"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
There is another filly that looks to be thier (mine and Nayl’s) age, but she stays beside her mother rather than take the oath. Ephrelle is curious but she is soon distracted by the lightning mare. This horse, though she has not introduced herself, is utterly impressive to young Ellie. “I’ll go.” She says, stepping forward proudly. She is young, she knows, but she wishes to begin proving herself as a member of the sisterhood as soon as she can.
Yronwood is late to the party, but "better late than never", as he had overheard one of the Amazon sisters say. He spies his twin in the crowd, standing next to her friend Nayl, and makes his way to her other side, whickering cheerfully at both of them. His eyes catch upon the tattoo upon his sibling's narrow chest, blinking in surprise once. That was an Amazonian tattoo, wasn't it? This meeting must have included an initiation for new members, something his sister had no doubt been thrilled about....what would Mother think of it? He says nothing himself, however, not wanting to mar the joy evident upon her face. Ellie was his twin sister, he'd support her choices no matter what they were, even if they were dissimilar to his own life-plans. Admittedly, the six month old colt doesn't have much of that going on so far. He has no ties to other places; they'd never met their father or even knew much about him from Dorne. But as a boy, he cannot do as Ephrelle has just done, can he?
Males did not hold rank in the Jungle that he was aware of, could not pledge themselves to it. He catches sight of other colts in the gathering and wonders if they have similar thoughts to himself. Well, the direct route was the best way to get answers to his questions. Edging forward, he looks towards Scorch, dipping his chestnut head politely as a matter of course. He doesn't care if this is something he ought to know already; his little family (except for Ellie) had not immersed itself into the Jungle's culture, but his voice is kept carefully respectful to match his head-bow. "I'm not sure of what duties are available to those of us who are not quite sisters, but I would be happy to accompany Ephrelle somewhere if need be...." His eyes dart to the filly in question with sudden panic. Would she want him to go with her, or was this something she wanted to do on her own, now that she was a newly minted Sister? Anxiety grips the little organ thumping away in his reddish chest at the thought of being separated from her for however long she might be gone.
this will never end, ‘cause i want more, more, give me more
The time travel was disorienting; like Grim Reaper, she feels the ill effects of magic keenly, leaving the General’s head spinning for a day or two. Long enough to be unsure whether or not it was a dream or reality, until she notices the onyx crown of thorns encircling her back left thigh. Her silver viking tattoos already encompass the front part of her body, it’s easy to see how something could escape her notice until flesh brushes against something else. The band is cold, hard, and as black as the depths of space. A memory of how she’d failed to move Gail, a memory of the beasts that came chomping and clanging and turned them into nothingness.
It is the only time she’s truly failed, and it is a blow to the warrior woman. The reason is quite simple, really - she isn’t a woman of words and persuasion like Rhy is. She has no patience for nonsense, no pity for helplessness. Lagertha is a do-er, and she does not sit and bandy words around.
That is why Gail impaled herself on Lagertha’s armor, rather than leave the beach. She is a hammering fist in an iron glove, not some dainty, delicate hand given to butterfly touches. She is the Thorned General, the Kingnapper, the daughter of Grim Reaper. It is a fitting marking, she thinks, smiling a little wryly. Myrina, and Rhy too, would probably have something left over from their mission. Myrina was missing after the first (or was it second?) wormhole... but Lagertha had faith that her gold and white sister was able to persuade Gail. She wasn't the Ambassador for nothing.
She is late to the meeting, though not on purpose. When Lagertha awoke, she was well within the depths of the Jungle, and it’s a miracle that she even heard Scorch’s call at all. Nevertheless, she comes out of the edge with vines and twigs entangle in her mane and tail, a bland expression on her face. The gray and silver and black woman watches those who say their words, taking note of Alptraum and Lyris (she’s been meaning to talk to that one, but you see, time has been elusive), and even of Sunday, who wishes to steal. Ah, yes. Steals were her speciality. The children are cute - and yet Lagertha notices the absence of her son… and Scorch’s daughter. Coincidence? Fate? Laziness? The General has said little to Dalten of their plans to send him to the Dale, but she wouldn’t put it past him to know what was going on, and to observe the tensions between Scorch and herself.
