"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
05-31-2017, 07:23 AM (This post was last modified: 05-31-2017, 07:24 AM by Wyrm.)
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
Wyrm knows why he would die for her. Not that death had ever been much of a concern to the creature. But to do the act in sacrifice for another -now that- was a concern. It’s not her beauty, not her power, not even because once upon a time they explored the Desert together. It’s because she had never ventured to ask about his past. She didn’t need to, of course, she could go where she pleased, but the fact remained that she didn’t ask aloud. Heartfire, for some reason, had never cared.
So, in equal measure, Neither did Wyrm. It wasn’t until Pangea ceased to exist and he’d settled their son safely away that the green stallion had ever thought more than once about who else Heartfire might have been.
Might even be now.
All too soon Longclaw would be ready to hunt alone and Rapture would be beyond his reach. What of them, then? “She agreed to your request.” He pondered, finding the path unfurling easily before him. His memory of time spent while the twins were aging had not yet grown stale. “It’s your turn now.” It would forever be a game of stakes between the shapeless man and the cold woman. For him, though, it had never mattered - all that ever seemed to matter anymore was that she came looking for him. It meant, at least for a little while, that Heartfire gave a damn.
She’ll find him. Wyrm appreciates that he doesn’t have to call for her like some baseborn creature. The spotted mare is leaps beyond being summoned anyways. Instead, he sheds his skin for one with tightly woven scales and rids himself of appendages to slither across the earth quicker. The bright green boa winds haphazardly to a trunk and then situates himself upon a branch to catch the scarce light and wait patiently for the woman he would die for.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Fortunately for Wyrm (or perhaps unfortunately, depending on how one looks at it), she has the terrible habit of keeping a very close eye upon her family. A family that now, by extension, includes the green stallion. Considering that he harbors her son, there is very little chance any longer that he might escape the prying of her sight.
It is how she can be assured of their safety, despite the sinking of Pangea into the ocean and all the chaos that had ensued following that event. Luckily for her, the more familiar she is with a particular creature (equine or otherwise), the easier it is for her to find them. So it does not take her long to discover her lover making his way past the borders of her home.
Despite his current serpentine form, she has little trouble locating him. To be honest, she hadn't entirely expected him. Historically, she has been the one hunting him down, not the other way around. She cannot quite say why she keeps coming back to him over and over again, but it is an arrangement that had always oddly suited her. Still, it is with a quiet surge of pleasure that she approaches him. Pleasure that she had not needed to make the call.
Of course, she has nothing for him yet. Much to her frustration, her quarry seems to have disappeared, gone with the sinking of Pangea. She does not believe he is dead, but neither can she be certain. Not with her current inability to locate him. As it turns out, even she is not infallible.
She is a patient woman though. She could only hope her oldest friend would prove as patient as she.
“Wyrm,” she says by way of greeting, blue eyes rising to fix upon the boa lounging upon the branch of a tree. “What a pleasant surprise. How fares our son?” While she is perfectly capable of ascertaining Longclaw is well, even she has her limitations. And hearing of his accomplishments from the boy's father would serve to reassure her, second only to hearing it from Longclaw's lips himself.
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
There are no secrets between them. With a character like Heartfire to keep watch over you, no secrets could be kept. Wyrm, thankfully, is devoid of them. He muses, as the familiar mare slides into view with blue eyes poised and lively, that this may be why she continues to humor him with her time. The Boa gives a languid stretch and raises his head, viridian chest morphing to form two knots at his breast where soon forelegs with paws grow. The rest of the change overtakes him and the bright green cat lets his feet dangle over the branch, hind legs pushing him forward so that he might slip down to the earth with a muffled landing.
He walks to meet her, rising steadily while limbs are exchanged and sculpted to bring him back to a sense of normality – at least, normal for Heartfire and himself. There’s no hesitation to his actions while he stalls before her, parrot-like nose rubbing gently against the broadside of her own. “Longclaw pines for you and Rapture.” He tells her, smiling dimly as he pulls away to settle. He couldn’t begrudge his son the desire; living in Pangea had been all work and certainly no play. “He’s a wolf now, not a boy.”
