"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
07-30-2019, 09:50 PM (This post was last modified: 08-02-2019, 10:31 PM by Morgayne.)
Fairies have some sense of humor.
The immediate problem presented by being no bigger than a cottontail is getting back down from the mountain. The walk is much longer and more difficult from the beginning as she finds herself on one side of a slender fallen tree that she’d only stepped over when she arrived. Were she actually a rabbit Morgayne might have hopped over it but instead she is forced to walk most of the way along the thing before squeezing beneath it where it is propped up against a boulder. Her path is littered with many such obstacles and inconveniences. Sometimes when she steps on a pine needle it angles up to poke her in the legs or belly with it's sharp ends. Elsewhere, where there is snow she must scrape and scramble over the hard frozen edges of it.
In the end Morgayne gets some help off the mountain, though it is particularly unwelcome.
The raptor’s strike manages not to kill her and her undignified screams are luckily heard by no one but the bird as it wings swiftly back into the heavens and then selects an air current to cruise into Hyaline on. Morgayne’s tiny black legs flail uselessly, a taloned claw holding her firm and digging itself into her muscles and gut. Still she flails and twists and uses some words she’s learned in her adventures. Finally reaching up she bites the eagle as hard as she can on its scaly yellow leg and finds herself soon plummeting, spinning, tumbling toward the trees below.
It is a fall that ends quickly with a battering of leaves and twigs and then a horrible hard splash into the river. Stunned, Morgayne is unable to sort up from down and is dragged down by the current at first. Then the rapids churn and her small dark face breaks the surface as she is swept past rocks and down through undulating rapids. Occasionally managing a terrified squeak that is likely drown out by the water.
The banks widen and the river calms enough that she can point herself toward the muddy bank. Struggling, exhausted, pushed by the water past the place she’d been aiming for Morgayne finally stumbles up onto a tiny swatch of washed out bank and then onto the grass where she collapses on her side soaked through and still so very small. Darkness closes in though the day is bright and the sun warm on her pink belly from which blood ribbons too quickly.
Morgayne’s eyes close, submitting to the narrowing, sickening pull of the abyss. She makes the bleeding stop, but the sleep she drifts into is black and distant and she cannot imagine herself into complete wholeness before everything goes dark.
sometimes i wish
we could be strangers
Morgayne
OOC: Morgayne was turned the size of a rabbit for two weeks by a fairy. I am terrified of open posts plz let this not be a trash fire.
08-03-2019, 11:50 AM (This post was last modified: 08-03-2019, 12:14 PM by kildare.)
Had Kildare known about the magic and its intensity in this place, he probably would have kept moving.
The midnight boy had nowhere to be, not really. There was no place that he could lay claim to as home and when he had turned his emerald gaze pasts the mountains, Kildare had decided to see all of it. There was a whole, wild world out there full of stories and personalities and things to learn. His Glam had spoken of the other worlds often enough. She had told her grandchildren of the few lands that she had encountered before finally settling down in Beyond and Kildare who was coming at the age when colts leave home and try to make names for themselves, decided that he should like to see what else the world had to offer before he had to settle down. There was Tarian always bemoaning honor and duty, Liam always encouraging that life was just one, long party and between his two elder brothers, Kildare decided he should like to decide for himself if he wanted to tackle the sacrifice that came with his bloodline or if he simply wanted what Liam did, the freedom to choose.
It hadn't meant to be a forever thing. He had intended, perhaps still intends, to go back home someday. For Kildare, this is more an experiment than an adventure. He's enjoyed the company so far, clever Astana has kept him entertained enough that the journey here has been more pleasant than arduous. Astana was more like a butterfly than a horse, he had decided, the way she flew from place to place. The moment that they had encountered Beqanna, the little girl had taken off. And Kildare, a touch too proud to play babysitter, had let her go. Now though, the ebony colt feels guilty and there is a part of him that thinks that perhaps he should find her. Just to make sure that she is alright.
The problem with wanting to check up on one like Astana is finding out where a butterfly would go.
