"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
05-24-2016, 03:54 PM (This post was last modified: 06-16-2016, 11:28 AM by Knock.)
He is still covered in afterbirth when she lays him there at the foot of Khaos’ shrine. The moon gleams across his body as he drifts to sleep. She will not come back for him, he knows somehow, but he is unconcerned. He does not hunger as other foals do; not for mother’s milk, not for warmth. Of all the foals that Rea has birthed and left, Knock is perhaps most suited for survival. Iron does not need like others do.
He sleeps for a time, silent and hidden within long salt grasses. His body pulls iron from the ground, and even from Khaos himself, deepening the jagged wounds left by Quark. When he wakes, eyes blinking up at an old remnant of an iron stallion, Knock is nearly full grown, fed by the metal of his grandsire.
He rises, wings groaning to life as he spreads them, testing their length before settling them at his sides. He eyes Khaos’ shell, snorting as he circles the old beast. For a moment he is unsure of what to do. There is a hunger in him he cannot explain - a hunger for more than what he has already taken.
“Who are you?” he asks the old stallion, though he knows he cannot answer. There is no life left in him.
Screaming like a siren, alive and burning brighter.
Normally I would have no interest in returning to Silver Cove. Not that I would shy away from the site where I rained vengeance down upon the man who tortured, crippled, and nearly killed my beloved son. I have no regrets, and as an Amazon I was raised to embrace the savage warrior side of my nature that so viciously defended my blood. Still, I have never been the type to revel in reliving old conquests, or to revisit old battlegrounds where the blood has long since sunk into the ground.
However. A tickling little whisper in my ear has been nudging me in this direction all day. It only took a few decades, but I have finally learned to listen when the spirits of the earth offer guidance, especially the one who has inhabited my skin since I turned three and first pledged myself to the Jungle. My little dart frog guide, far wiser than I have ever been, has prodded me toward the sea since sometime last night. Still, I am surprised to find myself nearing the Cove. It has been many years since I was last here, and it is only sunlight glinting off a ravaged iron corpse in the distance that reminds me why the shape of the shore looks so familiar.
Khaos.
It is not fear of any danger to myself that has my shape altering subtly, the lines of my body slimming down to a mare far more dainty than I have ever been by nature, broad chest and hips contracting into the fine curves and light bones of a desert-bred mare. The yellow and white of my coat alters to an innocuous bay, my leathery dragon wings shifting mid-flight to shiny black feathered bird wings.
Eyes, whispers that quiet little voice, and mine blink in surprise. I have never changed the color of my eyes before, never bothered to mask myself that much. But for my children, and for my grandchildren, I listen. Brown washes over the mismatched blue and gold, hiding the most obvious clue to my identity while that glint of sunlight off iron is still a distant shimmer on the horizon.
A stranger touches down beside the Covelings' iron god, sleek and feminine and utterly unlike me. Ah, and I see now why the caution. There is much of the old iron beast in the boy beside him—and he is a boy, nearly grown though he may be. There is a newness to the bond between body and soul, and the scent of afterbirth lingers in the air. A child, a baby really, no matter that his body looks like a colt on the verge of becoming a stallion.
Drow. It almost itches, nudging me closer, coaxing me to step closer. I can't quite parse out the tangled thread that ties the two of them together, but there is a connection. So I listen, waiting patiently for the threads to untangle. “He can't answer you,” I reply to the boy's question, though it was not directed at me. My eyes go unfocused, my tone a bit distracted as I study the colt with shaman's eyes, looking beyond the iron body to the soul newly anchored there. “More importantly who are you, then?”
I am the fire.
((Per some OOC plotting, I'd like to change that "open" in the thread title to "closed." XD But if anyone absolutely must interrupt, Q will play innocent. Or at least not-herself.))
He is so new to this world, and yet the iron he has stolen from his grandsire feels ancient. How strange to imagine his body growing within a womb of flesh and blood. It’s a wonder Rea did not turn carnivorous and crave red meat during her pregnancy. Oh, the toll he must have taken on her. Perhaps, that is why she left him here. Though, it’s more likely that she, being the broodmare of Beqanna, leaves all of her children at their father’s doorsteps.
Knock cannot feel the spirits within others - not like Quark. But, here, on his first glowing morning outside of the womb, he feels death. It is an old death - a story long told by the mouths of many. What Quark had left as a reminder and warning for the descendants of Khaos, that same brood had turned into a god. But to Knock, who knows nothing save his own thoughts, the relic before him looks like sustenance. While the soul has been ripped from the body, the iron still sings to him like siren song.
He wants more, but before he can take it, there is a voice beside him.
“He can’t answer you,” she says.
