"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
Beqanna may be quiet nowadays, but you know who's not quiet?
Layland. Layland isn't quiet. Never has been, never will be. Ain't in his playbook or wheelhouse or any of those other weird places that emotions and manners are stored. He's also never seen the need for storing emotions, when you can just let them out. Let the world know what you're up to instead of leaving them guessing, ya know? He's also never really seen a need for manners, so there's that. Manners are boring, and a hot pink tobiano DUDE can't possibly be boring.
It's never steered him wrong, anyways. Or maybe he just hasn't been steered. Steering would mean being conscious of avoiding collisions, and Layland has always been more of a go with the flow kinda guy, collisions or not. Or be the flow if you can't go with it. Either way, avoid steering. Unless you're gonna let Jesus Take The Wheel, he's probably OK at steering.
Today, Jesus steers him right to the Meadow. The few faces here are minding their own business, but remember what I said about Layland and his lack of manners. He doesn't slink in, nor does he saunter or slip. Thats what quiet, mannerly horses do. No, he charges. Like those poor stupid domesticated horses that do the weird dancing thing, he plows forward, knees high and his magnificent plume flag flying behind him.
(I told him no one calls a tail that anymore, but the fool insisted, and who am I to tell him no?)
It isn't hard for him to find an empty spot to stop. The whole place is pretty much empty. But either how way, he slides to a stop, putting every effort into being as dramatic as possible. Again, doing stuff that the stupid domesticated horses do, just better than them 'cause hes a wild and free hot pink guy. They clearly learned from talented individuals like Layland himself, they were just too dumb to run away from two-leggeds.
So basically, if you want to talk to a fabulous relic about the olden days and his love and admiration for female rappers, then Layland is probably your guy! If you enjoy talking about serious world matters, anything related to Carnage (Layland is not-so-secretly terrified of him.), or the weather, he is not your guy.
OOC - Blame peer pressure for his return. Seriously, he's an absolute fool. Proceed with that knowledge in mind >.<
You know who also is not quiet?
Krieg.
She has been described as power hungry, selfish, self-centered, racist, rude, brash, lazy, and dozens of other undesirable descriptors. But never, not once in her life, has she been described as quiet.
After dumping her newest spawn off in a land that felt like her Lord and Savior - Carnage - she made her way across Beqanna until she happened upon the Meadow. Still quite exhausted from birthing the child who had sucked the life from her the entire pregnancy - a son, it was always the boys who brought her trouble - she stopped to rest. This new Beqanna was fascinating. She had seen some remarkable things in her endless travels. Horses of all beautiful colors and with magnificent, jaw dropping traits. She should have been born in this day and age, she'd probably have been happier.
Instead, she was a vile green color with no visible traits and only the ability to take and give life. Although she was not technically immortal, she could steal away the youth of others. They got older and she got younger. They died off and she continued to live, taking up space and air that they would very likely make better use of.
While resting and pondering what she should do with her life next, she caught sight of a flamboyantly pink and white stallion sliding to a halt. Her curiosity piqued. Her adopted daughter, Elite, the wild and destructive girl who was able to summon Carnage and started a war, was also flamboyantly pink. She had hated being pink while Krieg thought it only added to her magnificent status over all others - including her biologic swamp green son who had only ever caused trouble. Boys, it was always boys.
Unfortunately for Layland, Krieg does love Carnage. To the point of unhealthy obsession. When he burned the Valley down, it had singed his mark onto her chest, and she wore it proudly. A white C with markings swirling around it. Some may know what it was, others may not, but she would happily tell you about it and how magnificent her Dark God was. As for female rappers? Krieg doesn't know anything about that topic of discussion.
"Well, well! Look at you!" She called out, wandering towards him with a smirk across her green features. "Aren't you quite the specimen?"
Like flies to honey, they start flocking to him. By they he means her, but he knows more will come. Honestly how could they not? Flies love honey!
(Flies also love dead things and shit, but I won't tell him that and neither should you.)
If they had been standing in a swamp he probably would have screamed, thinking her some sort of swamp monster, but luckily they are in The Meadow. The hub of their land, if you will. Home to vagrants and vagabonds alike.
(He isn't sure which he is, because he isn't entirely sure what those words mean. Honestly we could fill a book entitled "Things Layland Doesn't Know" by Layland The Hot Pink Tobiano STALLION. He would definitely include the stallion part, in all caps, just like that.)
Being in The Meadow means he doesn't mistake her for a swamp monster, though. To the contrary, her ickiness just kind of...blends in. He would liken her color to puke, though he himself has never puked. Odd design flaw, that. Swift as the wind but can die of a simple belly ache. Evolution truly does like her little jokes.
Sorry, SQUIRREL!
"I am many things, and chief among them is a Specimen, yes." he says, nodding his head in agreement. The motion sends his Hot pink tresses flying. (Thats the fancy word for mane, for you plebians who don't know fancy words.) He eyes her from top to bottom, never lingering too long in one spot. That would be unbecoming of someone who is "quite the specimen", but he does have an appreciation for the female form. Even one thats the color of a stagnant, mosquito filled swamp and has a suspicious looking scar on her chest.
Luckily, Layland can't read so he doesn't know that the C stands for Carnage, else he'd tuck plume and run for the hills.
Instead, he cocks a hind hoof, content to be lazy and nonchalant and overall fabulous. "And you mi'lady, you are certainly something yourself. Hopefully not sick? The last time I saw someone your color, it was mostly in their face and they were about to blow chunks. Is that your trait? Puking?" he asks with a tilt of his skull. He himself doesn't have any traits, but puking would be a cool one.
