"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 was on fire last night and I was breathing gasoline.
He considers the tall crags and ice mountains that are now his home - though unofficially. He's yet to complete whatever task is required for full time membership. Instead, he has sulked around and haunted the edges of the kingdom like a green flecked ghost. With a labored sigh he decides to leave, but only temporarily. He is not so stationary.
The Forest seems like a fair enough place to set up shop, and at a days journey from the Tundra it makes for a decent change of scenery. He would like to think of himself as a nomad, but in reality he is young and fickle.
07-17-2016, 01:07 PM (This post was last modified: 07-17-2016, 01:20 PM by Graveside.)
The bats have left the bell tower
The victims have been bled
Since my birth awoke me from the perpetual state of floating, my pewter eyes have see few things other than the black sands of the beach. My mother is overprotective and possessive of me and I am unable to be alone for much.
I never sleep.
When I close my eyes I see them. The whispers are hushed but they scrape my ears like thick shards of jagged glass rubbed against concrete over and over till you look down and see the skin missing from your knuckles...
But back to where we were. Sometimes my mind gets so scattered. Sometimes the puzzle pieces just do not fit snugly into place.
The dead can see me and I can see them. It's worse when I cross the plateau into their land and take their form. There's been times I've tried to answer their cries and pleading eye sockets where eyes once were. I try to help them find peace but I can't.
I'm too small.
I'm too weak.
(Focus)
There is a boy ahead of me. He is dark like my skin but marked by a green stain..not actual markings. He is also a bit older I believe. He stands taller, assertive. I am nothing more than a shadow but I feel more comfortable this way like I slip off my skin and hang it on a hook. But I decide maybe...perhaps...I could try...
(There are a few lingering spirits moving around sluggishly. I've learned to avoid their faces because that's how they latch on to me)
I shift to my equine form near by some trees before I hope to attempt this. Breathe in. Breathe out. My body is always a bit awkward when I am a horse again. My legs wobble a bit more and my throat is clenched. I am walking, one hoof after another till I near the boy and I try to smile as my silver gray eyes focus on his face. It helps ground me and push away the decaying forms that haunt me.
I try to work my mouth but my jaw is made of iron that has rusted shut. Frustration crosses my young features and my brow furrows and then in my aggravation I simply -poof!- into a silvery damp mist of one of my many ghost forms. RIGHT IN FRONT OF HIM. My embarrassment tastes hot and coppery like blood, stinging my mouth and turning the attempted smile to a frown. I slowly take my skin form again and when I solidify I offer the lopsided smile to the boy. I'm not very good at this.
"Hullo." It's all that emerges from my sandpaper throat. My mercury filled pools look to the boy and I begin to count the seconds till he turns and runs.
She was on fire last night and I was breathing gasoline.
He's seen the others, what their powers are. It's not that he's in awe of them - quite the contrary. He pities them. He pities the way they walk with such a big target on their heads, just waiting to get taken out. It's a giant "Look at me, I have power!" that Pyro would never, could never, want. Who would stop them from coming for him? Or worse - his power? There had to be those that could take away the power, just as there were those who could grant it.
Pyro would rather slip through the shadows, undetected.
The shadows vibrate now, and he's aware of those around him. A strange filly to the side, eyeing him up, watching him closely. She approaches, and then - without any warning - she shifts. She is at once there and not there - a form that is etherreal and uncontained. She floats, she whispers, her tendrils brush over his skin and send goosebumps down his spine.
Who is this? WHAT is this?
He's too intruiged to be afraid, after all, something so shocking cannot be processed quickly enough to jump to fear. He watches her with wide, curious eyes.
"Quite the party trick," he says breathily, looking her over. Against his better judgement he extends his muzzle to see if he'll touch her or simply float through her.
He does not seem to notice my embarrassment, the fluttering of my heart against it's bony cage. Instead, the opposite is happening and instead of turning tail he is reaching for me. My liquid silver eyes seem to focus on the velvet of his nose, time seems to slow down as I feel myself inching to meet the simple touch of another living being.
The dead have such cold, cold skin.
When his muzzle is close enough to my own, I almost allow myself to melt into the shadows, to be scattered by the dappled sunlight currently filtering through the treetops. But not this time. I can feel my breath pulled from my lungs as I am the bravest I have ever been in my short life so far and allow him to touch me.
Never has another other than my dam ever stroked my skin. I am surprised at the tickle that itches my nostrils and a small sneeze follows. He smells like ice, snow, and the thick coniferous trees from the northern region but I avert my gaze when he comments about my 'party trick'. In response, my teeth sink into my lower lip to chew as I attempt to respond appropriately. I can feel the seconds passing me by.
"It's not." The tone of my voice is so low that the two words could be classified as a harsh whisper. I am not sure but I can feel a burning in my eyes as I begin to realize that he is mocking me and I try like hell to keep my stance and wrestle to maintain my courage.
I force myself to breath in and out slowly to steel myself before I slowly raise the lengths of my lashes to meet his gaze. "I'm Graveside, what's your name?" The immense strength I have mustered to speak to the unnamed boy makes my body feel heavy, tired, like my hooves are made of cement and my bones of iron rods.
I don't think I could move if my life depended on it.
