"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 could still remember all that had happened. All the tender moments with the prince. As a human she had to admit she was a stunning creature, as a horse... she was to thin, to long, to... pink. There it was once again. As human her pink hair had been a beautiful decoration, now it covered her body making her stand out like a sign that screamed "warning, weirdo stands here".
Zayn was dead, her scars no longer bruising her supple skin. His son had taken over, and while he had paid her the honor of his attention once, she could tell that she was an unwanted part of the herd. She was no good to anyone really. Her skills lacked to a degree beyond what even normal horses considered acceptable. Socially awkward, and fear exuting from her there was only one that she had dared to be bold with. Zayn The whisper leaves her lips traveling amongst the trees on the border.
What was she to do now? There was no protector for her, no company that didn't make her quake, no one to bruise her hide in violent love. No only the silence of a forest. Yet this was something she used to find a comfort. Indulging in this now, she felt naked and the affection she once felt for it was left only cold and black.
She needed to find something, to figure something out. She missed the warm dark of the cave she had taken residence in. That was now the place that she could think back on with warm affection, standing there near the bustling brook she smiles secretively. Shaken out of the revere a sound distracts her. Who's there? Oh dear, oh dear. Would they harm her? Her heart began to race, her pulse thrumming in her ears. Panic rising to choke her. But worst of all. Was it Waylan?
05-24-2016, 08:03 PM (This post was last modified: 05-24-2016, 08:06 PM by Waylan.)
He finds himself in the field content and all, cloaked in his gift he sauntered about as he bumps into clueless equine. Little does he know that one of his own strays away from the flock. A smile curls on his lips, a little runaway we have here?
Shifting he walks towards the pink girl, how ever so foolish of her. When he returns with her by his side she better wish Zayn's spirit is watching over her because he has a little punishment in mind. He remains cloaked crimson eyes shift as he bites out at multiple stallions in his way, ripping flesh off their bodies mercilessly enraged with his little runaway mare, who thought she was so clever by leaving his herd.
As he comes up beside her he brushes his muzzle over her magenta coat, appearing beside her. Gently digging his teeth into her withers in an affectionate tone, then glancing over to her he grinned blood seeped in his jaw from the few he had ripped flesh from. "Seems we have a little run away. Now darling, we can do this the easy way or the hard way." he pauses grinning, "So, are you going to be a bad girl today, Nixie?" He continues to dig his teeth into her withers ripping off flesh, only does he stop when enough blood seeps into his jaw.
Releasing his hold on her withers he moves closer to her, "Now come along, we don't have much time. It seems we have already made a scene." He grins as he finds many eyes upon the pair, crimson eyes lashing out in slight aggression. As if saying, Fuck off she's mine bitches.
WAYLAN
-NORMAL PEOPLE SCARE ME-
XD I had to steal her back He's not done with her.
It was a time for stillness, for grey skies and misted breath, for sweet deaths, for pensive reflection. And yet here, even now, life reigned in full force; the field throbbed with it, hummed with it - the murmur of voices and soft whinnies, the crunch of frost beneath heavy steps.
Like a wraith, the dappled stallion moved amongst those others, listening, observing. With each ghosting step, the stud's ears swiveled here and there to steal samples of whispered conversations. With each rake of that bitter wind against his pelt, the male would pause, head lifting and nares flaring to taste at what news that particular gust carried upon it. And all the while, those flat, mahogany eyes of his scanned the horizon, memorizing the scene with all the curious dispassion of an analytical mind.
A rather passive study.
For a handful more paces did the one called Azael continue to meander in this way before a sudden lurch in his stride sent the stallion's tall frame into a measured trot, long legs devouring the ground with an easy hunger marked by both power and grace - his Andalusian heritage clearly spied in the elegant curve of his neck, the strength of his haunches. Driven by some unseen purpose, the stud shrugged off the bustle of the field proper as easily as he might have shrugged off a fly as he instead made for the dark comfort of the trees playing sentinel to the very borders of this meeting place.
With brisk steps did the stallion pass into that world of skeletal branches and snow-dusted evergreens, the scents of pine and juniper as heavy as unspoken secrets as they lingered there in the air. Only then did he slow, obsidian hooves relenting in their assault upon the frozen earth, before the dappled wraith suddenly halted altogether, his attention claimed by the flash of something just yonder, glimpsed between the gnarled spines of twin oak trees.
Something rather pink.
Pink. It was an odd color to spy in the very midst of winter, stark as a stain against the familiar backdrop of muted greys and dusty blacks. And yet spy it he did, though, of course, it wasn't truly an it, but rather a her.
A pink mare. How novel.
And yet even this mare's apparent novelty was seemingly not enough to tempt the silvered stud into an approach. Indeed, the Andalusian seemed quite content with remaining a mere hint of a presence in those pine-scented shadows, the flat sheen of his gaze hooked upon that female in the near distance, a passive bystander once more, mahogany eyes fixed upon her with the weight of his cool study..
And so it was that Azael's dark eyes were one such pair privy to the scene which soon unfolded: the sudden, mystical appearance of the chocolate-hued colt and the subsequent blood-laced nip he placed upon the withers of the pink mare as he claimed her, as he sealed her fate. And yet whatever words may have followed were lost upon the dappled stallion's pricked ears, those syllables having been swallowed by the wind currently dancing amongst the trees before he was able to catch them for himself. But no matter. One does not need to hear such an exchange in order to understand it.
Azael understood perfectly well.
But that did not stop him from lingering, from watching, from being little more than an icy statue firmly planted within the cool comfort of that copse, silent, unmoving. Save for the rhythmic stirring of his chest and the misty exhale of his breath upon that wonderfully frigid air, of course.
