"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
But oh! Wasn't she a sight to behold. Nicia strolled into the meadow with a sway to her hips that hinted at the seductress she would become, and a glint in her eye that could only be described as mischievous. The golden fully shone in the mid afternoon sun, not a hair out of place. Her big brother always emphasized the importance of beauty and it was obviously starting to show. Nicia was a beautiful girl and she knew it. Her buckskin frame moved with a grace that gave a glimpse into her Spanish ancestry and a pride that came from being pampered by her family.
Nicia was the iron heir. The truest daughter of Khaos, the iron stallion that rivaled the gods, and the malice in her eyes merely cemented the relation. She was still too young to really understand the terrible hot that came from controlling those beneath her, but she loved it already. She loved the rush of power that came from having her every whim met and the sweet sounds that creatures made as she crippled their limbs and stole their freedom.
Today though, the girl was in search of a different prey. Together with her favorite brother, as evidenced by the violet plume tangled in her downy mane, She was seeking the rest of her siblings. They needed to be a part of the family, to feel the true power that came from being the progeny of a god.
Being the first time leaving her cozy home in Silver Cove, Nicia stuck close to the side of her brother. Too close some might notice, but the vast difference in coloring made their relationship easy to overlook. She was spun gold and ebony. He was deep plum and violet, and meant everything to the little girl.
A few prancing steps lead her to the center of the neutral playground and she laughs, a tinkly, pretty laugh that would draw more attention as she got older. She looks around expectantly, surveying the land like it was hers to take, searching for glimpses of the familiar in the faces of strangers. It was only a matter of time before the duo found who they were looking for.
He had consented, he always consented to Nicia's wishes. It was like breathing now, a habit not to be cured. Something that came automatic and without thought, he wouldn't have it any other way. He had flown over the playground many times though he had never stopped, he hadn't really the reason to. Instead, he had simply looked over the fields and flowers with disinterest before moving along. Today he would actually enter, walking side by side with a golden filly, both looking rather pristine. He chose not to fly as Nicia couldn't get around the same way, and he would be furious if anything were to happen to her, especially under his own care. Besides that, he was enjoying the gentle brushing of fur that came with each hoof fall, the little minx clinging to his side. He draped a feathered wing over her, a protective gesture, both from the sun and any who would approach.
They were a complimentary duo, one honeysuckle and warmth, a single strand of purple against her tresses. The other, a crisp bushel of grapes to cool the blaze of the summer sun. His fur was lightening though, patches spreading along his face and back. Down his barrel and throughout the flight feathers that adorned the appendages protruding from his backside. It seemed the grey had taken a liking to him, stealing the deep plum from his hide and replacing it with soft lavenders.
As they entered, his sister lets a delightful tinkling of laughter spill from her mouth. The noise playing on song, but it was something more than that, curling like a ball in his stomach. ”Well, here we are.” He spreads his wings wide, gesturing to the lands set before them.
08-24-2015, 06:25 AM (This post was last modified: 08-24-2015, 06:26 AM by Kernick.)
TW maybe? =[
endlessly, she said
The Gates were light, they were whimsy and they were pure. At least, that is what is said upon the breeze. The whispers of the land themselves. The Gates were home, they were my birthland, my mother's place to rest, but they were, and I was not. Where my mother watches with hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks, I listen, I hear every quiver of life behind the fallen leaf, every strain of a branch as the wind knocks it. The whispers at night are the worst. The beady eyes of a thousand birds ever watchful, ever there. I swallow a breath, one that had sat in my chest like acid, like the rotten core of a fallen apple. Bittersweet and squirming with maggots.
They say it is safe here, yet they are wrong. The anxiety that pulls at my sinews, knot together and freeze me in place. Audaciously in the heart of the dying green landscape. I'm frozen, eyes around me, watching me, judging me. Ah, my mother, she is right to be frightened. for what lurks in the dark, is far more nightmarish than really what anyone believes.
