"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
Woven from ice and smoke alike, from both shadow and light, the dappled stallion stalked across the frigid sea of grass, brittle stalks bowing in the wake of his passage and shattering underhoof with every purposeful step. Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch.
Winter. It had always been Azael's favorite season - a time of hardship and scarcity, of biting winds and bitter uncertainties. Anyone could survive the spring, in that time of plenty with its soft breezes and tender greens. But the winter? No. No, only the truly worthy could survive the abuse of such a heartless mistress.
In. Through flared nostrils, the stud drank in of the sharpened air, unflinching; the burn of that inhalation filling his lungs was a most welcome pain. Out. Solidified in the midst of that chill, the stallion's breath unfurled from the ebon velveteen of his muzzle to dance in the air before him, as smoky as the exhalation of a great dragon and yet far more insubstantial.
And then came the time for pause, powerful legs slowing in their feast upon the earth to bring the stud's tall frame to a halt, perched as it was atop that subtle knoll. Jet-dusted ears swiveled to and fro in an almost lackadaisical sweep even as his eyes - those flat shards of mahogany ice - studied the nearly lifeless meadow which roiled before him, those skeletal waves of browned grass broken only by the occasional tree. Or another equine, of course.
In truth, it was those latter which the grey wraith studied, as was his wont. His scheme. Scheme? Indeed. For behind that veneer of stoic calm and careful disinterest lurked something far more interesting. Ambition. Ambition for what? That would surely be seen, all in due time. But first, Azael needed something. Or rather, someone.
05-25-2016, 02:21 PM (This post was last modified: 05-25-2016, 02:29 PM by Brynmor.)
Brynmor
"With my speechless calm eyes."
Today could be the day, if he only wanted it to be.
Brynmor was one of those horses that was adjusted to the winter’s cold and actually liked the season. There was nothing he held against the spring, summer and autumn, but it was the view of the snow covered hills that he preferred. It had been a while since the gray male had made the trip to the meadow and unlike last time he wasn’t bothered by his thick coat. The winter had reached the meadow by now. Maybe the winter here wasn’t as strong as up north in the Tundra, but at least he wasn’t sweating like crazy.
His blue eyes travelled across the fields of the meadow, looking at each of the habitants one by one. It was only stallions he was interested in right now. Not that he held anything against mares – he enjoyed their companionship – but it were new brothers they needed. For both their castes, the war and peace one. Brynmor himself was active in both, finding himself more comfortable in his diplomat role than the warrior one, but wiling to contribute to the Tundra in every way he could.
That was also the type of stallions he was looking for. The ones that were ambitious and eager to get things done, and contribute to their home in the process. This dappled stallion might be such male. After having watched him for a moment Brynmor steps forward, closing the distance between them. His step isn’t bothered by the snow, nor does he slow down, finding much comfortable with the icy ground underneath his hooves.
”Goodday” he greets the stranger, politely dipping his head slightly before offering him a smile. ”I’m Brynmor, of the Tundra.” His introduction is short and he doesn’t swirl around the things, directly telling who he was and where he came from. ”You look like you’ve been waiting for something, something, am I correct?” he asks, eyeing the stranger up and down once again before his blue eyes look up again to meet his gaze.
Of course, Azael had spied the other grey long before his purposeful approach. Like all the others who had chosen to meander about within the meadow on that day, the dappled wraith had taken note of him. Catalogued him. And subsequently dismissed him.
Until the other stallion chose to encroach on his space, of course. From that perch atop his little knoll, the Andalusian leveled his cool gaze upon the stranger, a single ebon-dusted ear flicked in his direction. The other remained turned toward the meadow. Ever watchful. Ever aware.
Goodday. Such a polite greeting and yet Azael had no words to give in return. He had never much been one for small talk. For niceties. Small words are for small minds, his dam had always said. Whether that was true or not, Azael couldn't rightfully say. But he could say that he had not had much practice with it all. And yet, the stud did still understand the importance of being civil.
Especially when one is a stranger in an even stranger land.
So it was that Azael dipped his head toward the other. A simple greeting. A polite acknowledgement. And thus began their conversational dance.
The other stallion easily took lead with an introduction. Brynmor, the grey said. Of the Tundra.
The Tundra. Silent, calm, the Andalusian scoured his memory, for the name had struck a familiar chord. For weeks now, he had simply been wandering, listening, watching. Taking note of all there was to see in these lands. The various territories. The peoples who ruled. Those who followed.
Ah, yes. The Tundra. The land of the stallions to the far north.
But Brynmor was not finished with his speech, it would seem. Oh, no. There was more. A question. You look like you've been waiting for something. Am I correct?
And thus was the grey wraith's icy demeanor chipped, a sharp inhale marking his amusement with the inquiry. "Aren't we all?" the stallion bantered in easy reply, his normally smooth baritone a little raspy from disuse as the words departed from the velveteen of his jet muzzle.
"Azael," the brute then went on to supply in simple introduction, as good manners demanded. A pause, then. Inhale. Exhale. Warm breath curling before him in a haze of mist. "Pleasure." Clearly an afterthought, that single word lingered in the air for a moment while Azael continued to study Brynmor in his usual way, his analytical way. Perhaps trying to ascertain the purpose of his approach on this bitter, winter day. One could guess at such motives. But one should never assume.
A few more beats of silence.
"I have never been good with such conversations," the stud finally confessed in a rather matter-of-fact way, shattering the stillness that had fallen between them. "So I must ask if this is a social visit or if there's something you want from me, Brynmor of the Tundra?"
It had been Offspring who had told him to be polite and not rush onto the main subject bluntly. It was Brynmor’s nature to be direct and get on with business right away, instead of having a chitchat that neither found interesting. It seemed that this strange wasn’t really interested in such small talks either. But now the gray stallion knew what Offspring had meant when his king had said he didn’t come off very friendly. You could almost call it rude. However, he didn’t really felt bothered by it. This meant that he could get to business right away, even though the stranger didn’t give off a friendly vibe.
He simply nods as the dappled Andalusian introduces himself. It had only been his name, nothing more, nothing less and partly because of that Brynmor didn’t really felt like he had to reply verbally. A nod to make know you had heard it was enough in this case. The short – with his 14.2hh he was by no mean tall – stallion didn’t bother to pay attention to the prying eyes. Not at all and he gladly repaid that favour by studying Azael from up close now.
Honestly, Brynmor wasn’t exactly sure if this stallion would be a good brother, but he could always try. The fact that he seemed rather self centered and a bit uncivilized didn’t mean he wouldn’t make a good addition to the Tundra. That was, if Azael would be interested in such thing. Right now they needed more brothers and they couldn’t afford it to be picky. And perhaps his judgement was wrong on this one.
Brynmor cannot fight the smirk that pulls on the corners of his pink lips, amused by the direct words spoken by Azael. ”I was looking for potential brothers and I think you might be one. Would you be interested in joining the Tundra?” His words are just as direct as the dappled stallion’s words. There was no point in delaying the question any further, as neither of them would enjoy that. Because he too wasn’t made for having chitchats and talk about something like the weather.
