"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
The walk to the Amazons is far longer. South they go, the temperature warming considerably as they leave the Tundra behind. South between the Gates and the Falls. She’s already told him of the Falls, but she tells him of the Gates now, with their mother tree. They too, like the Falls, are quiet and peaceful. Further south, through the Field that Erebor already knows too well, through the Plains and past the beach. She does not take him there, not because he cannot handle it, but because she has never been since her mother’s murder. She doesn’t want to go until she finds someone who can point out her mother’s bones. That’s all she wants to see, though probably, every trace of her mother is gone.
Finally, they reach the Amazons. So different from where they have just gone, though the Tundra was days ago now. The heat is sweltering, dense and thick like swimming through a bog. She misses the misty chill of the pine forests, the shadows that caress her there. Here the shadows are oppressive, and she wonders how anyone lives here. Yet so many do. Strong, powerful woman. Her cousin is one of them, and she supposes she can see why an electric lion might choose the Jungle as her home. But still, this was clearly not the place for Straia. She was rather used to being surrounded by men anyway.
“My cousin, your second cousin, lives here. Her name is Rhy.” She tells him. She isn’t sure that they will see her this time around, but perhaps. Either way, it’s always good to know who your family is. Even her father had never really let her down. He had been terrible, yes, but he didn’t let her die. Truthfully, Straia had been the only one to let her family down. She turned on Rodrik (though for good reason, and she had thought he’d rather like the Valley once he stopped fuming at her). She let Lu down. How many others would she fail? Would she fail the Chamber?
No. She failed her family because she put the Chamber first. She would always put the Chamber first.
She lets out a call for the Amazonians. This kingdom is slightly more stable. She knows who rules, she knows that they probably aren’t all that interested in an alliance. She doesn’t particularly mind, but she never did hear back from the diplomats that had visited her. So apparently she’d have to return the call.
The call that echoed across the Amazons is familiar, but Sunday cannot place her finger on exactly who it came from. Rather than contemplate who might be calling for diplomats, Sunday takes off across the thick, dense jungle to follow the call of the mare. It's not long before she smells a child, too, though child is a relative term these days. Many adults are really children, and many children she'd met were really adults.
At last she finds herself face to face with Straia, and she remembers where the voice came from in her memory. The queen of the Chamber! Sunday lets out a whinny of hello as she closes the last of the distance between them, her ears pricked forward in a friendly manner. Though, really, Sunday is unable to be anything but friendly. Those deep brown eyes, the intense feelings of empathy, they all join together to make her a rather likeable figure. At least, she'd like to think she were likeable.
"Straia! Welcome to the Amazons," she greets, and nods to the smaller figure at her side. "I am Sunday, what's your name?" Sunday has never borne a child so it never occurs to her to speak to the child like he's anything other than a mini adult.
The walk with his mother is amiable, a veritable tour of Beqanna. As before, he drinks in the history like a thirsty man, glad to learn anything (and everything) that he can possibly soak up. There is no crumb of knowledge too meager for his tastes, nothing that he wouldn't wish to know. And his mother, knowing as she does her son's tastes, happily obliges.
And when they reach the borders, she tells him of family that they have here. It's fascinating, really, to learn just how far his heritage reaches. He is child of the Chamber, and never doubt it, but he has met so many to whom he is related that he finds it simply fascinating. And now, perhaps, he will meet another.
He wouldn't understand Straia's feelings that she has let her family down. He's missed much of the importance, much of the sturm and drang of the drama that engulfed the Chamber just before his birth. He knows nothing of the rule of the skeleton king, other than what he's heard as hearsay, and hearsay has never much swayed him. All he knows is that his mother has given him everything he needed or wanted (which wasn't much, he's very self sufficient) and that she has given everything for the Chamber. In his book, these are the two important qualities (although reversed, Chamber before self always), and the measures by which he would judge her. And so in his book, she has been nothing but a success.
"Rhy." he tests the name on his lips when they are still alone. "I hope we'll meet her. It's always a pleasure to meet family." he remarks offhand, as though he were commenting on the weather. It has been a pleasure, but it's been a pleasure in the way that a diplomat uses the word. He feels very little genuine pleasure, little soldier boy that he is. His life is duty and discipline, and he would have it no other way.
It isn't long before they're approached by a mare, and from the way she greets them, Erebor almost thinks that it is Rhy. But when the mare draws closer and introduces herself to Erebor, it becomes clear that this is not the case. His face shows no disappointment – he wears a carefully practiced and rigorously cultivated diplomat's mask at all times, neither pleased nor displeased, pleasant but not too pleasant.
