"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 colt with strikes of green hasn't seen the ice in quite some time. He's unsure if he can even claim the land - he spent less time in it than he did in his mothers womb. And since then? Since then nothing and everything.
In the stretch since his absence nothing has really changed. The tall crags still frown down on the land below, the wind from the north was still cold enough to shatter your bones, and the grass that crunched underfoot still longed for summer.
In the depth of the winter, the green boy with a fire heart stood at the edges of the land, watching.
pyroclast.
she was on fire last night / and i was breathing gasoline
The morning is uncomfortably frigid, yet it is an altogether familiar setting for those who linger behind the thick ice barrier that line the dreary terrain. An updraft of wind strikes, sweeping across the dull landscape, stirring the few bristling threads of greenery that struggle to rise from the permafrost below. All around, a sweeping layer of slush and filth remain - the very last remnants of a long and bitter winter. The sun shines from behind thickly lined clouds, which loom heavily across the land. Another quiet, dismal beginning, but it is all the same to him.
These lands have become a part of him - literally and figuratively. Ice threads through his veins, pumping alongside his blood, covering him in a thin sheen of frost along his scarred obsidian pelt. His muscles flex beneath the ice, which moves seamlessly with him as he lumbers along the too-still border. His darkened red eyes peer around, but this morning is mellow, and many are still nestled within the safety of their caves for warmth from the unforgiving gusts of wind that carry down from the very mountain peaks.
At last, something catches the King's eye - a figure lingering at the very edge of the barrier, peering in with uncertainly. He is lithe, slender and adolescent, but growing nonetheless. He is as stark as he is, contrasting sharply to the shimmering blocks of ice on either side of him. A low huff is emitted from his own wide nostrils as he breathes the sharp air heavily, moving effortlessly towards him, crown dipped to show a lack of aggression, though his towering figure and prying red eyes seek answers.
"You're an unfamiliar face. My name is Offspring - I am the King of these lands; is there anything I can assist you with?"
It doesn't take long for the scent of another to filter across the air, putting pyro on high alert. He's expected this, he knew that lingering at the border would bring the inhabitants to him. If anyone lived here, that is. It wasn't uncommon for kingdoms to rise and fall - it was almost predictable. One would surge to the top and burn out like a star, just in time for another to peak with promise. Pyro watched these from afar, never participating.
The man approaches and introduces himself as king.
king.
Pyro is familiar with that title, he has knowledge of what it means.
If he were to know about his lineage, would the king let him stay? Pyro shifts uncomfortably, glad for his leggy frame. Not quite grown into his childish frame made him seem less imposing. His father wasn't imposing, but he caused enough problems. Did Pyro have that same mean streak? He didn't know.
"Pyroclast," he introduces himself, a sidelong smile tossed with it. "I was hoping to live here," he adds.
Silence follows.
pyroclast.
she was on fire last night / and i was breathing gasoline
He observes as the other tenses, even slightly, wary of the new scent upon the horizon - but as he nears, his uncertainly seems to melt into a casual simper, which Offspring returns. His dark red eyes sear into him as he takes a long moment to imprint the image of him onto his age-old mind; slender and spindly, Pyroclast is evidently still young but no younger than his own two boys and he is more at ease than perhaps he would be with any other newcomer. After all, his own brute strength has always been his greatest asset. Still, he understands that even the smallest, most insignificant thing can be a threat (and Pyroclast is neither) and so he remains firmly rooted, waiting.
He offers his name, and a simple request - quick, to the point. It is painfully uncommon, but there is something different about the way he gazes now and then to the dull landscape that looms drearily behind him. The tall, icy mountains, the thick slush that covers the thick permafrost, even the way the rolling fog blends the horizon into one dark, gray canvas - it all seems familiar to him, and Pyroclast seems to take a long moment to absorb it, to re-familiarize himself. Perhaps he had known of his place long before he himself had taken the throne - perhaps there was more to this stranger.
Little does he realize what piece of history he may be tangling in.
Nonetheless, his interest is piqued.
"I see. Welcome, Pyroclast - the Brotherhood here can offer you shelter and protection, if you so desire it. It can also offer you much more, should you decide to take that leap and merge with us through an unorthodox initiation process." He pauses, thinking to the rich, albeit disturbing initiation within the very heart of an old, jagged cave - the helpless memories, the searing screams of torment from within. The once stark alabaster scar remains beneath his right eye, though it has faded into a light gray over time.
"We are always in need of Brothers, and residents alike. There are many women and children that reside here as well, and none are to be harmed without consequence. You are welcome to stay if you can abide by that."
It's not just familiarity that Pyro gazes on the Tundra with - it's longing. He was not born in this land, no - that was a time where mares were forbidden. Or, at least, highly discouraged. He was born in the meadow or the forest or some other insignificant place, with a mother who barely knew his father - except in story. In legend. Pyro was born after he died but the man imprinted on him deeply. It was too soon to say if that imprint was a good one or a bad one.
His longings looks are interrupted by the king, who offers him a welcome. A home. Pyro knows of the initiation from his last visit here and his lack of scars sell him out as someone who never tried the challenge previously. He wondered, his eyes flickering in the direction of the cave for only a brief moment, if his father ever took the challenge? Surely he would have been denied.
Surely.
"If I may ask," he says, hesitant, but needing to know. "The initiation...do any ever fail?" His youth might peg him as scared of failure, but in reality his need to know superseded any fear. He needed to know if it was possible to fail, and what that would mean for his past and future alike.
pyroclast.
she was on fire last night / and i was breathing gasoline
