"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
07-15-2015, 12:51 PM (This post was last modified: 07-15-2015, 04:55 PM by Drow.)
If this is to end in fire then we should all burn together
Stupid. It was stupid, letting himself get distracted and tangled up in some guy he didn’t even know. Drow needed to be smarter than that, needed to not make the same mistakes he’d made with Zurry. Get all hot and bothered over some guy who didn’t know him from Carnage, throw his whole damn life into a relationship that was only going to end in broken hearts and devastation. It was time to just…to just give up on love. All it did was ruin lives, and his life had seen more than enough ruin.
He needed to let go, to give up all the bullshit and the drama and the way it all got tangled up in his head, and get back to what was true. Solid ground beneath four massive hooves, the breeze running through his thick, tangled silver-white mane and tail, hot sun shining down on a not-quite-midnight-dark coat, the warmth seeping into his muscles. The rhythm of his heartbeat at rest, and how it changed when he went from a stand-still to a walk, from a walk to a full-out run. The beat of his hooves pounding the earth, the way the impact of each step echoed up his legs and through his whole body. The smell of fresh green grass with each heavy breath, the way the world started to blur with his speed.
That was truth.
That was real.
That was being alive.
It was a long while before he slowed, lathered and panting, his muscles aching in all the right ways. It was good to remember. He walked farther still, cooling himself down until the sweat had dried and his breathing was back to normal before he stopped for a drink. The water was cool and refreshing, and he waded into the stream, his whole mind focused on the feel of the current on his legs, playing with his thick dark brown-black feathering, the way it caressed his skin. He pawed at the water, eyes drifting closed as it splashed up at him, hitting his legs, his belly. A soft smile on his scarred face, he lowered himself into the water and rolled in it, soaking himself before settling down in the stream and tossing his head, playing with the water in a way he hadn’t since he was a little kid. Fuck the rest, at least for a little while. This was life. And he’d needed the reminder.
Another blazing hot summer, and though the sun is a cruel mistress, the breeze alleviates her wrath, and so Gaza finds that it is cool enough to run. He is aimless; the dunes always led him home, but outside of the Desert, he has nowhere he needs to be. So the black man flies, as fast as a half-draft can, with heavy hooves and a wandering heart. Deep within, he knows that his sire would never approve of his lackadaisical spirit and aversion to responsibility.
But the King is dead; the King went and abandoned his family. And then his family left him too. So aside from his Ima (never doubt that he loves her fiercely, that the moment she calls for him, he will sprint to her side), who is there left to command his loyalty? Pevensie is a lovely Queen, sure, but something inside him yearns for… a thing he is not yet sure he’s found. Companionship? Love? A… herd? He has no children, the rest of the trio have disappeared… even Zilpah has gone on her Great Adventure. A thousand oysters lay ahead of him, and he has yet to choose which one has the brightest pearl. He’s never had to make up his mind before, and so Gaza doesn’t do it now. He simply runs. He runs as if he were chasing the camels again, even going to far as to let loose a thunderous Aye-yeh-yai-yai! to the emptiness around him.
Eventually, however, he gets tired of scaring the birds and his breath grows short, and summer catches up with him. Oooohhhh… as Gaza slows down, the world spins a little bit, and he knows he’s pushed himself too far (like the silly man-stuck-in-adolescence that he is). Water - he needs - like any Desert horse, he’s a hound dog to water, and as soon as he smells the pool that Drow is playing in, he heads that way. It isn’t far. Through a couple of bushes and to the left of some saplings. The other stallion would probably hear him coming, of course. It’s difficult for Gaza to be stealthy. The sights of the other stallion playing like a colt in the water is rather amusing, and Gaza makes no attempt to hide his laughter.
Oh, he used to do that too! Until Ima told him it was rude to muddy one of the few water sources in the Desert. He takes a few steps closer until he’s at the edge of the water, his golden eyes all sparkly and friendly-like. “Mind if I join you?” The big stallion then grins cheekily and dips a large, black hoof into the water, tossing a few droplets Drow’s way.
vanquish x yael
[sorry not sorry for hogging you. Gaza made me do it]
If this is to end in fire then we should all burn together
The water caressing his chest, his shoulders, his sides, his hips, it touched all the scarred places on his body just like Zurry once had, tracing thin spiderweb markings and thick, ropy gouges alike without shying away from the things he had once thought were so ugly. Disfiguring reminders of his fucked up childhood, the way he’d taken his anger and his hurt and his sorrow out on his body. Reminders even his healer of a brother couldn’t erase, not when he’d needed them so badly. So viscerally. Needed the pain to chase away the darkest parts of his mind, the haunted-hurt-little-boy parts that had turned into something cruel and vicious and self-destructive. To chase away the imaginary voice of a dead woman he used to haunt himself and hurt himself and break himself down. They were not ugly, not the scars on his body or his face, and not the ones on his heart. Maybe they weren’t the beautiful badges of courage and strength and survival Zur had proclaimed them to be, but they were his. They were him. And somehow, somewhere along the line, he had finally made peace with them. Maybe when he’d made peace with his mom.
