"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
And inside you're burning with some secret yearning
The moonlight filters down from the velvet night sky, bathing the land below in its serene glow. The red and teal mare stands beneath those pearlescent beams, face lifted in lovely serenity towards the subtle light. Night has always been her favorite time, it’s dim light her sun as the stars are her sky. She lives for the night, whiling away the daytime hours in slumber or easy activity. But the night is when she truly becomes herself, when she is most alive and alight.
After a long, silent moment, she sighs, her delicately carved head lowering as eyes of the brightest silver blink open. A subtle shimmer of crimson and emerald gleams briefly across her cheek, a small remnant of a time long since gone. She barely remembers those days anymore.
They hardly matter anyway.
She had heard the warnings of the land of course, but she had paid them little heed. She never has. The active workings of Beqanna hardly interest her. Time flows, and soon, this too would pass. Of that she has little doubt. And so she does as she has always done, holding to her night, allowing the beauty and fragility to sustain her.
As the old saying goes, not all who wander are lost.
After a time she moves onward, her path taking her to the rippling edge of the river. It sparkles and dances beneath the cool light of the moon, beautifully entrancing. Enticing. She mirrors that beauty for herself, weaving glimmering strands of silvery starlight into the vibrant lengths of her mane and tail. She has always been a beautiful woman, slim of build, curves softening the lines of her body. Her coloring, her brilliant eyes, have only added to the subtle mystery. And now, with the lights gleaming against her skin, she is made that much more ethereal.
She had always been aware of her inherent beauty, has used it much like one might use their words or talents to their advantage. And it could be very advantageous. She is not a shy woman, nor would she pretend at such innocence.
And it has never led her astray. Not yet.
With a faint smile touching her blue lips, she steps into the water. It is crisp against her skin, numbing almost. But she allows the sensation to wash over her. It is worth it to feel such loveliness on her skin.
11-09-2018, 11:01 PM (This post was last modified: 11-16-2018, 07:53 AM by kahzie.)
The tides still come in go with the same regularity, the sun still rises and sets. The plague has not had an impact on the kelpie's health, but the magical shifting of Beqanna to accommodate it has altered his existence drastically. Instead of his tiny island he has a giant one (well, plans to have it, and his opponents are either edible or sinkable), and the sea around has shifted to something entirely unfamiliar. The kelpie could spend months learning the new topography - and he will.
But not tonight.
Tonight he follows the faint taste of freshwater. The River had once been a few miles from his home, and yet now he drifts past Tephra, then Sylva, and the jutting Pampas before he slips into the bay that is fed by the river. The world feels larger, and yet it is also far less populated. They cluster together for safety, and Ivar - who prefers to hunt in solitude - is force to roam farther in search of prey.
He finds it, a set of dark hooves in the shallows. The figure above them glows in a way that catches the kelpie's eye, and he breaks the surface to rise head and shoulders above the water. One clawed hind limb catches on a submerged log, keeping him anchored even in the cold current.
Shaking away the thick tangle of his sodden mane, the golden-eyed kelpie inspects the stranger. He is more than appreciative of her soft curves and bright eyes, but even as the light accentuates her beauty it keeps him at a distance. The opposite of a moth drawn to a flame, the jewel-toned kelpie keeps just to the edge of her circle of light, though he makes no attempt to hide. The pearlescent brightness of his pale face is surely visible in her psuedo-starlight, impossibly handsome and equally curious.
11-14-2018, 09:45 AM (This post was last modified: 11-14-2018, 09:47 AM by Lirren.)
And inside you're burning with some secret yearing
She has always been drawn to beauty, holding it’s fickle qualities so close to her breast. There is beauty in so very many things though, not just the curve of one’s jaw or the brightness of their eye. No, there is beauty in the untouchable too, in the unknowable. In the things one can nearly feel even though they evade the other senses. This too draws her, in a visceral way.
She does not miss the face that peers above the gentle ripples of the water. Even as caught in her own admiration as she is, that is a thing impossible to miss. Not when the face peering at her is as impossibly beautiful as it is.
There is something more to that, she thinks. She has always admired lovely things, but there is more than just beauty in that face. It is that visceral tug, the one that has always pulled her along, flotsam on a wayward current. And he is no different. But he must know that. She is too familiar with such things to believe for a moment he does not know his own attraction.
That knowledge does not sway her however. She has always been a somewhat foolish woman.
