the darkest nights produce the brightest stars
Fennick was trying to stay positive about his new found powers. He didn’t really understand how this happened. Earlier this morning, he had come across this little blueish green sphere in the woods. Like an idiot, he had pawed at it until it opened. He had suddenly been engulfed by this strange, gelatinous substance that flowed uncontrollably from the orb.
Now he could not hold himself together.
No, quite literally. One moment he would be Fennick, and the next he would be whatever his eyes casually passed over. A log, a rock, a tree, a squirrel. Fennick had been them all. When he closed his eyes he all but melted, turning back into strange gelatinous goo.
Right now he was trying very, very hard to focus on Fennick. He was having mild success. He was shaped like a horse, and if you didn’t look too closely, you might think that horse looked like Fennick. He was black and large, and had two eyes. That’s about where the similarities ended.
But still, he was trying to say positive.
That he could control it at all was a good sign. For example, he was looking at a log right now, and he wasn’t becoming a log, he was still a weird shadow horse. If he looked over at the other horses it felt like all he needed to was reach out with his mind and he would become them. But at least he didn’t have to reach out.
Fennick sighed. This was not what he had expected when he came to live in the Valley. He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it wasn’t this. Fennick shook his head. He probably should have expected it. This was just the sort of thing that would happen to him.
Slowly he began to amble around, tearing his eyes from the log. He really needed to get it together. He took a deep breath, and focused on Fennick again. He felt his form get a little more solid and took that as a win.
Baby steps, he would have to move in baby steps. Fennick Whale and Rea's amorphous, ever-changing son
 Rhonan has no idea how to control the shadows. But as it turns out, Rhonan is still a pretty pretty princess. He’s still gold and white. He actually wouldn’t mind being a ball of goo. It would be awesome. Why? Because then he wouldn’t be gold and white.
Instead, he is gold and white, and swathed in shadows now. He likes them. They cling to the gold patches of his coat, trailing behind him like a very depressed cloud. Which is about accurate, because every time Rhonan is alone he can see Noah out of the corner of his eye. He turns, and Noah is gone. How desperately he wants Noah to be standing there one of these days, just waiting for Rhonan to find him.
But no, Noah is gone.
There’s a weird part of him that doesn’t like being with others though. Because when he’s in company, Noah never appears. At least when Noah is there, hovering in the outskirts of his vision, there’s hope. Hope that Noah isn’t dead. Or that Noah can come back from the dead. Maybe, maybe if Rhonan can master this shadow shit he can bring Noah back from the dead.
But instead, Rhonan just tends to fall through them. Like now. He nearly reappears on top of a horse that’s only kind of a horse. He almost looks like he’s made out of shadows, but Rhonan knows he’s not. How does he know this? No damn clue. He just knows it. He has some new and strange and impossible understanding of the darkness that clings to him. He can’t get it to do what he wants, but that might come. Eventually, maybe.
“Shit. Sorry,” he mumbles. Thankfully he teleported and managed to stay standing his time. Half the time he ends up on his ass. The shadows still cling to his coat, and he steps away from the shadow beneath his feet. It’s much safer to avoid them, though he won’t leave if he doesn’t try. Still, who the hell is going to teach him? Like always, Rhonan is on his own.
“I’m Rhonan,” he finally adds, after a long awkward moment in which he just stares and avoids the shadows from the trees. He’s also trying to figure out just exactly what this horse is, because he’s not entirely horse. Mostly horse, but not quite.
rhonan.
the darkest nights produce the brightest stars Fennick was unreasonably proud of doing what most people managed without even trying. His form, while not completely solid, is not just mildly viscous. It is a victory of the most pathetic of proportions, but a victory none the less. While he still had teeth solid enough to eat grass, Fennick began to gobble the summer foliage as fast as he could. At this rate, he might not get another meal for a while, and it would be just his luck to die of starvation.
That was how his new friend found him. When the other stallion appeared, almost on top of him, Fennick grunted audibly, then turned less solid and felt bits of his limbs trickle off in various directions. It took him a moment to collect himself, (literally, he had to collect himself) and when he had finished the other stallion looked more composed, or at least, he was a little farther away.
