08-09-2015, 10:33 PM
(This post was last modified: 08-16-2015, 10:26 AM by Kushiel.)
My mother is overly attached to the Valley.
I will be overly attached to no one and no thing.
She is foolish to cling to a land, rather than go where the action is happening.
These are my thoughts as I enter the Chamber. I didn't actually intend to come here, but why not? I don't know if I'll stay. I can't say I've been welcomed with open arms anywhere else anyways. If a horse sees the flamelings that sometimes line up on my back, it's a good bet I'm oh so politely asked to move on.
I can control the flames. I really can. But I like it better if no one knows that.
Why betray an advantage? Everything is an advantage waiting to be used.
I can't create flame, but it isn't horribly difficult to find a wildfire. I've traveled days to get to the source of smoke clouds, for those times when I've fallen too deeply asleep to keep the flame I've gathered alive.
I don't know why I have this particular gift or curse or mutation, call it what you will. From my understanding my father had a great many abilities, and my mother has mind reading (imagine being the child of an omniscient parent for a moment, please) and wings to keep her occupied.
Me? I might burn down your home. Whoops.
I bank the flames so they blend better with the ashy gray of my coloring. I began life as a bay but as the years have passed, dapples and graying have occurred. I'm not old, somewhere between five and seven (I don't keep track), but I feel old. LIke centuries of knowledge have been stuffed inside my head. The dark blackish brown of my mane and tail have assorted burs in them, but no twigs. Twigs don't last long around me. I halt casually near the borderland of the Chamber. I know the etiquette.
I am also not afraid.
Come find out why.
|
|
|
The afternoon is lazy, the sun sprawling across the sliver of cerulean sky, like some tangerine brushstroke. From what I can see in the heart of the forests, is but a silhouette of towering pines, and a small glimmer of the sun. Much to mother's displeasure, I had pleaded her to let me go deeper into the dark copse of trees. I wanted to learn like my father, how to track, how to find things, and primarily how not to get lost.
The bark is rough against my silvery hide, course and wobbly like old, worn fingers as the brush against me on my passing. I stop, lifting my head, nostrils fluttering and gauging the scents. Damp, everything is damp and dank and stale here. Harder to pick out familiarity, but it is there. The sweet rosewood of mother, the earthy musk of father. That is when I see it, a silver spun hair, caught on the branch, as if the knobbly bough would keep it safe, it's secrets hushed. I pick it up with my teeth, and as I do, I find another has been intertwined, a single black strand.
Ah.
The thought passes me and the frown that knits my features makes my face far harder, harsher than necessary. Sort of like the lines on the trees, nobbled, wrinkled. I pluck the hairs from their keeping in the branch and drop them to my feet, kicking over a few mounds of dirt and moss to cover them. Perhaps father would find them, such an expert tracker he was. Perhaps one day, one day indeed I could say that I could rival him, but not for a long time.
The ravens caw above, like black silhouettes against the splash of sapphire sky, they caw, they cry and they descend upon the boughs like an army of feathers. I chase them then, neck extending and hindquarters powering through the corpse, jumping over the fallen logs and weaving through the twisted boughs and gnarled trunks. Eyes cast upward, ears pushed back against my crow, more momentum, more aerodynamic. I raced them, faster, faster, until I broke the shadowy outskirts of the chamber and entered the clearing. Once again a loser against their broad wings and laughing caws.
My flinty hoof kicks at a lump of earth, and it rolls onward and brushes past a few inky feathers. Oh, they think their so great, those bloody birds. With my lowered crown, I did not see the flicker of flame at first, simply thinking it the reflections of the sun (it seemed such a rarity to have it here, in the chamber.). My gold eyes turn then, towards the swathe of orange and red, and they widen. They come from a stranger, a four legged lump of flesh and bone. Intrigued, I turn towards him, watching as he idles by the boundary, but barely there at all, consumed by the flame in some angles. I trot over, young, curious mind twisting and turning with thoughts, my lips piquing into a twist of sorts, not quite a smirk and not quite a smile.