The whispers pull at my head, my ears. They are all I hear. The gentle thrum of a beating heart, a cadence that grows and grows, frenetic and like a xylophone against my ribcage (at least, I think it's my own heart.) I think of Tioga. Her copper gaze and her soft voice. If it were not for her, I would have been swallowed by the darkness of the woods in the Gates. Consumed by the thousand eyes, eaten by the monsters that lurk the depths.
But I haven't. And now, now I am here. Back here. When I had woken that one time, crow feathers strewn in my mane, prickles knotted in my fur. I had met that strange man. He had tried to take me somewhere, pulled and tugged, but I stayed. As much as the voices, the shadows wanted and needed, I would not have followed him, not even if the woods were burning.
Ah, but they burn, they burn now with a presence of a golden light; one that walks with her own song. Every step is grace and yet power, every turn of her head is a lightning bolt, right in my chest. I then turn my dark gaze to the one beside her; the rich purple of azaleas, of sun-burnt foxglove. He commands the attention but not nearly as much as she. I watch them, intrigue. The voices within, the whispers that strum every bone in my body like a violin, they freeze, they stop and for the first time in my life I hear nothing.
Silence. I never thought silence could be so welcoming. Dull ears turn forward, frosted lips quiver, the need to speak, the need to say something, but just when I am about to, the voices start up. cold, cruel words like knives jarring me in the gut, the ribs. I shiver, and the movement causes me to stir, limbs propelling forward until I stop, right before the girl and the purple boy. His wings as unsettling as the ruffling crows, but then with a whole otherworldly feeling.
There is something in my gut, my tentative heart and broken soul, that pulls me to them both, as if we share something, a sliver of similarity. If only. If only...
i love the way that your heart breaks with every injustice and deadly fate
The world is still today. The breeze non-existent, the birds notably absent, the leaves nearly gone from their trees. It is a skeletal world, slipping into the short death that is winter. He pays it little mind, caught up in his shuddering remembrances. He misses her already. The way her touch causes his skin to twitch and burn. The way she makes everything else disappear. But he would see her again, this he does not doubt. He could not bear anything less.
He is in that place again, the place he had met his first friend (though the term ‘friend’ could be applied loosely. They were closer to acquaintances). He does not know why he is back, other than the fact that it is familiar. He knows only her and this place. He might have been exploring, discovering the nooks and crannies of this land, but he is not. He is here instead, lackluster gray eyes staring out across the uninspiring land of grit and bark.
His insipid gaze catches upon the group. They are hard to miss amongst the bland backdrop. One blazes as bright as the sun, gold pelt glimmering in the harsh rays of that aforementioned orb. The second is garishly purple, standing out even against the golden girl by his side. The third is nearly as innocuous as he, the only inspiring element about him being his pale tresses. Even so, compared this odd looking trio, the black colt is a sore thumb, a bit of coal attempting to pass itself off as a diamond. His coat is solid black, ragged tufts of hair clinging to a bony frame. He is in that awkward stage of youth, his lanky frame broadening and growing, yet lacking the muscle definition to fill out his form properly. He is all awkward angles and lean scruffiness.
This does not deter him however. He does not mind being the odd duck. Rather enjoys it, actually. He steps forward, gray eyes flitting between the three figures. He does not smile, nor does he frown. In fact, his expression shows little more than mild interest. Muttering under his breath, he gaze follows the line of horses. ”Gold duck, purple duck, gray duck. Guess who is who.”
Perhaps she had affected more than he initially though. More loudly, loud enough everyone to hear, he adds only ”Raelynx.” An introduction, of sorts.
"Oh, Kirin" she whispers breathily as he gestures out over the expanse of land, "It's a wonderful hunting ground." The smile she gives him lights up her eyes in that special, genuine way meant only for him. She plants a soft kiss against his neck before noticing the two colts headed their way.
It's there in the curve of the neck, an emptiness in dark eyes. She looks at the two that approach and feels it in her gut. They were special. Not as she was, nor as her precious Kirin, but special in the only way that mattered.
