"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
Most of the other children she has seen have been with their mothers. Bristol has already realized that this is the normal way of things, for foals to stay with their mothers, but when she brought it up, her father only smiled (a little sadder than his usual) and told her he hadn’t grown up with a mother, either. But he’d also laughed and told her that her mother had once been Queen of the people they live amongst, and was a great warrior, and that he was sure she’d meet her mother someday.
But for now, she is a filly being raised alone by a father amongst the remainder of the proud Amazon women, and it’s a little strange. But she is not the only child here, by a large margin, and she is bored of Brennen’s company, and sets out today along the sand to find someone else to talk to – to play with! – her father’s only instruction being that she is absolutely not to leave Nerine.
Surely, she can find one of the other colts she has seen around without leaving Nerine. Dancing and bouncing across the sand, she takes flight briefly with her natural black feathered wings before landing and taking off again with leathery dragon wings, then repeating the process with big butterfly wings, and floating a bit above the shoreline before coming down again, breathing hard from the exertion of many changes in a small amount of time and the physical task of taking off and landing repeatedly.
“Hello-ooo,” she calls across the shore, impatient. “Where is everybody?”
That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it? Where is everyone? Longclaw knows that there’s a world more vast and expansive than anything he’s ever known out there but right now, he’s stuck in Nerine and bored out of his mind. The days pass quickly and even in the short time he’s been around the younger of twins has begun to fill out and take shape. Of course, there’s still the spindly legs that guide him through the coastline in search of new things, and his mane and tail are trying their hardest to grow, but he’s still a colt and will be for a while. Best to make the most of it. Longclaw’s journey keeps him close to the shore where the waves can still be heard beneath the plummet of the cliffs, each footfall leading him farther and farther from where his mother brought him and his sister to life.
He’s not afraid though. Why should he be? His mom was dangerously gifted and so was his dad - the bluish, speckled boy had nothing to fear. He had his fangs, too, if things got scary; little needle points that he could grow and make disappear with only a thought. Every now and then he could feel himself growing whiskers, or re-shaping his ears, but the shape of the other creature within him still remained dormant. He was a child, after all, filled with curiosity and goodwill so things like predator instinct just didn’t click yet. All in time though, all in good time.
“HellOOooooo!” The voice calls, rising on the currents of salty air to greet his large, upturned ears. His narrow head rises, a faint grin breaking out over his lips as he bolts ahead to try and find the source but he’s stopped by the end of the world. The cliff plunges and he’s forced to come to a halt, neck stretching downwards so that he might peer over the edge to see the little foal below. “HEYLOOOOOOO!” He shouts back, spreading his forelegs to sink down so that the other child won’t miss him.
“Hooow diiiid yooou get dooown thereeee?” He asks, the sound echoing over the caverns and cliffs, breaking over the waves that are peaceful today.
This is the first time he is truly leaving mother’s side. The level of security within Nerine is high enough for Nayl to permit him time to wander and explore. He realizes that she is always watching, every vigilant, and he takes note when there is unnatural movement in the sand or rocks – minute ways she reminds him that he is never entirely alone.
His mismatched eyes devour the sights of the kingdom with the ferocity of a starved animal. His ears swivel and twirl like the dance of a ballerina, completing the images he sees with the appropriate sounds.
The waves crash. The gulls cry. The tall grass whispers. The tumbling stones growl.
There is beauty in it all, and he admires it with unexpected fascination. Occasionally, a young, amused grin lazily stretches across his lips. ”Nerine,” he mutters the name of his home for one of the very first times and he is shocked to not hear his voice so readily crack; Castile has been trying to include himself in mother’s conversation so that he can accustom himself to the deep vibrations of his throat. It’s a tickling sensation that runs along his neck and tingles the hinges of his jaw.
But it isn’t his voice that has thus far fascinated him the most about himself. It isn’t how his coat holds a strong resemblance to mother’s. Instead, it’s the wings that sprout from his shoulder blades and how, when disgruntled, plumes of black smoke coil from his nostrils. One time, he even sneezed and one of his wings shifted into scales and thin membranous skin instead of feathers. It looked awkward and he stared in bewilderment throughout the day. Overnight, sometime while he was asleep curled next to mother, his wing reverted back to its original shape and texture. Seeing it normal again comforted him, but simultaneously confused him. He doesn’t yet understand what he can do – what he is - as he hasn’t yet met father. Mother says soon, but Castile’s patience is ever thinning like any typical child’s.