“No, it’s quite all right.” Fennick said it with a weary acceptance, as if his life had been until now, and probably would be forever more, a series of awkward, unfortunate encounters. Yet, as Fennick took stock of the situation, his countenance brightened considerably.
Wait…that time the other guy had been weird. Fennick had been an innocent bystander. He looked at the newcomer with renewed, vigorous interest. Yes! He did seem rather weird. Weird and pretty, which just made him weirder because he wasn’t a woman. And had he teleported? While teleporting was weird, it was weirder that he couldn’t seem able to control it. Fennick just about screamed with delight.
“Wow!” He said enthusiastically.
“And I thought I had problems.” Fennick, had he been thinking clearly, would probably have realized that this was abominably, unforgivably rude. But he wasn't thinking clearly. His brain was considerably less solid than usual, more gooey than spongey, and he would bet money that it was affecting is cognitive functioning. At least, that’s what he would keep insisting.
“I’m Fennick.” He was still enthusiastic, but he was less manically so. At least Rhonan gave him something else to think on, rather than his own, no doubt inevitable, demise. Fennick’s leading theory was that he was dying. There was no way this was normal, and if Fennick knew anything, he knew that turing into a liquid was fatal. It just seemed like common sense. But, so long as there was someone to ask, Fennick may as well try to get some answers before he expired.
“Did you find a little ball in the woods as well? Because, I don’t think you’re supposed to open those —” Fennick trailed off, for he heard how ridiculous he sounded. He sounded like a crazy person, but was it any less crazy then what was happening to them? Fennick Whale and Rea's amorphous, ever-changing son
If Rhonan were any other horse, he might be annoyed at this stallion’s comment. But Rhonan, as it turns out, is Rhonan. And he’s basically thinking the exact same thing when after noticing this stallion literally start trickling away. Like goo. He’s fucking oozed like something out of a swamp, though the gold and white boy is pretty sure there are no swamps around the Valley. He’s been lurking, doing very little other than get in the way and learn the landscape. So, at least he is reasonably certain there are no swamps.
But this stallion is something of a swamp thing. Thank god Rhonan’s not the only one falling apart with traits.
The part that bothers Rhonan more than being told he had problems (he has so many problems, like seeing his dead friend, though no one else knows that one) is the fact that this stallion seems so very happy about that. Rhonan is not entirely sure what he’s supposed to make of this, and he takes another step away instinctively. He used to quiet Noah. Not this.
He shakes his head slightly, at himself, tossing his pretty pretty princess mane, and then steps forward again. Stop being a shit, he reminds himself, though it’s futile, because he really is a shit. He doesn’t even have to try at it. “Yea, I think I’m supposed to teleport. But I just fucking fall through the shadows. I walk into one and bam.”
He rolls his shoulder in a shrug, as if he doesn’t care. He mostly doesn’t, but one day he’s going to fall into a boiling pit of lava and that’s going to be that. “Rhonan,” he says, slightly more comfortable now that the other stallion has calmed down just slightly. Maybe all the Valley horses were insane. He’d fit right on it, if that’s the case. But maybe he needs to be surrounded by sane horses, lest he end up in white padded walls.
“No little ball. I…yea. I dunno. Shit happened man. That’s what I know.” He can’t find the words to talk about that one. He can’t explain the world where he was king of his animal experiments, or the world where Beqanna burned and Noah died and the fact that Rhonan is still mildly convinced that this is just a dream. They are probably all dead already and they don’t even know. He can’t say how he voted away two horses he didn’t even know to be tortured by a demon for a year just because someone told him so.
“Did a little ball turn you into um….goo? Are you goo?” This doesn’t sound rude (Rhonan has no filter for rude) or weird to him (nothing is weird to the boy with a thousand lives). He’s really just asking. rhonan.
the darkest nights produce the brightest stars Fennick was vaguely aware that he might have scared his new friend off. He didn’t mind terribly, he was, after all, used to it. He was just so excited to see someone else, anyone else, struggling with mythical powers that did nothing but make life harder. Still though, if he left now Fennick wouldn’t get his answers, and that would be disappointing.