Knock stares at the face of his grandsire, only now seeing the terror there. His face furrows. He does not understand. But she speaks again, and he listens, this time turning his head to face her. His movements are not soft and silent like hers. His short mane tinkles against his neck, and his iron muscles groan against each other. Even when he blinks there is a faint “ping” when his eyelids meet.
“I do not know.” he tells her, and it is true. He does not know who he is, or why he is here. As hard and intimidating as his body may be, his mind is foggy and unclear. She could tell him anything, and he would believe her. That is the beauty of a newborn child, even if he wears the body of a near grown stallion.
Screaming like a siren, alive and burning brighter.
The boy's brow furrows, studying the statue of his ancestor. I can hear every little movement he makes, from the tilting of his head to the blinking of his iron eyes. “You're young yet. Who you are is often something you discover over time. Perhaps, Knock,” and isn't it funny how life works sometimes? I loved a Noct, bore a Noctem who his twin called Noc, and now there is Knock, though there is no saying he will be mine in any way at this point. Or at least I try convince myself of that fact as I look around the Cove that would be his home. “Perhaps a more important question is who would you like to be?”
If he stays here, among the Ironborn, I have little doubt he will become just like them. Darkness lingers over this land, and clusters around hearts here. Though frankly, who am I to judge a little darkness? Just because Khaos was an evil bastard who earned his slow, agonizing death several times over doesn't mean everyone here is the same. Nor, I suspect, would any of them truly be able to stand against my family. Still, something tells me this one has a choice to make. He could, if he so chose, follow his blood into the dark, and perhaps come out newly forged as a weapon to harm innocents – or more importantly, to seek vengeance upon my line for the corpse I made of their progenitor.
But for one so new, so young, maybe there is another path, if it is one he wants. He has not asked who I am, and to be honest I wouldn't quite know how to answer the question anyhow. Certainly not with my name. I will wait, I suppose, until he answers other questions. I have not posed an easy one, especially not for the newly born. If he wants the path before him, I will go, calling out to someone here to come find him, watching from a distance to make sure he is cared for. But if he would rather...I will not say walk in light. I am a shade of grey at best, sometimes far darker than the middle. Still, with mine, there is a love that binds us together and gives us a way through the darkness when we are strong enough to take it.
If his mother were here, or anyone to care for him at all, I would walk away and leave them to their own devices. But such a young boy, all alone in the shadow of a dead man...I don't have it in me to just leave. “And where are your parents, then? Your mother, your father? Any family to speak of?” Anyone to call your own? A boy, no matter how grown, needs connection. I briefly wonder if that's where Drow comes in, but the thought is fleeting. For now, there are more immediate concerns. “Are you hungry?”
He nods slowly as the winged bay mare speaks to him. Perhaps, she is right, and he hopes she is. He hopes this uncertainty passes in time, because the fog and the anxiety are frustrating. He cannot help but scowl into the dirt. In his very short life he has felt hunger, confusion, and strife. Others have mothers to coo away the discontent and stuff the belly with warm milk. Knock has a dead man and a stranger, and too many questions for such a young mind.
But there is comfort in the company of this stranger - something that could never be so with those of his own blood. If he were to stay, the raw emotions he feels would be exploited. He would be forged into a weapon - a faux reincarnation of his grand-sire. No doubt Kirin would transform him to suit the needs of the bloodthirsty Cove. Much is at stake, but Knock does not know. How could one so young know?
Finally, he meets the brown of the mare’s eyes, but he cannot answer her question. The idea of being able to choose who he wants to be is strange. His ears flick towards his poll, faster than iron should move. But, he isn’t angry.
“How can I be anything but this?” he asks, looking first to the shoreline, glowing in the morning light, and then to Khaos. How can he be any more than his blood? It is a simple question, at least for him, but there is depth to it beyond what he knows.
Then she asks of his mother and father, and Knock looks at her as if she is speaking a foreign language, head tilted to the side and ears pricked forward. He thinks for a moment, eyes returning to the dirt at his feet. He could lie. He could tell her his mother would be back soon, but they both know it isn’t so. Knock has been abandoned. He cannot answer, not with words, for “No” hurts like nothing he has ever felt. So he shakes his head slowly, shamefully.
There is much writhing within him. He has almost forgotten his hunger by the time she reminds him of it. He looks back to Khaos, posturing up and staring the dead beast in the face.
“Yes,” he says, finally. “I am hungry.” but not in a way that can be helped by mother’s milk. “Do you know who this is?” he asks the mare as he studies the weathered iron corpse. Surely she knows more than he.
per ooc planning:
Quark tells Knock her side of the story of Khaos' death. Knock decides to follow her, and she finds him a nice, loving family (in my closet). He'll be back soon enough.