Where is Vyx? She had high hopes for that mare, but being absent wasn’t a great start.
Her steel-gray lips turn down at the corners, and she misses most of the children’s names while lost in thought. It isn’t until Rhy speaks of diplomatic visits and the Tundra (ohhh… Kratos and Rhy sitting in a tree…) that she returns to the present and clears her throat. “Any who wish to join the war caste, see me after. I have been too lax on my own training and upkeep of the army, so I’ll open myself up to practice shots if any of you like. Same for steals. In fact, I would say practice your steals on any Kingdom, but do not require a visit if we’re friendly. Leave ‘em at the border. Same goes for challenges. I would love to see more, but seeing as I haven’t done any recently, can’t hold you to any standard that I do not achieve. Activity is always rewarded, and once you do something, we can talk about what that will be.”
With that the warrior falls silent, ready for the meeting to be over.
press my nose up to the glass around your hearti should’ve known i was weaker from the start
Despite the relative quiet of the Amazon warriors, the Jungle continues to thrive. It is hard to ignore the living energy that courses through the kingdom (it tingles at the edges of his senses, pushes against the threshold of his instincts, roars against the thinness of his skin) and he cannot doubt there is power and strength in such livid fire. Sometimes his tattoos will roar to life as if stirred by some other force of the Jungle – something that beckons everything that is of the Jungle toward it – and he will feel the rising force behind such actions.
It thrills him and terrifies him.
The wild symphony of the Jungle almost denies his queen’s voice to reach his ears, but his heart sings when he catches the whisper of her call in the air. They haven’t spoken in very recent times, but the titan does not doubt his lover’s affection for him (and him, to her); perhaps this is the only reason why he gets up from his lazy spot along a sleepy river winding under shade. The kingdom meeting should have some interesting theatrics (and he wonders, briefly, if the general will continue to spit fire at his lover or if the flames are subdued for now) and he’s curious to hear what is happening lately.
There is a larger crowd than last time, with fresh faces the titan has not met before. He doesn’t speak to the recruits and children, however – rather he settles himself in the shadow of his queen and lover and fire, an ever-present protective guard. He winks, though (a quick flash of that loving father hiding under his serious masquerade), toward his youngest daughter with a small smile dancing across his bright red lips.
His second eldest son is there, as well, and the titan dips his head toward the tailless boy when they meet gazes. His wife is speaking, then, and he turns his attention to listen to her words with curiosity. Although the titan is not a warrior or diplomat of the Jungle, he has sworn the oath just like the others (the tattoo that makes his ribcage look like it’s been torn open to see the living fire weaving between his rib bones and the tattoo of more living fire winding up the side of his face into his eye proves this to anyone who sees him) and so the state of his kingdom is just as pressing a matter to him as it is to everyone else.
The Jungle, however, seems to be in a high state of pecking order among the kingdoms of Beqanna, and with that in mind the titan settles down. He’s alert for any disturbances among the gathered as well as outside of them (where they might not be paying attention) but it seems relatively calm and the general has yet to lash out in another dramatic escapade.
More sisters arrive, some that she recognizes, some that she doesn’t. As disinterested as she is with this whole meeting, she is glad to know that the kingdom is at least thriving and strong. A sister suddenly addresses her by name, and her ears flick forward, finally giving something her full attention. Ah, Rhy. She remembers the mare from the secret meeting - she had threatened to zap both Scorch and Lagertha for their behaviour, if she remembers correctly. A mare after her own heart.