She steps deeper into the water, until the subtle tug is tickling the slender length of her lower limb. She reaches with her light, the stars that have always been such an inherent part of her. A slim, curling tendrel of light that seeks to touch. To taste. As though it is an extension of her limbs, beautiful and ephemeral. In truth, it nearly as. Sensitive and seeking and ever curious, all pieces of herself.
“Hello,” she breathes, breaking the silence that had stretched between them. The word is almost a promise on her lips, an invitation to seek more. It’s impossible to say whether it is purposeful or accidental. Especially with her, one never truly knows.
He remains still, the soft give of the sodden trunk beneath his kneading foot the only movement, even when the starlit mare comes closer. Wariness has kept him alive for nearly a decade, and the kelpie is disinclined to rash action. He is certainly wary of the way the light comes closer than she does, and at last he turns to watch it with a narrowed golden eye. His distrust of the arcane is no secret; there is too much power in the unseen. Ivar’s kind are more open with their weapons: a too-pretty face with a too-wide mouth and more sharp teeth than any herbivore would ever need.
(As with most irrational opinions, Ivar does not consider his own hypnotic magic to be the same at all. His own gift is fine, it is the gifts of others that are unnatural)
The murmur of his hunger is never entirely silenced, but at the prospect of a meal – even a potentially well-guarded one – it grows louder. Nearly loud enough to overcome his wariness, though when he drifts forward with a few flicks of his tail, it is done slowly, as though the tendril of light might sting as well as illuminate. When it doesn’t and the water level has reached his elbows, Ivar finally answers her hello with one of his own.
“Hello.” He needs to be closer, and at the thought he feels his clawed hindlimbs shift to less suspicious hooves, and the sleek scaled tail become tangled and stringy. Equine is not his preferred form, but it is easier to hunt in camouflage. “What is that?” he asks of the light, both the little bits of it that line a prettier face than most and the inquisitive bit that she has sent toward him.
And inside you're burning with some secret yearning
She can see the subtle glow of caution that surrounds him, a lovely golden sheen tinged with the faint coral of curiosity. Her lips tilt slightly at that, the confirmation that she has not lost all her charms. Even the faint note of hunger rippling through it all cannot dampen the allure. She has always enjoyed balancing on their blade’s edge of danger, and whatever dark gifts he might possess cannot frighten her.
Many have tried and so many have failed. Even the golden beast who had wielded fear like a weapon. He had been powerful, but she had not failed to see the weakness behind it. Perhaps that is why he had loathed her as much as he desired her.
But still she is here, alive and well and as achingly lovely as she has always been.
He comes closer then, drawn despite the wary way in which he proceeds. Her lips curve faintly as she watches him, a softly enchanting, barely there smile. Just enough to tease at something more, something hidden just behind that secretive expression. He does not repel the seeking curls of light, and this emboldens her, giving her what leave she needs to trail them leisurely along the elegant slope of one blue and gold shoulder.
What is that? he asks, his question serving to draw her silver gaze up to meet his. “Mmmm,” she murmurs noncommittally. There is an easy answer, of course, but perhaps one more complicated too. And she hasn’t quite decided yet which to give him. After a moment of silence, her smile deepens just enough to be noticeable, silver eyes glimmering with a faintly wicked light. “They’re stars,” she finally offers, as though it should have been obvious.
They're stars, she says effortlessly. They're stars, as if stars a thing that women wear around themselves and as if her actions are no more out of the ordinary than blinking those pale grey eyes. They remind him of the underbelly of the spring clouds, half-full of rain but brimming with threats and thunder. Storms have been in short supply this summer, and with them the thrill of electricity and adrenaline that thrums in his veins.
There is enough left to fuel his curiosity at least, and he follows one bit of light from where it sits along his shoulders. It brightens the water like a miniature sun, and for the first time Ivar begins to suspect that he might be swimming out of his depth.
The sensation is not familiar, but he has caught it in time. He hopes.
Rather than continue closer, the kelpie hesitates in the water. She'll catch quite a bit of coral now, but more than anything is the hunger. It growls within him, robbed of prey that is suddenly not-prey, and castes about for some avenue toward satiety. Barely stronger than that is his sense of self-preservation, the singular reason that he does not have a hoard hounding his every step.
The certainty of the ability to hunt tomorrow is better than the possibility that he will eat today. Unlike the careless immortals, Ivar's grasp on life is tenuous at best. For all his impenetrable hide and vice-like grip, the kelpie rarely engages in a fight he is not sure to win, and he is not certain he could take on this starlit stranger.