'How do you do that, with the flames?' I ask, reaching nearer to him. Ears fluttering, tufty wisps of charcoal mane flopping over my forehead. The question sounded atypical of a youngster, so I broadened my shoulders, warmblood genes evident in my strapping, yet gangly young frame. I blow a snort, 'This is the Chamber.' I say, once again, perhaps too obvious for some, but you never know. He might be a complete stranger, but then again, perhaps not. I listen to my mother inside of my head, her words, cutting through, even now when she is not beside me, I hear her little lectures. 'I'm Vercingetorix. Who are you?' Hardly as tact as my mother, and not as soldieresque as my father, but I am me, I am Vercingetorix. And I'll have my own way, eventually, of doing this sort of thing.
|
|
|
It's a child.
Can't say I'm all that great with children. The few I've met I've tended to treat like miniature adults, and apparently most mothers don't like that. Something about cursing and mentioning whores in casual conversation.
I do remember being a child though. It's not that I've lost touch with that part of me. I simply don't have any other reference except the way I felt as a colt. All I wanted as a child was to grow up and be on my own. I wanted to be taken seriously, not cooed at or awed over. Not that my mother did that. Nature and my mother were my parents, and she wasn't above letting me learn that fire was hot by touching it. So to speak.
And as for having my own children. I suppose it will happen. I don't feel an urge procreate, although I do enjoy sex. Why not? It's a diversion, even if temporary.
The silver colt's eyes are gold, which is unusual, but his curiosity isn't.
"We talk." I respond to his first question. It's the most obvious question, but adults are usually full of tact and his first comment is their third or fourth. Doesn't bother me. I prefer that kind of candor. "I focus on what I want the flames to do, and they listen. Or not. They're temperamental."
I swish my tail and the flames respond by blazing into a white hot heat, and then settling back into a sulking huddle on my left hindquarter.
I nod curtly at his pronouncement of the Chamber. I'd heard of it, and I was sure I was here, but this is my first visit.
"That's a mouthful of a name. I'm Kushiel."
|
OOC: Sorry, am borrowing wi-fi and need to be quick, but wanted to get something up.
IC:
'I suppose they can always be a bit... unruly? Do they go with your emotions, if you are angered will they... flare up?' I am all questions, a young mind is always full of questions. But one never learns unless they ask. And I want to learn everything. I nod, listening to him, eyes fixed upon the delicate glimmer of the flame against the forest backdrop, the shadows and his own iron coloured frame.
'Blame my mother. She insisted.' I snort at the name, such a mouthful, it could get me killed when I introduced myself. 'I've been told it leaves the perfect opportunity to stab me in the back, at the very introduction of my name.' I laugh here, breaking the silence of the chamber's still and quiet atmosphere. 'I will learn. So it would be the perfect opportunity to stab someone else in the back, as they listen to my title.' I ramble on perhaps, but this Kushiel is one of few I have encountered that was not mother or father. I seemed to dive into conversation.
'Pleased to meet you, Kushiel. As I said, this is the Chamber. Not much to look at, but it's home. Are you planning on staying, or just passing through? It would be good to see something interesting here. The fire. The Chamber needs a bit more fire.' my smile twists, a little too long around the edges and stays there for perhaps moments too long.
i want the world in my hands
 She has never treated a child like a child. They are miniature adults. At least, that is what they are being raised into, so why not treat them as such? What is she expected to do, coddle the thing and then just assume it would grow into something independent. Straia had been rather spoiled that her own child popped out of the womb exactly as a fully formed mini-adult. He held himself well, spoke well, and only asked questions when the time was appropriate. He learned quickly, and it didn’t take long for the boy to earn his place as the second in command of the Chamber.
He’d been absent as of late, but Straia knew why. His newfound skill with heat and fire had driven him from the kingdom until he could learn to control it. No one was keen to see the pine forests burn to the ground again. Particularly not Straia or her son, who could imagine no better place in the world. She’s noticed his absence though, because her presence in required in more places. Often, he was at the border, and she didn’t need to be there as well. Now though, there is an influx of new members, and she is constantly on the move.
The ravens tell her of the fire on the border, and the small silver and gold thing, and she makes her way over, walking into the conversation in time to catch the nice to meet you, bit. She gathers that the stallion is Kushiel, and by process of elimation that the kid lives here and there’s only one kid, it must be Engelsfors. She can’t say or spell or remember the kid’s name, because it’s far too long. So she’s join to stick to Kid. Close enough.