The bloodrider suggests she visit the Falls, and she nods in acquiescence. She’s been too lazy lately - she might as well get something going. With not another word, she turns back towards the bush, intending on heading out immediately. But before she takes another step, she pauses. Right, Rhy had suggested someone else come with her. She throws a glance back at her sisters, and calls out to whoever is joining her. “Whoever’s coming with me … keep up!” Then she turns and heads off through the brush.
She had been missing from the Jungle once again, as was her nature. She often came and went from the Jungle, arriving when she was most needed and staying away to work on her own problems when she was not. It was a lifestyle she knew she would have to change some day, but for the time being, it was who she was.
She heard Scorch's call and moves towards her sister. As she arrives, many of the other sisters - both new and old - stood among the gathered. It takes Malka but a mere second to find her son standing to one side of the group and she moves to stand beside him, pushing him forward ever so slightly with her muzzle so that she may join the group by his side. She refrains from the motherly nuzzling that she longed to give him, knowing that this was not the time or place for such behavior. So she instead sets her eyes upon Scorch as she announces the on-goings among the other kingdoms.
Malka is pleased to hear that Errant had once again taken over the Tundra. It was a position that suited him well and Malka had always admired him - for he had always seemed level-headed and reasonable, unlike the Tundra's previous "king". She listens as the other sisters speak and begin to offer to travel. Malka would gladly leave the traveling to the newer sisters, for she had long time ago been the willing participant in every event (which had resulted in her capture not once, but twice).
The large gathering though warms her heart and she can see the the Jungle is clearly growing well, even where some of the other kingdoms had started to dwindle. The Jungle had always been strong though, even when the other kingdoms were not and it was a trait of the Jungle that Malka had always appreciated. Malka allows a moment for her gaze to fall on that of her fiery khaleesi, but she holds her silence as everyone speaks around her. There was much to be done and Malka knew she could easily find work here among the Jungle as she could outside.
Malka
immortal, quetzal-shifting Lekh, Kosi & Erinak of the 'Zons
(It's a bit blegh as I get back into this whole writing thing xD)
“It’s just a Howler monkey. They’re big and black and too big for a fox to take on…” Lagertha had said and well, Vyx was just going to have to see about that, because the General had also told her, “besides, they don’t eat meat, they just interrupt our sleep. If you choose to stay you’ll get used to the noises. Took me awhile, but it’s all a lullaby now.” Vyx had been here for almost a month now and their noises were no fucking lullaby. They prowled their branches, haughty and loud in their nests high in the Brazil nut trees. Even in her horse form the meddlesome bastards still screamed and whooped at her as she slipped between the Jungle’s fronds and foliage, Vyx preferred to move amongst shadows and discretion – so she was no fan of these overgrown, piece of shit wailing tree rats.
But while they were clever and their size and numbers gave them equal ground, they were not more cunning than she. Most of them nested high in the treetops, too far for a fox of any breed to climb. Howler monkeys have strong familial ties, but like any group there are outcasts and those shunned to the bottom of the totems. Such was the case (or so she assumed) with the older female that chose to make her nest in the low-hanging boughs of a Chicle tree. Vyx had taken notice and had spent the last day treading back and forth beneath the path the wary monkey’s tree overlooked. Really, there was no reason for a monkey to fear a horse but the creatures of the Jungle knew better, they had to know better to survive here. Even still, after the first couple of trips the snooping primate’s suspicions lessened and this time she barely glanced down when Vyx ambled by – got you now, motherfucker.
The delicate-boned Arabian leapt into the air, shifting into a large black fox within the breath of a second. Jaws clamped down on the dangling arm of the lazing monkey, Vyx allowed her body weight to drag the screeching creature, nest and all, from the tree as she fell back down to earth. When they landed it was a scramble of black limbs, gnashing teeth and gargling sounds – the monkey tried desperately to bite and strangle the fox with its creepy human hands. But, alas, with a solid mouthful of throat and a last hard bite, the struggle was done and Vyx was more than pleased (which was evident to anyone watching in her bushy, wagging tail) as its last garbled cry bled into her mouth with warm success. But then the call came and even though she found its taste less than appetizing, she gulped down a few bites and jerked something free of the lumpy black body before bounding into the brush, tail switching and something dangling between her teeth. I has a present, I has a present, I has a present for you, you, you...