"I don't like them." He says abruptly, seeming to make no effort to soften his opinion. "Stars belong in the sky."
And inside you're burning with some secret yearing
He does not seem to mind her non-answer, though for those clever enough to dig beyond the surface, it is all the answer that is needed. Still she remains undecided about him, just as he seems to be about her. Similar in some respects, perhaps. As woman who makes no claim to immortal life, it had always been a fine line to walk, that razor edge between the thrill of danger and the true possibility of death.
Only her link to those stars scattered above have kept her alive this long. Only her ability read others as she does has allowed her the knowledge to recognize when she treads too deeply. Though, truth be told, perhaps at times she allows it to go just a bit too far. But then, she has always been an exceedingly lucky woman (or so she would have everyone believe. Better they believe her lucky than anything else).
The delicate tendrils of light trail down his damp skin once more before falling away into the rippling current of the river. His stark opinion draws her gaze not to him, but to the sky overhead. The velvet of night reaches far above, studded with the silvery light of the stars and glimmering with faint echoes of the universe. A soft sigh escapes her lips as she stares at that distant realm, pale eyes growing hazy, almost dreamy. “Yes,” she says softly, the word little more than a breathy exhale.
Stars belong in the sky. But for whatever cruel reason, fate had tethered her to this plane. And though she would love nothing more than to live amongst her beloved stars, it seems her dreams are ever to be denied.
For a long moment, she stares into the night, thoughts lost upon that brilliant ether. Then, as though recalling herself, she blinks several times before her gaze drops slowly back to the stallion still lingering in the water. There is a longing in her eyes that she does not bother to hide. “My name is Lirren,” she finally continues, introducing herself, seemingly unaware of the abrupt way in which she has changed the subject.
Slipping beneath the water would be easy, letting the current of the river carry him out past the point of the pampas. He considers this - has even readjusted his grip on the log a time or two - but in the end remains, intrigued despite his wariness.
Rather than argue in defense of her magic, the starlit creature lets silence fall after speaking only one word. While she watches the sky, Ivar watches her. The fall of her mane might have seemed black without her light, but the bits or star illuminate the teal fall of it. Is this another of the god's children, he wonders? Carnage roams their world wearing the night sky, and Lirren is not the first celestial creature he has come across.
Ivar no longer recalls their names, and so he is at least certain that he does not have one now. He is not sure he needs one, but his penchant for collection is strong. The kelpie isn't interested, but the stallion thinks that he might be. Maybe. Enough to try, at least.
"I'm Ivar." He tells her. "You live here?" Asks the golden-eyed stallion, his sapphire ears flicking forward. He takes a step forward, digging his claws into a less-submerged bit of log.
And inside you're burning with some secret yearing
There is an edge to him, something impossible to define but with a subtly persistent presence nonetheless. It’s that which intrigues her, the possibility of something hidden just beneath the surface. He might be a collector, but she is an avid curator. What she desires is far less tangible however, and so much more difficult to describe, much less to attain.
He stirs her curiosity though. And that, in and of itself, is worth exploring. Perhaps it would come to nothing. But then, it could also come to so much more. That is the true beauty of these things.
Her silvery gaze focuses once more, the longing fading into a clear-eyed brightness with a faintly inscrutable edge. She admires his beauty anew, caught once more in it’s lovely starlit glow. The faint desire to touch (with skin and not just ephemeral light) stirs within her, but she refrains. Time enough for that later, she thinks.
But she does step deeper into the water, until the midnight liquid traces cool, wet fingers along her knees. The subtle shifting of his aura tells a story of it’s own, lulling her, drawing her nearer. “Ivar,” she repeats in a whisper, the syllables curling almost delicately on her tongue as a faint smile curves her lips once more. “No more than you live here.”
It would be an awkward place to live, she thinks. So busy, too many that pass through. Just as she had been doing. “I don’t have a home,” she finally answers softly, without longing or regret.
She had never needed one, truth be told. She had always gone where she would, following only her wayward feet and the slow, subtle shift of the night sky. It is freeing, in a way, to never have to worry about a single stretch of land. To know that anywhere she comes to rest might be her home for the night.
Most don’t understand. Perhaps he would, though she rather doubts it. And so she falls silent, eyes curious as they fix upon him.