Yet, to Fennick’s relief, the other man took a single step away, rather than many at a fast pace. One step wasn’t a terrible reaction, he’d received worse. As the palomino described his talents, Fennick tried to regather his various limbs before they soaked into the earth and left him crippled.
“Teleporting, huh?” He asked as he regathered his left foreleg.
“Well that would be cool…in theory.” And it was true. Teleporting would be really cool, and drop dead useful. It wouldn’t be either of those things, however, if you couldn’t control it. Fennick paused for a moment, letting his mind wander to the various perils of teleporting. Would it be worse than dribbling away? Fennick wasn’t entirely sure. At least he stayed in one spot as he dribbled away, there was no risk of one leg getting left behind when the rest of him materialized somewhere else.
Yes, things certainly could be worse.
He nodded at the name, and tried to memorize it. He had met shamefully few residents of his kingdom. If he had to meet everyone twice before they were committed to memory, the task would never be completed. Better to get it right the first time.
Despite his curiosity, Fennick chose not to press Rhonan about how he came to teleport. He knew a thing or two about not wanting to talk about it. What was it that men did instead? Hit things? Fennick certainly would prefer that in most situations.
“I don’t think I’m goo, not exactly.” Fennick paused to gather his thoughts. They were a little scattered and uncertain. He wasn’t really sure what he was.
“Well, technically I am. However, I seem to do a lot of shapeshifting, as long as I can see it, I can be it. At night I turn to stone, but in between sleeping and seeing I tend to turn to goo.” He desperately hoped that wouldn’t always be the case. Fennick didn’t want to think about what would happen if he couldn’t get a hang of his new, unfortunate skills. He certainly would be out of work.
“I guess I can always become a politician, if I’m destined to be a spineless ball of slime.” Fennick grinned wickedly at his rather weak joke. Hopefully, Rhonan didn’t have political aspirations. Fennick Whale and Rea's amorphous, ever-changing son
my shadow tilts its head at me, spirits in the dark are waiting. Teleporting could be pretty cool. So could mastering this shadow thing. Rhynn had showed him just some of what he could do. Made herself twice as large, almost solid looking. He’s pretty sure he could make something solid too, if he could just figure out how to control it. It seemed so natural to her. Maybe she was born with the trait, maybe it was in her blood.
But for Rhonan, it was all just in his head. Or maybe it was his head getting in the way. Thoughts of Noah and Gero and Azula and the crow. Thoughts of Beqanna burned to the ground, of the horde of dead, burned horses chasing them. Devouring Noah.
The shadows around them begin to grow; shadows of tree branches reaching out as if to grab (and they might, he doesn’t know). He shakes his head, clearing it, and the shadows fall back to normal. The ones of his coat still cling to him though.
“Yea man. In theory.” He rolls his eyes slightly, at himself, not at Fennick. The stallion doesn’t press, and Rhonan is thankful. He thinks. Maybe it would be good to talk about it, but Rhonan has never been a talker. He’d be a fighter, if he could get his act together enough to be anything. And even if he could talk about it, what would he say? Yea, I’ve lived like 4 lives. I made Frankenstein animals and then my pet crow died and the world crumbled. And Beqanna burned. In one of my lives, you are fucking dead dude.
Yea, that’s enough of that. Fennick would think he’s crazy and he’d probably be tossed out of the Valley. Not that Rhonan is head over heels in love with this kingdom, but whatever, it was a place to stay. Besides, he needed Rhynn. Fennick, bless his soul, changes the topic back to his good state.
“Can you turn into me?” The idea of which is both creepy and amazing. Not that the world need’s anymore Rhonan’s, but at least Fennick/Rhonan would have a sense of humor. Rhonan does actually chuckle at the joke, which is something for him. He’s pretty much stupid when it comes to humor, but this one he gets. Why? Because he’s no politician either. rhonan.
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