The admission quiets him, sends his eyes darting away to any nearby object. It’d all gone too quickly. “Rapture, she’s well?” He queries, gaze returning sharply to his counterpart. He’s not as singularly gifted as she is so his daughter’s growth has been something close to a mystery to him. The last question, “And you, Heartfire?” settles like a weight between them. There’s an edge to his voice, almost prying but not quite, that slips in to give the words a sharp point before he falls silent again.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
ooc: will fix speaking txt color later, just wanted to get this up
She would be lying if she said she has no secrets. She holds more secrets than nearly any other creature in Beqanna. Of course, the majority of them are not hers, nor has she any particular qualms about divulging them should it benefit her in any way. But she is honest in herself and in her knowledge. Perhaps some see her as rather unfathomable, but in Wyrm she has shared more of herself than with almost any other living creature. Even her own twin is a stranger to her these days.
Crystalline blue gaze fixed upon him, she watches his transformation from reptile to beast, and from beast to horse. She eyes the way his skin ripples and quakes, stretching and growing until it changes into something entirely foreign. The folding of fur and the undulations of bone and muscle are fascinating to watch, a sight she has not often had opportunity to see with her own eyes. Despite her abilities and all her years of practice, there is something entirely different about seeing a thing with one’s own eyes versus through the gaze of another.
Lips edging into a slight smile, one that very nearly reaches her eyes, she embraces the brief touch before shifting, settling closer to him. Close enough that she can draw her muzzle along his cheek before placing a delicate kiss at the hollow of his throat, one that lingers long enough to feel the vibrations of his speech as he responds to her question.
For a moment, her eyes close, seeking out their son as she does, a simple touch, a fleeting glimpse, to assure him that she is there.
With a soft sigh, she breathes against his warm skin before withdrawing, her cool composure returning as she seeks his gaze once more. “She is well enough.” Perhaps a bit disillusioned, but the girl had been too filled with blind innocence for her own good. That she is hale and whole is what matters. She considers Wyrm for a long moment before continuing, “You should spend some time with your daughter. She might benefit from your… tutelage.”
Glancing away, she pauses while she allows her sight to expand, to embark on yet another futile search. With a second sigh, this one frustrated in tenor, she focuses once again before confiding, “My quarry seems to have escaped. For the time being, at least. I suppose you could say I am… irritated.”
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
Heartfire has never been fathomable. He cannot touch her in those places unexposed to the elements. None can. Her strength lies in her ability to express emotion but never to feel it. Wyrm has spent a lifetime suppressing it. Her languid, dark lips imprint against his skin and he feels thick chains tangle in his gut, but he reacts as she would expect: immobile but for the purr of pleasure that echoes in his chest. There’s no equal to her company and he would know, Wyrm’s been everywhere Beqanna has to offer; everywhere and then some.
“Or she’ll find a new reason to despise me.” He scoffs, ears flicking backwards at the thought. Rapture's innocence is a gift neither of them bestowed on her but one Wyrm admires anyways. He would see her, if that was Heartfire’s wish, but his personal ability to sour even the most pleasant of moods left him feeling doubtful about the end result. “You never did reveal this mysterious individual to me.” The green stallion comments, more of an aside than anything. It was her revenge to be had, she could go about it whatever way she desired, but perhaps it would be easier to look for this someone if Wyrm knew what they looked like.
“Or what brought all of this about.” He speaks. One foot pulls away and draws the rest of his body with it, head tilting sideways so that he could glance over his shoulder at her. The shifter isn’t demanding – that would be foolhardy. He is, however, opening a door that she could freely choose to shut. “Don’t mistake me, I appreciate what came of it,” Wyrm explains, an iniquitous smile brightening his face at the thought of their children, “But I’m willing to bet being your own confidant is tiring sometimes.”
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
It is not often she considers it like that, her secrecy, her reticence in sharing too much of herself. It could be tiring, incredibly so, but there are so few who could even hope to truly understand her burdens. She hides them as well as she does everything else. As well as the emotions that roil deep within her soul, an untempered heat that she refuses to allow to the surface. The cool facade she so easily projects is just that - a facade.
It is something that had taken years to perfect, but unbeknownst to nearly everyone, she had had a lifetime to do so. A lifetime in another world that had been carried over in heart and soul, if not in body.