"Erebor, ma'am." his response is brisk, but friendly. His voice is rich and deep, richer and deeper than a child's by right should probably be, even a yearling. "It's a pleasure to meet you Sunday." And it is – it's a pleasure to meet everyone who can help him learn more about the world and learn more about the other kingdoms. He doesn't think it strange how she addresses him. For all intents and purposes, Erebor is a mini adult.
"You seem to already know my mother, Straia." he offers, by way of a transition sentence. "We've come from the Chamber, on a diplomatic mission. How is the jungle faring nowadays?" he knows so little of the place, has never been here, and no doubt his mother might have something more pointed or interesting to say. But for now, his words are enough.
She has very little purpose here, truthfully, other than to say hello and introduce Erebor to a part of his heritage. Growing rather far removed, yes, but still, the Jungle was in his blood as well. It was in hers too, though she had never seen the Jungle. Her father’s skill was to keep her as sheltered as possible (though she did her best to run around behind his back and learn what she could). He didn’t spend much time teaching her of her history, on either side. She knew why he avoided teaching her of her mother’s history – that side was the legacy he was trying to kill, except he tied himself to it through her anyway. But she never entirely knew why he hadn’t taught her of his own family – he loved them all so. Simple neglect, probably. Rodrik had been good for that.
Sunday finds them quickly enough, and while Straia’s own smile doesn’t stretch like Sunday’s nor does she necessarily light up like the Amazonian, the corners of her mouth are pulled upward and her face is light and easy, pleasant and natural for Straia. She doesn’t feel any need to fake a larger smile here. This particular Jungle mare knows her well enough, and truthfully, she expects nothing out of the Amazons. She had asked her question, and received a clever diplomatic response. But she’s not stupid, and she knows their choice. She won’t ask again – the Chamber does not beg.
Erebor answers first, ever the diplomat. Such a perfect little creature, really. One day, he will surpass her, and she could ask for nothing more. That’s the point of parenthood, is it not? Granted she didn’t plan to be such a failure that he’d have to usurp her off the throne. She’d step down before that happened. “Sunday,” she says in that smoky voice of hers. “Here to say hello, really. And slightly selfishly, to see the place where my father grew up and where my grandmother ruled.” Little bit of added history for Erebor too.
The quiet is around her when the call comes. Or should I say, no equine happens to be making noise until the call comes. The Jungle truly is never silent; the parrots and the howlers and the leopards all call from one region to the next, voices stretching further even than that of the loudest sister. Truly marvelous, she thinks with a crude smile at the nearest parrot, who she’s hoping isn’t one of the talking ones. But to business.
Swishing what little tail-hairs she has, the Khaleesi pushes through the vegetation, ignoring a nearby path in favour of the most direct route. A hidden lid slips across her eyes, and suddenly she sees in heat; far in the distance, a group of sisters stand talking. Closer yet, Wrynn and Leiland lay sleeping, intertwined. A small smile crosses her lips, but she forces it away.
A moment later, the fire-sister emerges next to Sunday, face neutral, if not slightly hard. That being said, she and Straia have met aplenty in the field, and she shouldn’t be too shocked at Scorch’s way of holding herself. The colt is another story completely, however. But Scorch only bothers with her own kids. Unlike plenty of women in this very Jungle, she prefers blood of her blood to blood of strangers.
“Greetings, Queen Straia.” A dip of her large, fearsomely tattooed head. “I am Khaleesi Scorch,” She says to the younger of the two diplomats. He begins speaking swiftly, in a deep voice which Scorch has known in none of her children, at least not at a young age. Alas, Scorch is rather indifferent towards the children of others, so instead of contemplating, she simply replies.
“Your mother is quite an important woman, Erebor. And the Jungle is doing very well – we are gaining members by the day, and the effects of the disaster can almost be forgotten now.”
And then Straia speaks, addressing Sunday. Scorch has a reply in mind, but decides that her Bloodrider is by far capable of answering her own questions. Watching the two Chamberlings with something of curiosity, Scorch falls silent, towering above them all at sixteen hands. But she’s always liked looking down at others – oops, did that come out? Ah, well. No one’s really surprised, anyways.
Mother can't expect her daughter to stand idly in wait for her return. That would be too boring, too wasteful of her time. Nayl is more forward and direct.
The child's footsteps whisper across the Jungle's soil as she weaves among the trees. There are voices nearby that are accompanied by an unfamiliar, outside scent. Knowing only the Jungle Nayl can't subdue her curiosity as she quickly melts away the distance between her and the expanding group.
