"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
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
Wishbone wakes to a late morning. She’d spent the night nestled against the comforting embrace of her mother after speaking with Warrick into the darkness of the night. Wound had held her daughter close, just to make sure the girl was home at least for a bit, and Wishbone hadn’t squirmed or complained or wriggled at all (not like when she’d lived in Tephra, sneaking away from her mother in the midst of the night to watch the otters sleep or chase the molten lava along their paths).
The journey from Nerine to Tephra had been tiring, especially with the tension hanging over Beqanna like thick, dark storm-clouds. So when she wakes with the sun nearly to the highest point in the sky, she isn’t surprised. But she feels well-rested and eager to search for her new little sister, one she has yet to meet. Warrick had mentioned the arrival of her new sibling during their conversation, but by the time Wishbone had settled down to sleep it had been well into the nighttime.
So she leaves her mother, perhaps for a long while, with a tender kiss to her cheek and a loving embrace. It’s relieving to walk through Tephra’s forests again. Although Wishbone’s reckless heart adores the thrill of adventure and discovery and new places, she cannot help but feel comfort upon walking along the trails of her birth-home. Her mind’s eye takes her back to her favorite places as a child to search for her sister, and though she searches the hot springs and the foothills of the volcano, she doesn’t find her.
Beginning to feel forlorn, Wishbone turns toward the slender piece of beach containing the protected bay where the large rocks rise up on either side, creating a cocoon of sheltered waves for the family of sea otters that live there. Small pebbles crunch under her feet as she comes to a halt on the shore, a soft smile dancing across her mouth at the memory of standing on this same beach, shoulder-to-shoulder, with Trekori.
Sibyl's days were a flurry of motion. She grew strong and quick as she entertained herself by exploring the Islands of her home, and at six weeks of age, she was not old enough to know that one day she would see it's scent lines as confines. For now, Tephra was all she needed, and she had few thoughts of what, if anything, lies beyond.
But someone from beyond comes to see her today, and later this visit would spark a flurry of questions Warrick would be loath to answer.
"Helooooo!" She calls to the mare as she gallops across the dark sands of the bay. Bouncing to a halt in a shower of sand and saltwater the filly beams up into her sister's dark eyes.
"Wishbone!" She declares with pride.
"I found something for you, but he's over here," she manages to say threw gulps of air. The midnight-painted filly spins on her haunches and once again springs into a rangy gallop, gone as quick as she came, but having no doubt that her elder will follow.
A quarter mile down the beach her prize becomes visible. This time her halt is a little more cautious as she comes to stand before a tiny equine skull. Its polished shape stands in high contrast on the dark sand, where it had been pulled to just above the waterline. Reverently she reaches out to touch the bone with her muzzle, before looking up once again to the dark mare.
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
Wishbone can remember fondly the days of her childhood, spent exploring Tephra’s hidden corners until she felt as if every inch of the island was thoroughly discovered. For a few sweet moments, the sulfur kingdom had been the only known world — there was no Nerine or Hyaline to occupy her thoughts — but those times changed just as quickly as her little body grew. Her youth is still fresh enough for Wishbone to recall these times faintly yet fondly, as she stands upon the dark shoreline.
The sound of a high, young call rides on the crest of the beach-side breeze and Wishbone turns her slender head in the direction of the sound. Her newest sister (who she can assume, by the navy overo of her body and the newness of her limbs and the careening cry that drips from her tiny mouth) is racing down the shoreline, just as bewilderingly reckless as she had been — and continues to be.
“You must be Sibyl.” There’s a laugh in her honey-whiskey voice, one that chimes with the chuckling of the waves nearby. Before she can say any more, Wishbone’s sister is daring her onward and racing away with a flash of newborn limbs and dark, seafoam-dipped sand. The stretch of the run feels good on her muscles and though the mahogany girl knows she could easily take over Sibyl, she moves to race just behind the younger’s right hip.