With his gaze trained on the rippling sunbursts on the ocean’s surface, Castile occasionally beats his wings against the wind, imagining himself months – maybe even weeks – from now, taking flight and feeling nothing but the salty air caress him.
A few meters of the shore he is bobbing above the waves, his dark head barely indistinguishable from that of a young seal. Of course, the seals have moved farther south for the season to rear their young and he floats alone, but the green water is warm and light as it carries him along. The tobiano colt would have been content to float for hours had he not spotted something - someone - on the beach.
At first he thinks it is his mother, com back before dusk like she'd promised, but as he swims through the calm sea he realizes that it is someone else. A stranger, but one his own age, and he splashes through the shallows toward the other colt with a friendly smile on his face.
"Hey there!" he says to Castile, but doesn't introduce himself as his attention is caught by movement farther down the beach. It's a bay filly, and Ivar glances back at the colt and then at the filly. "Let's go say hi," He suggests, already heading down the beach toward Bristol. As he is walking, he hears a voice calling from overhead. There us nothing in the sky, but he spots a bright blue figure at the top of the cliff.
They are barely more than acquantainces, but like any child, Ivar thinks that familiarity is friendship, and he calls out "Hi Longclaw! There's a path down over there, by the myrtle sapling." He gestures with his nose toward the young tree, hopeful that the blue colt will find his way down. While he does, Ivar looks from one foal to the other, remarking at his good fortune in finding not one but three potential companions.
The blue boy is the first to catch her attention, or rather his voice is, carrying down to the pegasus from the cliff. She doesn't see him at first, looking at the sheer rock face from where he voice seems to generate with a frown, but when he calls down again, it is enough to lift her face to the top and she smiles at finding him there, even so high. His color doesn't bother her - she may be muted, but one of the relatives here that Brennen says she can just call 'Aunt Cassady' is nearly as purple as this boy is blue. But the fact stands that Bristol didn't come down from up there, and so she has no idea how one might make the journey on foot. "I don't know!" she calls back, "How did you get up?"
Unhelpful, to say the least, but she eyes the height with speculation. "I might be able to fly up!" she yells, excited, even thought she knows she hasn't tackled anything like this before. Brennen has taken her soaring on the lifting thermals, flights where she has plenty of time to take off and land again, but a near-vertical launch is a different story. Bristol is so focused on how to accomplish her task that she doesn't hear to see the approach of the other two colts until the white-and-dark one speaks, startling the filly from her crouched position and she springs into the air, lifting off a few feet from the ground by her quick wings, before finding purchase again a little ways away, laughing aloud at herself even while she turns curious amber-brown eyes on the boys.
Perhaps it is good that he interrupted her before she could try, if that was as high as she could get right away.
She also takes note of the path, filing it away in her brain, but she wants to master the flying instead. Walking up the cliff seems so wasteful when a few wingbeats could get her there sooner, if only she could figure out the flying thing better. Settling back into place and hoping Longclaw will come down, she folds her wings against her side, butterfly colors fading into deep brown-black feathers one scale at a time with a gentle ripple effect. "I'm Bristol," she offers with another little smile and then looks expectantly at the other winged boy who is the only one yet to be named.
She … she could fly up? Longclaw has only ever seen his father fly and everything the green sire did was terrifying in the least, so his head tilts and he inches slowly away from the edge. Would she burst into another creature? Come careening above the cliff and sweep him away? “Wait!” The growing colt yelps, assured that at any moment the filly will be there to take him but another sound gives him reason to pause. It’s his name, hushed but still recognizable in the wind. Just loud enough to send him peeking once more over the edge to where there are now three of them scattered about. The one who’d called out for him causes a smile to break over his lips and all fear of harm leaves his thoughts.
“IVAR!” He whoops, clambering away from the drop off to sniff out wherever the path he mentioned is hiding. The blue colt concentrates, feels his nose narrow and suddenly the smells are like vivid colors in his mind, leading him to the exact location his weak, prey eyes had missed. The path is narrow, certainly not meant for unsteady children, but paws will do the job where hooves will not and the toes he grows spontaneously to match his nose are more deft and careful than he ever imagined. With surprise, he sees that they are white, blended with fine, silver hairs here and there. Father will want to hear of that.