“Not much to look at?” she asks, coming to a stop in the little group. “I beg to differ. It is beautiful, just not traditionally so.” And she believes this to be true. The mist clings to the pine trees, the darkness shrouded them from intruders. There is no easy way into the kingdom, no clear path. An army must divide, or file in slowly. And though they could be surrounded, she didn’t doubt their ability to keep an invading army stuck in the trees. “The Chamber has burned more times than I care to count. Fire is useful, just don’t burn the trees. I’m Straia. What can I do for you Kushiel?” straia the raven queen of the chamber
some are lost in the fire some are built from it He has returned from the borderlands, from the secret places far away. He had been gone not by choice, but by necessity: it wouldn't do to go burning down his home as he learned how to control his strange new gift. Although by now the gift is not new, and at least to him, not strange. It is a tiger tamed, a capacity completely under his command.
He is walking through the pine forests, enjoying the cool fingers of the pine trees, when he feels it. He is acutely aware of heat-related goings on in the Chamber, it's a nice little side effect of his particular capability. And when a fireling comes to the border, he feels it immediately. There's nothing quite like another who plays with heat and fire in unnatural ways; it's like running across a hint of shiny gold tucked into a rugged, dark landscape. It's completely different to his heightened senses, and as compelling as raw gold.
He opts to walk there from his place in the forest rather than using his now-mastered power of heat-empowered flight, and because of that choice he arrives shortly after Straia, slightly late to the conversation. Outwardly there is no evidence to indicate the power he holds. Unlike the boy of fire, he does not cause flames to dance on his back, nor keep the air around him particularly hotter or cooler than it would be normally. Nor does he bear too many signs that might indicate the unusual circumstances that led to his power. He is still dark-black, devoid of markings save for a strange red tribal tattoo around his left foreleg and the strange mix of dark blue and dark green hair that is his mane and tail. Oh yes, look deep enough and the signs of strangeness are legion. But unless you're looking for them, you might overlook them entirely.
He offers a small smile to his mother, and a nod to the two he hasn't met. He arrives in time to catch the name of the one, who smells like newness and strangeness, but not the other, smaller one. "Fire is useful." he echoes his mother with a note of amusement in his voice. "I can't imagine that the trees would burn again. At least, not in my lifetime." he offers, his voice light and joking. He knows his mother will know exactly what he means: the trees will not burn because he will not let the trees burn. His powers over heat allow him to destroy fire at its most fundamental level, just as they allow him to create it at the same. No, so long as he is here (which will be his entire life) the Chamber will never burn again.
"Welcome to the Chamber." he offers to the older one, the one who doesn't already reek of the land, his voice rich and handsome. His bearing is military, as though he is constantly holding himself at attention, but it is not uncomfortable, stiff, or formal. "I'm Erebor."
erebor heat manipulating lord of the chamber warship x straia 
"It depends." I respond to Vix. "They do get hotter when I am angry."
I haven't figured out a way to keep that from happening. It takes enough mental energy to keep them from bursting out from my body and attacking the nearest object that I don't worry about the strength of the heat, just the reach. I also don't want anyone to know the extent of my control over the flamelings.
My lips quirk into a grin. I remember being this exuberant. I wanted to know everything, whether it was good for me or not.
"I have a feeling no one will easily stab you in the back, long name or no."
Our conversation is interrupted by the arrival of a patched mare. I know her by description, although not by acquaintance. Straia.
Her pride in her home is apparent as she corrects Vix, something I will never understand. Despite the steady heartbeat beneath our hooves, the Chamber is simply land, and I don't want a land to consume me like the Valley does my mother. One patch of grass is nearly as good as another.
I grin at her request, amused. "I won't burn the trees."
I dip my head slightly, in acknowledgement of her rank, but her words go unanswered as another arrives. This one smells of Straia and based on his age, I guess he is her son. He carries the scent of ash and smoke with him and I look him over with interest. The flames lick the air, also curious, but I push them down before they can blaze closer. A few sparks landing near my hooves tell me that the flames are unhappy.
"Hello Erebor. I was just about to tell Straia that I am looking for something to do. I find myself with free time and flames itching to be active. The Chamber seemed a place that might have opportunities."
|
|
