"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
She walks—no, floats—down the endless tunnel of a forest path. She feels lost, engulfed in the Dale’s surrounding guard that weeds out the unwilling, the lazy, the easily deterred. The forest builds itself in such a purposeful way, another wall to slow the pace of an enemy, another wall to block out the chaos which knocks at her door. They seem like happy forest dwellers, trolls or fae, planted in a strategical space.
This is why she walks—no, floats—because while the raging sun of hot energy in the Desert’s didn’t suit her fancy, perhaps the magic of the Dale might.
Her black body—ebony, moistened from a dip in the stream and shimmering from the rising sun—weaves in and out of charcoal tree trunks the width of lazy boy chairs and over top of fallen casualties (ahem, logs). Exemplary has an elegance to her air, a lightness to her step that makes even the biggest of hurdles seem like a meaningless twig.
On the outside, our flowing doe is a picture of flawlessness. On the inside, a consistent tremor of fear and longing.
bright copper kettles and warm wollen mittens.
She is gaining on the Dale entrance, the scent of an unknown smell lingering in the air. Her body tenses (as it always does) when she arrives on new turf. Just like as a child, a weanling, when she had stumbled upon the sandy surface of the Desert. Just like as an adult when she had meandered her way into the lush green of the meadow. She is a work in progress, a doll being sewn, a house still being blue-printed and planned. Our little doe has a fate, has a future, she just needs to solidify her own foundation of hope.
brown paper packages tied up with strings
She is here. Her petite frame staring at the clearing to the Dale like some portal to a better place, like the Dale is the future to her own discovery. Oh, little doe if only you knew. If only you knew that the kingdom isn’t what will make you, it is how well you serve her that will dictate your mark in history.
The forest clearing is like an arch, long willows opening up in a perfectly centered position with a mythical drape.
And she waits—no, she just breathes—until a wanderer welcomes her in.
these are a few of my favourite things.
Exemplary
I will be yours, and only yours, until the day I fade to black
This was not his strong suite. He is a man of few words, and fewer intentions of interaction as a diplomat. There were rumors of war, and dark moods loomed on the faces of his newly found kinsmen. There was silence in the kingdoms, and highly populated terrain in the meadows and feilds. Its winter and his wings were cramping, slowly caking with ice.
Its on one of those especially cold days, that the crisp air was lightened with a new scent, something more dainty then he had recognized in a while. As for the moment he was stretching his wings, nibbling gently along the hollow bones to melt the last bit of frost on them. With a slight sign of relief he expands them stretching them with a sigh, before meandering his way over to the borders where the scent he had picked up was coming from.
hello He queers at her curiously, running the length of her body with his eyes unsure if her intentions were good or not. Well best to follow by example in his book. So he quirks his lips in a oddly unused gesture of friendliness, before it disapates and returns to the grumpy sullen look that catches the details of the world. You need assistance? His colbalt tail switches his midnight colored hindquarters, already impatient to have this over with, and go back to sulking about the fight that he never got. Something that he would be looking forward to picking at later on after the deep frost had dissipated.
Phaedrus
DEATH GIVES US SLEEP, ETERNAL YOUTH, AND IMMORTALITY
He reminds her of a cold pegasus. His charcoal coat a match to herself, though unlike her he is accented with creamy cobalt in all the right places. His wings branch out like an eagle, so strong and prominent. They are there, lingering at his side and expanding with every inhale.
Are her intentions good? Are they bad? Are they unknown? What is worse?
To have good intentions, well that is the cherry on top. No one worries about good intentions. To have bad intentions is, well… bad. It is the fact someone wishes ill upon you in some shape or form that is worrisome. However, is it not better to know someone’s intention, then for it to be unknown? Exemplary could be threatening the very safety of the Dale, she could be planning their demise, or perhaps she was bringing roses.
The unknown is certainly more scary.
And is that not why leaders lead best in fear? When society feels anxious and desperate, the bold and the manipulative take hold. And it is not because people are dimwitted or idiotic, it is because people would rather have something solid than something imbalanced and unknown.
Perhaps she should stop dwelling within the thought and actually vocalize herself.
“I need a home, and I want to pick this place.” It is a statement, more or less. She did not come to ask questions, she was socially awkward enough that she could not fathom flirtatiously questioning his own intentions. All she wanted was a place to dedicate herself to. That is all.
He blinks. Its an odd thing to do, but its an odd meeting to begin with. Thus he he meets her in an odd fasion. I suppose kingdoms have rulers.
He inhales, his chest expands. He exhales, the cavities between bone and sinew collapse. Ramiel, is around. The king had been quite busy as of late. Maybe not, he himself could not tell you considering that his own self had been here and there, skittering about searching for tasks to complete.
The day is peaceful, warm rays glisten agaisnt the barrel of his hide. Blue locks shimmer in the stillness. He lifts his right forleg then places it back. Military through and through. Muscles pop under the fur, neck craned, and hooves position themselves in a formal manner. He looks over her carelessly assessing her. She didn't seem much of a threat, but still to lax once is to lalx in his duty. Something that he wouldn't do. I'm Phaedrus
He had almost forgotten his manners. In a stiff prideful way his neck curves, his wing dips. One stretching to curl at his chest a foreleg stretched forward so that whiskers tickle his knee with a huff of breath. Mane falls in his face, tail swishes against his haunches. He straightens, he blinks, he breathes and waits. Not much else for him to do. Possibly his ears could flicker around, listen to the chirping of birds, or the music of crickets, but no they remain as they have been since his arrival, straight forward.
Phaedrus
DEATH GIVES US SLEEP, ETERNAL YOUTH, AND IMMORTALITY