The prize that halts the pair is equal levels of fascinating and frightening. An equine skull, perhaps dragged from the west side of Beqanna by the currents of the wide ocean, stands as a pearly contrast to the ashen shoreline. Wishbone laughs again, reckless and amused, at the sight and her sister’s excitement with the plaything. “You should name him,” she says. “He looks like a Benji to me.” She chuckles again, touching the smooth curve of the skull with her sable nose.
Sibyl requests a wish and, though it could only be a child’s banter, Wishbone closes her eyes with the skull pressing against her skin. It’s warm in the noontime sun, perhaps even worthy of stinging her skin in a few more hours. She isn’t quite sure what she would wish for (a funny thing, the girl with the name Wishbone unable to make a wish) but she eventually decides that she hopes Sibyl’s life will be as full of adventure as her own has been.
With that decided, she opens her eyes again to reveal amber eyes set against her mahogany face. Wishbone pulls her neck upward, slinging her face close enough to aim a light, teasing nip at Sibyl’s fuzzy crest. “Have you been swimming yet, little sister?”
Sibyl is elated that @[Wishbone] so readily joins her on her run, keeping close to her flank in a way which makes Sibyl feel like she really wants to be there... not like the older girl is being dragged along. With few playmates, the feeling is a relatively new one and it makes her feel very grown up and confident.
Wishbone reacts to her most prized possession in a way which pleases the girl, and she is glad she has shown it to someone who can appreciate the beautiful oddity. But soon she realizes there has been a small misunderstanding.
"Oh!," she says, a little embarrassed. "He already has a name."
But the moment of awkwardness passes in a blink, and she gets back to the business of making her wish. As Wishbone closes her eyes, Sibyl does the same. Her prayer is far less well formed - something about making friends and hoping Wishbone could stay the night.
Then Wishbone asks a question which the moonlight and midnight filly takes as a challenge. Her fluffy, short tail shots into the air as she takes several prancing steps towards the waves, but quickly she remembers herself and scurries back to the skull. With hooded eyes she bends low, the picture of a demure worshiper, and places a gentle kiss on the bride of his noes.
"Goodbye Kaiode, I'll visit tomorrow."
Then again she is off, and her head is filled with thoughts of warm, salty water and sea-foam. "Only a little!" she replies, looking up into the dark, world-wise face of her sister. "I'm not supposed to go out farther than I can touch."
she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
Wishbone has never had a little sister before. In her youth, she stirred up trouble with the likes of Wolfbane and his family, running between tropical fronds and over meandering lava streams. But there was no little sister to spring from Wound’s loins the following spring, perhaps because she had finally decided Warrick’s heart belonged to another or perhaps because other circumstances swept her autumn into winter too quickly.
Regardless, she’s grown up under the shadow of Svedka and Solace and now she is the one casting the shadow. A smile of apologies finds Wishbone’s face when her sister admits the skull already having a name, but too quickly they are moving past and she is grateful to forget disappointing Sibyl. There’s glee when the mahogany mentions swimming, at which point the filly nearly takes off toward the water before pressing a dainty kiss to the skull’s head.
Wishbone catches the name of the skeleton (which is still Benji, in her mind) in the whisper upon Sibyl’s lips. Kaiode. Perhaps she might understand the significance of such a name if she knew of Solace’s terrible history, but their feet are drifting into the brine and seafoam before Wishbone has much time to consider it. “That’s a good plan, Sib.” She’s decided on the nickname before it even slips from her mouth.
A laugh drips from her mouth then, rushing like the waves upon the granite shores back in Nerine. A memory clicks into her mind, one of humpback whales swimming out to sea and Wishbone swimming with them before nearly drowning among the depths. Wolfbane had saved her then (and at this thought, a quiet little sigh slips from her throat) in the days of their youth.
“Don’t try to chase the whales. They’ll win every time, I promise.” She’s already wading deeper, intent on going only as far as Sibyl can, and the water is deliciously warm on her legs. Wishbone dips her nose low toward the waves, puffing air out of her lungs to press bubbles into the water. She knows her sister will come closer, perhaps to see the bubbles or perhaps to merely play, and if she does, Wishbone will toss her nose in Sibyl’s direction, sending with it a small wave and a splattering of droplets. Another laugh, wild and free, careens out of her dark mouth.