So sharing does not come easily to her, even with Wyrm. Her body she had given to him (the very last innocence left to her, if it could truly be called that) and she had gladly borne his children, but her heart is so very much more elusive. Her mind rules it far too much for her to give it freely, even if he does hold more sway there than she would ever admit.
“Your daughter could never hate you.” A faint smile touches her lips, the fondness in her breast overriding her natural ability to so easily control her expressions. “She is too much like my mother for that. She loves you.” She pauses then, sharp gaze considering Wyrm’s emerald features. “And she could benefit from learning a thing or two from you. She sees the world differently than you and I, and I fear it will only cause her pain.” She more than feared it would, she knew it would. Rapture would enjoy time spent with her father, and if it helped alter her world view a bit, all the better.
When he brings the conversation around to her nemesis, commenting on her recalcitrance in revealing information, she stills for several long moments, gaze shifting to consider the distant sea visible just past the trees and jutting cliff. After a moment of silence, she sighs, turning her refined head until the velvet of her muzzle is pressed against the green of his neck. Despite the tender gesture, her blue eyes harden, glittering with intense emotions as her consideration turns towards the stallion she had vowed her revenge on.
“As it happens, I believe you may know him.” The silence that follows is nearly deafening, but finally she whispers into his neck, her tone soft and filled with menace, one simple word. A name. “Bruise.”
Withdrawing her touch, she turns her gaze to find his, her features once more settling into impassivity. “As for his crimes, let us just say that he should choose his victims more carefully.”
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
He has ambition too, though Heartfire may not be aware. Wyrm often wonders to what depth her vision can plunge - can she read what he feels every time he looks at her? Does she taste the hunger within him that hollows him out in its desire for more of her attention? Could Heartfire, in her expansive knowledge, ever understand what Wyrm can’t even puzzle out? “She loves you.” His spotted companion tells him and though it touches on something faint and precious, it still doesn’t satisfy. He smiles all the same, a brittle sort of reaction to her tender admission, and listens to her with vivid interest as she continues.
His curiosity is rewarded with touch, such a rare and unexpected gift from her that he stills, becomes totally immobile in only the way that someone who’s familiar with predatory shapes can. The gentle ripple of her sigh has one of his ears tilting back, breaking the spell while she gathers the right words. It’s one of the things he enjoys about her; the directness of her intentions, the cut-and-dry manner in which she summarizes all matters of little or great importance. Her brevity is appreciated, even when she struggles to open herself up. This particular revenge has been keeping a fire lit beneath her and Wyrm wants, more than anything at this point, to feed off that flame.
He wants to be strengthened into a renewed effort to continue the search for her … Bruise? For Bruise? Wyrm blinks, furrows his brow and tucks his head closer to his neck in mild surprise. That ear tipped in her direction flicks back, his jade tail sways once and then slaps at his sides despite the lack of insects around them. His silence is telling enough. The shape-shifter had known the son of Pollock, through common knowledge rather than association. It makes sense, though. Pollock was gifted, if one could call it that, and Bruise perhaps had been born with that same ability. But where the horned creature and Heartfire intersect is still shrouded in mystery and for once, Wyrm would like it to stay that way.
“If I have to dig his bones up from the bed of the Sea and disturb his spirit,” He says evenly, softening the stiff muscles at his throat to reach out and press a firm kiss against her skin, “I’ll do it.” He promises. There was honestly nothing else he cared about. “Your mind is free to travel anywhere, my body permits me the same freedom. Point and I’ll hunt, say the word and I’ll search.” He offers, willing and able to see her at peace again. Her unrest was his to share, whether she asked it of him or not.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Sometimes, her abilities are as much curse as they are gift. She sees so much, and yet sometimes, it reveals so little. She is sensitive to the finer expressions others might make, the faint twitch or flicker of an eye that might give away some of what they are feeling or thinking, but she can never know for certain. Her abilities as a spy are unparalleled, but her ability to read minds and predict actions are no greater than that of nearly any other horse.
And in Wyrm, perhaps she remains willfully ignorant. She has long since surpassed any notion she might have had of simply using him for her own gains. No, he knows too much of her. She relies far more on him than she ever should have. So, perhaps in that one small way she rebels. Ignoring what is right there before her very nose.
But even she is not made of steel. Even she is often prisoner to the whims of her emotions. Especially where he is concerned.