And he had, somehow. She was dead and gone, but somehow…somewhere in the blurry time between leaving Beqanna and returning, somewhere in the fog and the mist and the lost days, he had found peace in his heart where there had never been peace before. And part of him wondered if maybe he’d been…not with her. He wasn’t dead, it wouldn’t have made any sense. But…closer. If somehow he’d felt how much she loved him no matter what had happened here, and it had been enough for him to let go of a decade of anger and hurt. He felt clean, washed clean like the stream was washing away the dust and dirt and dried on sweat. So he played, like he hadn’t since he was a carefree boy.
Heavy footfalls added a new rhythm, a steady drumbeat to accent the trickling of the water, the rustling of the leaves as the breeze stirred the trees to dance, the songs of nearby birds and the chittering of a few squirrels, and the splash of the water as he tossed his head and sent it flying through the air, light catching in the drops as they scattered. The beat was a welcome counterpart, rather than an interruption, and he carried on even as laughter rang out, another lovely addition to the song of the day.
“Join away,” Drow replied in his husky, gravelly voice, a twinkle of amusement in his pale metallic eyes, brushed gold and silver, the mirror of his twin’s. The stranger was big and broad and dark, draft blood evident in the width of his shoulders, the set of his hips, the size of his hooves. Almost familiar, in fact, though he couldn’t think why. And the playful glint in his golden eyes drew a matching grin out of Drow even as water splashed his way. A few drops landed on Drow, cool and refreshing and all the more fun for having been thrown by a playmate, and Drow lurched to his feet, deliberately thrashing his head to throw water at tall dark and playful. “The water’s nice and cool,” he added with a quirk of his lips before kicking another spray of water toward golden eyes.
Watch the flames climb high into the night
Drow
That is fair and Gaza is adorable and Drow approves.
Oh. It’s on. It’ on like Donkey Kong. Gaza is almost immediately taken back to the days when the three of them, Akbar, Kitra, and himself, frolicked as princes and princess of the Desert. He hasn’t played like this since they disappeared. The stranger tosses his head in response, sending water droplets spraying in an arc from the wet tendrils of his mane, and Gaza turns his head when they hit him on the neck and face. But he is smiling - wide and honestly - and there is a mischievous glint in those sand-gold eyes.
He takes no notice of the scars that criss-cross the dark stallion’s hide, not now at least. He is not here to ask question or to delve into the other’s past. He is here to forget the jagged cracks that mar his own. They are so much less than Drow’s, but in this, perhaps, they can find solace in each other. It is fitting that they should find each other - their beloved parents would surely approve.
His head turns back just in time to catch the second spray from Drow’s lurching body, and as soon Gaza blinks to clear the water from his eyes, he lunges forward, creating a small tidal wave that surges towards the other. Gaza eagerly bounds forward another step, and then pushes up to balance for a moment on his hind legs, before once again coming crashing down. He is free with his boyish laughter, which is so unlike the gravelly voice of his companion. All the frogs and turtles flee the pool, clearly agitated and disturbed by the raucous playtime. If there are fish, they’re probably going a little crazy right now, trying to avoid eight heavy hooves. He doesn’t feel the need to say anything just yet. Introductions will eventually come, but for now the game is ‘who can make the biggest splash?’ and ‘how wet can you make the other one?’
Boys will always be boys. Even when they’re old boys.
If this is to end in fire then we should all burn together
It had been too, too long since Drow had played with such innocent abandon, since fun hadn’t been fleeting and laced with desperation. But this? This game, this moment was pure enjoyment, childish delight in being a physical being, in his senses and the world around him and the joy of finding a new playmate. He felt like a boy again, and if he closed his eyes he could remember the gangly legs, the platinum-pale baby coat, the way his mane and tail had been barely a hint of scruff, how tiny his hooves had been how light his heart had been, how simple life could be to one who hadn’t yet seen far too much.
God, it felt good.
Drow got lost in the splash of water against his skin and washing over him as the strange stallion lunged his way, in the caress of the breeze along all the places where the water struck him, cooling him with those whisper-soft touches. He got lost in the way the water held him, buoyed him, worked his muscles as he charged toward his new friend, closing distance and sending a return wave the other man’s way. Sunlight glinted off his companion’s black coat as he reared up, crashed down, sent water rushing into Drow with carefree laughter that was almost as refreshing as the game itself. Laughter that couldn’t help but draw an answering laugh out of his own throat, low and husky and gritty where his friend’s was higher and clear.
With a sly, wicked grin, Drow turned his head away, looking over his other shoulder and quickly lowering his head toward the water to let his thick, riotous mane sink below the surface before whipping his head around, using the side of his face, his neck and his cascading tangle of silver-white hair to throw water at golden eyes. He snorted, shook his very wet head a bit, and grinned a cheeky little grin. “Name’s Drow,” he said, keeping his introduction short and sweet. “You?”