Vyx was late to the meeting, her quick eyes sliding over the queen as she spoke and then to the painted lion-mare but they did not settle until they laid across Lagertha’s armored frame. The black fox, still clutching her trophy in her slender jaws, skipped beneath a few mare’s belly’s to close the gap of space between the two. The fox bounded onto the mare’s iron grey flank before scuttling up to her withers and dropping the Howler monkey’s tail over her shoulder. A wide grin slid across her face as it plopped sickeningly to the ground right at Lagertha’s feet, “sorry I’m late, but I brought you a present.”She sprang from her shoulder so that she now faced Lagertha, tail switching dog-like behind her as if saying, see? See what I brought, just for you?
Her ears flicked attentively as mare’s pledged their allegiance and although those words did not pass her lips, she still harkened to Lagertha’s words. Vyx wasn’t yet willing to promise her young life to the Jungle, but perhaps in time that would come. For now, other things interested her – like the curve of Lagertha’s hard mouth as she barked direction and the talks of steals and challenges. Vyx was far too delicate for battle in either of her forms but stealth? That was something she could, sink her teeth into.
“I don’t know how good of a fighter I would make and tact is no quality of mine, but perhaps I can be useful in other ways.” She says, mostly to Lagertha and Rhy, as those were the only faces that she recognized, or would recognize her. “I am as slick as spilled oil,” she says, through glinting teeth and bloodied lips, and as slippery as it too.
They come like moths to the light, though very great, powerful moths they are. Each mare listens intently to Scorch’s voice, and the khaleesi momentarily bathes in the glory of the moment. She’s dreamt of being in this very spot since fillyhood, since she knew how to say mama and was told to say Echion. Decades of dedication have lead up to this very moment, a moment which the muscular fire-queen refuses to squander.
Alptraum steps forward, the light glittering upon her scar-strewn body. Scorch meets her nightmarish gaze, listening intently as the woman takes the oath. The shadows of a smile curl at her lips – literal shadows, I might add, considering Scorch’s Twilight Manipulation. The death mask drawn intricately on the Percheron’s face is quite suiting, she muses. In the next moment however, the gesture and the smoke vanish. “The war caste welcomes you.”
Sunday – her absent blood rider – steps forward, asking to go to the Gates. Scorch allows Rhy to answer. The next question, however, she shoulders. “The Tundra, Deserts, Dale, and Falls are open to friendly, no-consequence steals and challenges for the moment, as we are allied or soon-to-be allied with them. The others – Gates, Chamber, Valley – are… Well, that’s a decision for all of us to make. To open fire on those who are not our allies, or to be nice, domestic jungle kitties to everyone?” She smirks, eyeing the crowd. The answer she expects is quite obvious, but considering the group before her – largely diplomats, unfortunately for her – might not respond accordingly.
Her precious adventurer shows up without explanation, though there needn’t be one for Scorch’s eyes to light up, exploding into a bright yellow. Her tailless son has quite grown up, she notices as he begins speaking. He ought to be elsewhere – though I suppose he has been, considering the stink of the Valley on him. Well, so be it. “We’ll keep that in mind, Shahrizai.”
The meeting continues seamlessly; Myrina throws a joke towards Scorch in an attempt to be droll. “My dear friend and sister, if it is war you’re looking for, I’m the wrong Khaleesi to have chosen.” Her voice is heavy in sarcasm, the undertone of laughter shimmering in her baritone voice. “I’m too much of a people pleaser.” She winks; but enough with the banter.