Especially when he is so very… understanding.
When he presses a bold kiss against her skin, a shiver races down her spine, unexpected and yet not unwelcome. Instead her gaze fixes on him, staring in silence as he utters a dangerous vow that she could not have been more pleased to hear. Pressing into him once more, her soft lips against the curve where neck meets shoulder, she hides a smile against his emerald skin. Finally, her lips tracing a gentle path along his neck, she whispers a response into his soft coat, words warm and breathy. “You will be the first I call.” The only one she would call.
Reaching the hollow where jaw meets throat, she nibbles lightly before placing string of feathery kisses along the curve of his rounded cheek. She doesn’t withdraw this time, instead keeping herself pressed closely against him, blue melding with green, a silent thank you for his allegiance. And an even bolder promise.
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
It’s the gentle tempo of her breathing that Wyrm garnishes as reward. Underneath the bejeweled skin she presses close to -so tenderly, impossibly sweet- a change takes place, invisible but to himself because the shifter is directly responsible for the adjustment. He’s subtle, for good reason, about rearranging the nerves because the action could easily backfire, but the slick tendrils of receptive flesh stretch and grow to blossom along the length of his neck where at this very moment, Heartfire is molding one of her signature smiles. Wyrm feels the action, compares it to the moment they had conceived the twins, and thinks to himself how ironic it is that his spotted woman (through the most basic of actions) is now doubling that pleasure with every inch of skin she trails those dark lips over. He’s naughty, but then again he’s never claimed to be a saint.
When she murmurs into him, a shudder involuntarily spasms the length of his emerald body. There’s never been another creature alive that could match Heartfire’s tenacity for acquiring what she desired, Wyrm is certain beyond a doubt that she’ll gain retribution for Bruises actions … one way or another. That mental lens of hers is deadly when it focuses on an enemy and still, when it directs itself to him with the intention of good rather than harm, he finds that he enjoys the spotlight. “You know how to reach me.” He supplies, that switchblade-quick smirk of his own twisting his lips while a short, deep chuckle breaks the sovereign silence.
For now, though, he basks in the feeling of of her appreciation and tucks away each rare kiss to that spot between his ribs - where Rapture and Longclaw hide away. When she’s had her fill and settled comfortably into the curve of his body, Wyrm hums, “I’ll see what I can do for Rapture.”
And he will. But not now, not right this moment. Instead he deigns to repay her affection with a form of his own and in doing so moves around her, beneath her neck like a far too familiar cat so that he can offer his back for her head should she need it while his neck curves ‘round for his teeth to begin their assault on her muscles. A massage, of the horsey nature, and a slow, thorough one at that. He’ll leave soon enough, he always does, but it’s moments like these that make him feel almost … normal.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
For a moment, she simply relishes the power in his muscles, that hidden strength that could come to the fore at any moment. Though she cannot read the subtle changes to his body, they way he can alter veins and nerves and the smallest of cells, she knows what rests beneath. She knows just how deadly, just how dangerous he could be. And she has never felt safer.
Curled into his side, soft blue skin pressed against green, she feels oddly at home. It is familiar and comfortable. It is thrilling and exquisite, heating her blood and tracing shivers along her skin. She might keep so much to herself, but this is not one of those things. This is meant to be shared.
No words are necessary, not after promises had been given and business had ended. A small, secret part of her is glad he had not left immediately. That same small, secret part of her wants him to stay. Wants him to curl into a cool, shadowy cave with her, wants them both to forget the world exists. At least for a little while.
Something holds her tongue though, keeping her from saying such thoughts aloud. The much larger part of her that wants to depend upon no one but herself, that refuses to give in to the softer and warmer things in life (the better things in life). But she stays pressed against him, because she wants this more than she can say, more than she would ever admit.
But then he is moving, slipping under her chin until they are shoulder to shoulder, until his lips and teeth are able to reach the graceful, sloping line of her back. She presses her muzzle against him, a soft, low sigh escaping her lips, the warmth of her breath tracing against his emerald skin. Her dark lids slide closed, shuttering the bright blue of her gaze as bliss takes over. Without conscious thought, her lips begin brushing teasing lines across his flesh, absentmindedly mimicking his movements against her.
And for a time, she readily, voluntarily forgets anything exists but the two of them.
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