The sandy shore greets him well enough and he is bounding (half-horse, half-wolf) to where they group together. Ivar, the familiar tobiano, is making quick introductions and Longclaw is eager to join them … until he stops and sees the winged girl up close.
She’s … very pretty. Much prettier than mother and much more appealing than his twin Rapture. He wants to tell her his name but his mouth opens and like a sidetracked foal he’s forgotten that his mouth isn’t really his persay, so instead of “Longclaw” the shimmering blue colt can only produce a soft yip. It’s embarrassing, in the least, and with a frustrated growl he turns to Ivar, shaking his head as if to rid the odd appendages by force.
Ivar joins him first, greets hi, but is otherwise distracted by the girl nearby. Castile’s eyes follow him, pursue the winged filly as she soars and adorns the beach with her lithe grace and practice. It almost causes him to reel away, to bury himself in the waves, because he has not yet mastered the use of his wings. They lift away from his sides and flap once, twice, but only to pull air to his sweaty skin. The breeze kisses him lovingly, caressing him as it does the soaring gulls overhead. He does not try to fly, not with their group of children expanding. The sand, for now, is more appealing as the cliff shoots skyward in front of him. Up there is another boy that’s calling down to them – mostly to the girl – looking for a means to join them on the shoreline.
He would have helped, would have advised the blue colt of the perilous trail down the cliff, but Ivar is far quicker – and more enthusiastic – to provide the information. Castile’s mismatched eyes stray to the high edge of rock towering above them, a sentinel to those lost at sea. It’s frightening to imagine flying down from the peak with a wistful hope that wings won’t fail, or the wind. Again, his wings flap as the subconscious thought reaches the forefront of his mind. Mother, unfortunately, doesn’t have wings so she doesn’t have the ability to teach him. Father, on the other hand, has not yet come to meet his son. All Castile knows is that father’s name is Lior and that he enjoys the foreboding darkness of the caves. Maybe, just maybe, he has wings and can teach flying lessons.
In his embarrassment, one of his wings has shifted into that of a dragon’s. While the other is splattered with colors to match his body across soft feathers, the other is now a leathery, thin membrane. A single claw forms at what may be like an elbow.
He doesn’t notice until he looks over his shoulder while Longclaw joins them.
”Uhh,” he is awkward in the sheepishness of his uncontrolled shifting, but desperately tries to mask it by introducing himself to the others, ”I’m Castile.” That’s all he offers them, not prince or son of Nayl – just his name alone. ”And here I was thinking I was the only kid around here.” A feeble attempt at conversation elevates his pulse, bringing his remaining feathered wing to that of a dragon as well. At least they match now, he muses, but never says nothing of them.
It wasn't until afer everyone replied that I realized I typed in the wrong post -_- the one that WAS intended for this thread originally got lost somewhere lmao. I'm dumb.
The salt air is brisk, but Ivar ignores the chill on his skin. He is too caught up in excitement at finding the others, a twist of fate just like in all of Mother’s stories. As they wait for Longcclaw to join them on the beach, the tobiano’s brown gaze settels briefly on Castile’s single dragon wing. He’s fairly certain that they’d both been feathered on their jaunt down the beach moments before, and the change is intriguing. He doesn’t have time to comment on it as Longclaw joins them.
The blue colt is different than he’d been the last time Ivar had seen him as well, and the brown-eyed colt looks curiously at the pawed feet and wolfy snout. Is everyone going to change? Is he? Even Bristol’s wings have shifted, and only Ivar remains plain, wingless, and perfectly equine. He’s never had the chance to develop low self-esteem, of course, so rather than feel left out he feels fortunate to have found such varied company.
Longclaw seems to be struggling to speak. It’s probably something to do with the weird way his mouth is currently shaped, Ivar thinks. He interprets the other boy’s look his way as a request, and tells the other two foals that: “This is Longclaw. I met him at the Playground.”
Castile’s other wing is now leathery as well, and Ivar is positive they’d been feathered before. He tries, just for a moment, to change parts of himself. Nothing happens, but rather than be disappointed, he just asks the others: “Do you all live here in Nerine? My mom brought me to play but I’m from Sylva.”
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