad at it, but I'm pretty sure I'd be great at being a ghost. Probably the best ghost ever."
She bares her teeth in a madcap grin, unaware or unconcerned with whether he can see the expression, and tilts her head, suddenly remembering something else he said. Speaking of ghosts... "Sorry about your Ma."
She stills for a brief moment, but not to consider whether her comment was inconsiderate - never that - but rather to tumble the word 'sacrificed' over and over like a pebble in a stream. Somewhere deep and dark, she knows the definition of the word, she could use it in a sentence, if this were a test, but the real meaning of it evades her, she's too selfish to understand. Sacrifice sounds like something for other folk to do.
"Will they let me chase the sheep too, if I stay here?" She stills briefly beside him, close enough for the scent of smoke on each their bodies to mingle in the air around them, and then her forehooves are talons like his, smaller, suited to her petite stature, and she leaps forward to land on them with a strange, hollow-boned lightness, but her grin turns to a pout when she looks up again to where his eyes should be. "I'd put the beak on, too, but then I couldn't talk."
i can take you there, but baby, you won't make it back
He follows her gaze to the expanse of Nerine and he even listens when she explains that she lives everywhere. This answer makes no sense to him but he does not dwell on it long. While she examines herself to assess her wellbeing, he gives her a cursory once over before turning his gaze once more to the ends of the cliffs. Whether the dead can pass through things or not is entirely unknown to him, but he does offer a quick snarl when she leaps into a collision with him. His instincts command him to snap her neck and prevent further insult and his jaws even part in anticipation.
But he must practice self-control. Not all things with a pulse are to be devoured, he reminds himself as he edges away from her. Instead of biting, he offers a snort in response to her theories of how well she would do as a ghost. If they cannot be eaten, then he has no interest in them, he decides.
“Why are you sorry? Her death was necessary,” he explains as he tilts his head and studies the outlines of her face in confusion. Without Bible’s blood being shed, he would not be here. He would not know the taste of blood as intimately as he does now. Many more deaths are required for him to proceed further in this life and he does not intend to take time and mourn each one. They are each precious to him in some way, certainly, but he would not shed tears even if he could.
“I do not know. I do not ask permission; I only take,” he says as his gaze falls on one of the sheep in the distance. Their wool often gets tangled in his teeth but he finds their livers and stomachs worth the effort it takes to reach them. For today, however, he is not hungry – at least not for meat. Ghaul watches the girl bounce onto light talons, something like his but not nearly so dense or scaled. “Do you only have blunt teeth like all the others?”
He tilts his head as he runs a black tongue over his own fangs thoughtfully.
A necessary death. He is matter-of-fact, and without knowing his dam, it is hard for Poppy to find a great deal of empathy for the mare ripped asunder so her boy might emerge whole into the world. She hadn't been there for those searing minutes, nor for any of the aftermath that followed, and it is hard to predict how she might feel if she had seen the blood blooming on snow like red and black flowers waking out of season. Blood has never frightened her.
But, for a moment, the little bay stops her prancing, her claws cutting into the earth making thin furrows in the dirt. She stops, when he asks her why, and looks at him with her head tipped slightly to the right so her forelock falls away from the wide grinning star on her brow, her lips twisting into the smallest frown.
Caught.
"I'm not - not really." She actually isn't sorry, her selfish heart beats unburdened by the sadness she pretends at, "I'm pretty sure that's just what you're supposed to say when someone says their Mama's died. Sorry," the smile lights up her face again and she shrugs, "But I'll say whatever you like, I don't care."
And she doesn't, because Popinjay is on a grand adventure. She bares her teeth at him and their flat edges snick together quietly. No wicked points hidden in her mouth, but her eyes gleam with her usual mischief.
"But who needs 'em?"
Certainly she doesn't. Except for flashing those manic grins.
She shakes her head, sending the curling tendrils of her black mane flying in the air. It's unecessary, she can shift without the dramatics, but she does prefer them. When the hair settles, a small, fast, sharp, beak has appeared distorting the end of her dark muzzle. It is not as impressive at this size, matched so well to her own petite frame, not the way it is when she is a nine-foot bird soaring the skies in search of trouble and prey. As promised, she has no teeth, she must swallow her meat torn into bloody pieces, or whole - and if asked, she might later say that she has no real preference for one of these options over the other because she is delighted either way by the shock and horror the writes itself across the faces of her friends and family.
And, as promised, she remains mostly silent, because the hard keratin of her bill is not made for speech and she has not learned the trait for mimicry so many birds have, but she pulls close to the draconic stallion again, close enough to wrap her pointed beak against the shell of his warm scales.