Little Nayl slithers to the front of the herd, a focal point if ever there was one. Scorch meets her niece’s gaze for almost the entire process; Myrina’s glance does not go unmet. Her own intricate tattoos blaze against her hairless skin as vine, flower, frog, rune, and ice are born. “And to which caste shall you belong, Nayl?” A subtle undertone of awe resides in the queen’s voice as she addresses the filly – few of the other sisters may understand, but Myrina does. Scorch meets her true-sister’s eyes for a split second, thoughts of great significance laying therein.
Another filly steps forward, unafraid to herald Scorch’s attention. Watching silently and with an expression of authoritative approval, Scorch appreciates the meekness of the filly’s tattoos. A bumble bee scurries about her red flower, causing the woman’s lips to twitch, but only just. “And you, daughter of Dorne; which caste calls to you most?”
Another stallion dilutes the stereotype of an all-female Jungle, though this one says nothing. Scorch nods to Malyk wordlessly, mimicking his silence. Though he has been quiet in the way of life-decisions, he is her lady’s son, and for that, she respects him.
Lyris trundles into the meeting next, carrying herself in her predictable stuck-up fashion - her offer to visit somewhere does make Scorch snort in quiet laughter, however. The women of the Jungle will always be contradictory, and she loves them for it. Little Wrynn – who stands not far off, but far enough to show respect – offers herself as well. Scorch eyes her coolly, allowing a nod of approval to escape her. She may not appreciate what has caused her supposed daughter’s existence, but she will not force her to suffer through the discomfort and pain of not know whether or not she was doing something right or wrong. Scorch could be proud of anyone – blood has no importance.
Rhy scoops up the various offers for diplomatic visits, to which Scorch nods appreciatively. When her Avthillar encourages war-like activities, Scorch chuckles under her breath, but says nothing. The bases have been good and covered, as Ephrelle steps up to the plate fearlessly, offering to accompany Rhy to the Tundra. Good, that’s settled then.
Dorne’s second child appears next to Ephrelle, raising his small voice. His question is a rather good one, one which older male-members have perhaps not the courage to ask. ”Male residents and Brothers are welcome to spar and mock amongst the Sisterhood, as well as offer aid during times of war. But you may accompany your sister if you want. Perhaps you’ll like the Tundra; plenty of my family, and perhaps some of yours, reside there.”
Lagertha heralds the attention of the group for a moment, allowing Scorch to study her subjects – no, her sisters, her family. Long ago, when she stood beneath her ‘dam’s’ white-and-black barrel, she dreamed of having subjects. Now, she knows the importance and strength of family. This, this is her family. The sentiment flourishes as she glances back to Hestoni; her titan is the physical manifestation of her love. What she cannot show others, she shows to him, and perhaps this is a good thing. There are many horses who can whether a passionate anger – but a passionate love is something few can withstand. She smiles to him.
Her attention wavers once more as Lyris departs all of a sudden, causing Scorch’s smile to grow into one more humorous. Glancing around the group for who might follow her weather-manipulation sister, Scorch’s eyes settle on Malka, her lady. She hasn’t noticed her quetzal sister until now – she’s been unusually quiet. Speak with me later, her long-held gaze says.
The final arrival comes with something distinctly dead grasped between her jaws, to which Scorch quirks a brow. She’s not repulsed – hell, she has bladed teeth, she’s had her go at the rodents now and again – but rather intrigued. “You must be Vyx,” She calls through the throng, a tone of curiosity in her commanding voice. “I'm sure we'll find a place for you.”
Raising her thickly boned head, Scorch allows silence to fall before continuing. “If any others have questions or concerns, you are welcome to speak… Otherwise, I find this meeting quite done. In another month or two, our alliances will be secured, and our targets sure. Lagertha and Rhy, you are welcome to calling your own meetings at any given time and organising the new sisters into the castes.” Dipping her head to the caste leaders, Scorch steps back once, allowing the crowd to disperse. If other stragglers show up, she greets them, and if others raise their voice, she replies.
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