The golden girl bat her lashes and smiled sweetly, almost sickeningly so. This wasn't the genuine affection that she only showed her favorite brother, but rather an innocent grin that she liked to call bait. She was gorgeous and delicate, a golden flower that you couldn't help but admire, and only when you stopped for a better look would you notice the corpses used as fertilizer. If her instinct proved correct though these two would be safe.
The brown boy with the pale hair is the first to come for a closer look. And look he did. Nicia's smile widened beautifully as she saw the awe and turmoil in his eyes. He would be perfect for her little family, hopefully another brother to cater to her desires. As she is giving the brown colt a thorough once over, the second steps forward. Black and brown they are incredibly dull, but she has already determined that one way or another they will be hers. Oh how she does love her brothers.
The black one speaks and she can't help but giggle, sending a bell like tune through the air. She takes several slow, seductive steps in his direction. "Raelynx", she purrs savoring the sound. As the years progressed she would turn into a bombshell, "You speak of ducks, but all I see is a silly goose." The little girl says teasingly before leaning in to get a sniff of his scent. So distinct but so familiar. Her smile broadens and her eyes twinkle merrily in knowing that she had found more family. "I am Nicia, and this is Kirin." Her eyes can't help but rove over her favorite brother as she caresses his name before releasing it reluctantly into the air. She turns then to the brown boy with the startled eyes and speaks in sweet soothing tones, "And who might you be sweet little mouse?" She breathes in his scent as well and can't help but flutter her lashes. How fortunate was she to find two more of Khaos' children? Oh what wonderful games she could play to welcome her new brothers home.
Pleasant warmth spreads, dropping off somewhere past his groin. Her husky, hushed reply is quite pleasing, sending all the wrong yet somehow right signals through his entire body. She boasts a gleaming smile, before gingerly pressing her lips to his skin. His boiling skin and twisting gut is short lived, someone else has caught the gold females eye.
Kirin raises his own hazel stare to the colts, two rather uninspiring things. On any other given day he himself would not have taken a second look at them. At first he raises a brow to the silver brown that comes forth. Kirin loved to judge others based on their appearance, it was a rather fun game. Barely any winners though, his standards were just too high to meet. Upon further inspection he decides the coloring is decent, but nothing noteworthy. All that aside, the child is awkward and tall, but the height does not surprise him. Their father was tall, a fearsome iron beast, his oversized form still resting on the cliffs. ”Well don’t you smell awful.” He drawls snidely, openly scrutinizing the boy. “Gates clover is that?” He frowns, knowing all too well what kind of soft hearts they breed. “You’re not being fed properly.” He continues to observe him out loud, practically irate at this, his gray eyes narrowing.
It is then that another drab foal finds their group. Nicia is quick to approach him, to play and have her fun savoring their first meeting. The purple colt was unaware he could be any more disappointed, but now he knows he can. Kirin is just as unforgiving in his once-over, the blank pallet extremely unexciting. This one appears unkempt, a shabby coat sticking out in every which way. He is just as thin as the last, only souring Kirin’s mood further. If he could, he would drop both of their mothers from the highest cliff and watch them flatten against the earth. The black foal speaks nonsense, some half-wit comment about ducks. He is glad when Nicia takes over, making a witty, darling retort. Just the thing to make him smile.
”Raelynx,” he hmmphs as he says it. Well, that wasn’t an entirely dreadful name. His own has just left his sister’s mouth, though begrudgingly. She inquires gently of the silvered boy’s christening, and Kirin lifts an eggplant wing, deftly stroking his wingtip beneath the child’s chin. ”It’s okay you can tell us, I’m sorry about earlier. The Gates just make me so angry, look how they have taken care of you sweetling. Our dear, little brother.” Oh that voice, that syrupy sweet croon. Kirin was not sorry at all, far from it. He felt no guilt for his rude or harsh behavior. He could pretend though, he could always pretend.