The others smile in both greeting and in a manner of diplomacy.
The girl doesn't mirror them.
Her expression betrays little. Her autumn eyes - an array of golds and oranges - peer up first at Straia (she gathers her name by the greetings and responses of others) then to the boy. An intrigued stare holds onto him for a couple heartbeats prior to diverting her attention to the neighboring Amazons. The girl has wedged herself between the Khaleesi and Sunday rather nonchalantly. She stands and holds herself as though she belongs here and in that moment, she greatly resembles her grandmother. Even her smoky black patches splattered across a canvas of white make her even more so like Echion. Alas, she never had the opportunity to meet her fiery, hard-headed grandmother.
"I'm Nayl," she placidly offers to the group followed by a roll of her shoulders. Unable to provide a great deal to the conversation she is mostly here to learn. Unlike her mother, Myrina, young Nayl has ambitions; little does she know how much she mirrors the former queen in this respect also.
And finally, as a second thought almost, Nayl looks up to the Khaleesi. "Hello, Aunt Scorch," the corners of her mouth lift but it's barely a smile before she returns her attention to the Chamberlings.
Sunday is surprised at first by the young man, mostly because her own lack of motherhood leaves her utterly clueless about children. At what age do they speak? At what age are they aware? What what what? Sunday is very ill versed, so she hopes that treating them as very simple adults will suffice. She finds, much to her dismay, that her voice is much louder and she speaks much slower than she does with adults.
Sunday, the diplomat, cannot be a jack of all trades I suppose.
"Yes, the Jungle is doing quite well. Lots of children this season," her smile is genuine and warm despite her own discomfort with kids. New blood is always wonderful. Young blood, at that. Straia mentions her own past here and Sunday is curious. "You'll have to forgive me - I was born in Beqanna but spent much time outside of it. I'm not well versed on the history, especially when it comes to previous Amazonian rulers." She turns her attention to Scorch, nodding, "Maybe you can fill us in a bit?" She knows the queen has spent many decades in the Amazons.
They practically come out of the woodwork. There’s a collection of horses at this point. Sunday and Scorch, both of whom she’s met at this point, and some child that comes and introduces herself. Straia would say she doesn’t care, but that’s not entirely true. She cares to the extent that it is useful to know who lives in what kingdom, how many come to greet two clearly harmless diplomats. Not that she needs any clue to the power of the Amazons. That is well known, but it is a useful indication in the quieter kingdoms sometimes to see how many come flocking to the scary Chamber diplomats.
Again, not the Amazons fear the Chamber. Other kingdoms trust them less though.
She looks to Scorch first with a chuckle. “Ah, but everyone is related to royalty now. Not important at all.” She does not in any way think herself special for her bloodlines. She does, however, like to tell Erebor where she came from and spite her father by learning about the history he couldn’t be bothered to tell her. Of course, she realizes that the way she phrases things could be taken differently. It could in fact sound like she fancies herself very important. She knows this, and chooses her words as she does anyway. If that’s what they want to take from her, so be it. She simply doesn’t care.
After all, Scorch holds herself like she’s above all of them. In height, she is, though not by that much. Straia is only a hand shorter than the Khaleesi (what’s up with all these titles in languages they don’t speak, anyway?), though the rest of their company does appear to be shorter. So really, they are each allowed to have their own little quirks.
She also notes how the girl’s gaze lingers on Erebor. The black and white girl doesn’t bother with pleasant smiles of a diplomat, which Straia appreciates but can’t reciprocate in this situation. The girl, sadly, has the tattoos of an Amazon already on her though. Shame, because she might have done well in the Chamber. But clearly, she’s already cast her lot in life, and she can’t blame the girl for that either. After all, Straia has known all her life she would never leave the Chamber.
Sunday speaks up, and Straia’s ear prick in that direction. “Ah, well I suppose you can’t be blamed for that. My father never did introduce me around here. Rodrik is my father, and Kagerou my grandmother. I admit I know little more than that. He doesn’t talk of her much.” Though she knows he loves his family dearly, she had never bothered to impart any of that on Straia. He’d just made it more of a point to keep her in the dark about her mother’s family history, because of course, that was the dynasty he was trying to erase. Bad job, clearly, since she took the throne.
straia
queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
When Scorch appears, he instantly looks to her and instantly knows that she is a personage of importance. He's learning much from his travels, growing by leaps and bounds, and recognizing royalty is one of the chief things he can add to his resume. He can tell it by the way she holds herself, by the way she emerges from the jungle as though born to it. When she introduces herself, he is quick to bow his head in gentle deference. She is no queen of his, but she is still owed respect simply by her station. He may be from the evil kingdom, but he is not above manners. "An honor, Khaleesi." he says, and he means it legitimately. It is always an honor to meet those who know more than he, to meet those who rule places that his kingdom might one day seek to impress, or to ally with.
Then a girl appears, melting from the jungle much like Scorch had. Erebor doesn't recognize her, but he doesn't miss the way her eyes seem to linger on him for just a moment longer. He is somewhat curious about her too; it's not every day he sees another younger horse that behaves anywhere close to how he behaves. He makes a mental note to seek for her later, so they may compare notes. Nayl, he thinks.
Talk turns back around to the history lesson, and he forgets anything having to do with social calls. You see, Erebor is that boy who knows absolutely everything about World Wars I and II. He's that military history nerd, the one who could tell you the name and positives/negatives of every type of military aircraft in the history of the world. Well, he would be that if he lived in a world that had planes, or humans to fly them. But as it is he's settled for being the most effective historian of his own family that he can possibly become.
He takes mental notes as Straia speaks, talking of Rodrik (a name he's heard )and Kagerou (another name he's heard). He doesn't know exactly who they were in the way that his father has spoken of his grandfather Atrox, but the way they're discussed makes him feel that he's every bit as honored to have their blood running through his veins as he is to have the blood of Atrox.
His mother finishes speaking, and he finds himself looking around the jungle with new eyes. Now that they have been here for some minutes, he can see just how unforgiving the place can be. He can see the vines that might trip up the unwary. He can hear the things that slither and hiss and purr just outside of sight. And truly, truly he is honored to be descended from someone who once ruled here. It has a similar strength to the Chamber, he thinks. Not the same, but similar. "I can feel the strength in this land. It is an honor to have roots here." he says simply, his deep voice almost hushed. He is serious, genuine, and eloquent, and then he is silent.
”Well said. We’re all mutts of the queens and kings of old.” Scorch eyes Straia with a squint and a smirk, toying with the ideas she has of the Chamber dictator. She speaks fluidly, neither here nor there. Scorch wonders if perhaps both their tongues are silver; one of silver water, and the other a silver blade. Take that as you will.
Elegantly late, Nayl sidles into the conversation. One might think that such a small body could not affect the mood which shimmers imperceptibly around the horses; yet suddenly, it seems as though the Jungle is on the defensive, sisters rising from the earth like guardians. This, however, is the contrary of reality. Scorch has come out of necessity and courtesy, as has Sunday. And little Nayl is far from intimidating, as long as you do not meet her gaze; she simply comes to learn and observe.
Sunday picks up the thread of conversation as Scorch inclines her head towards her faux-niece, though it quickly finds its way to the Khaleesi once more. Instead of jumping in, the baroque politely allows the finer – physically, that is – queen to say her part. Her eyes, tattoos, and nostrils flare suddenly at the mention of Kagerou; she lights up against the emerald backdrop of her home. With a slight show of emotion and sorrowful enthusiasm, she says:
”I knew Kagerou very well; you could say she was my best friend, all those years ago.” A nostalgic smile tips the corners of her charred lips. It remains stubbornly throughout her speech, the memory of her leopard friend as fresh as a bleeding wound. ”She ruled after Echion, who ruled after Tantalize. After Kagerou came Quark, Brunhild, and now myself. There are a few legends on the list; Prague and Grim Reaper among the few. But even I admit that names are boring. I won’t bore you with more.” Like the last rays of the sun, her smile grows before disappearing entirely. Names won’t bring her back, Scorch. Nothing will.
Erebor comments on the honour of having roots deeply laced in the Jungle’s soil. Scorch nods her head in return, meeting his gaze firmly, though she says no more on the subject. Rhy may have the right to shock her when things get out of hand, but even a lightning bolt couldn’t stop Scorch from mourning the loss of Kagerou.
Straightening, she addresses the two Chamberlings. ”If you’d like to converse with the sisters, please, come in. Otherwise, I find this meeting quite finished.” Her statement is brusque, but she figures that Straia will only relate to the bluntness, not retaliate. Scorch dips her head low to her equal, and turns to leave. Impulsively, she twists her head and says the following:
”If you ever find yourself in trouble...” Her eyes meet Straia’s, an unspoken offer and understanding within their depths. Slowly, she dips her head, comfortable in the knowledge that although silent, she has extended a branch of the Jungle towards the Chamber should there come a day they need the Sisterhood.
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