He has tried the Meadow with no luck and so he has continued to move on, pushing through the swaying grasses until lessen. He follows the edge of the river, continuing to follow it where Kildare assumes will be a beach and perhaps even the sea. The thought of seeing the ocean almost makes him want to abandon the search for Astana. After, he thinks. After he has found her flitting from place to place, when he knows that whatever she is doing is fine, he will go find the untamed ocean and marvel at its waves. Perhaps it is the wind that blows off it, that comes from other faraway places, that calls to him. It could possibly be the closest he could come to being able to weave it again, to make it beckon and bend under his command.
The summer sun is warm on his back and he thinks that a trip to find the ocean is exactly what he needs after this errand.
His tail flicks at the few insects that insist on bothering him and his ears pin, irritated that Astana couldn't find a place that isn't crawling with bloodsuckers. A snort comes from deep within Kildare and his green eyes sweep the landscape before him. The amount of coverage offered by the few trees here are minimal and he knows the minute he goes into the shade, the winged creatures will descend on him in a mass exodus. They would simply follow him from place to place, intent in their determination to eat their daily fill. He shudders and keeps walking. But then his expression changes, confusion taking control of his facial features. There is something small ahead, small enough to be a squirrel or some other tiny creature. A dead one, he assumes.
But the coloring on what he thinks is a squirrel is unusual and as he gets closer, he can see the shape is all wrong. His confusion only grows as he the wrong shape changes into one he knows, one that is exactly like himself. Another horse but she is so small. Exhaustion comes off her in droves as she lays there. He lowers his head, unsure exactly of what he should be doing (what does one do with such a small horse?). "Hey," comes the deepening tenors of Kildare. He doesn't touch her because if he is entirely honest with himself, her size is something that freaks him out. "Tiny girl," he says, hoping to wake her up, a part of him wishing that she had been a squirrel. "Wake up."
08-03-2019, 08:27 PM (This post was last modified: 08-03-2019, 08:32 PM by Popinjay.)
At first, she was afraid of the river, afraid of the bubbling, roaring rapids, and the way the trees lined one side of it like an immovable army. She didn’t know what lay beyond it, and not knowing made her shy, fearful, made her hesitate at the water’s edge and spook and buck when it lapped gently at her stone-grey hooves. But that was another time, now, Popinjay knows what is beyond those tall sentinels. Now Popinjay lives in between the trees, and it comforts her to see them, waiting for her to come back across the shallows. For now, she ignores their beckoning, swaying in the warm summer breeze that bends their tops.
She splashes in the sparkling water, watching it glitter and gleam as it flies, chasing the shoals of minnows through the still puddles where they shelter from the heavier currents and the sunfish and bass and catfish that would prey upon them. They easily outswim her wild hooves as they land haphazardly with a heavy GLUMP GLUMP GLOWMP! They do not so easily outswim the small herons feeding a distance away, some of whom glower at the filly with black eyes both emotionless and angry in the way that only birds can accomplish. She ignores them as too serious and wheels about to race upstream at the very edge, the water’s spray soaking her dark coat until it looks black and slick, galloping until the dark shape of a raptor wheeling wildly in the air catches her eye. It dips suddenly, angling to the ground and laboring up, something small struggling in its claws, and for a moment, Popinjay wonders if Aten’s Turul has followed her even here, but surely not? She trots forward, catching a glimpse of the red tail, and no, this is certainly a different bird. The shadow in it’s grasp hangs from a single claw now and oh! It falls, hitting the turgid white water with barely even a splash, slipping into the foam and rocks with a scream lost to the roar of water.
The dark filly turns back around, running back to the shallows where the water runs more slowly and smooth as glass, the sandy pebbles churn underfoot and she makes slow progress. The creature has washed up, and Popinjay considers taking it back to Taiga for Turul – her hunting escapades here-to-fore having all been terrible disasters, the rabbits and squirrels of Taiga disappear when she walks by – but her game is quickly spoiled by a black colt that gets there first. Popinjay lays her ears flat and charges forward, in spite of the fact that he is clearly at least a year older than her. Her nostils flare and pinch, small lips drawn tight so her young teeth flash brilliant white.
“Hey! Hey that’s mine! Get away from it!” She shouts breathlessly, coming to a bouncing halt. She hasn’t even looked to see what it is, but has already decided that it belongs to her.
There are voices, murky and indistinct at first, then tinny, ringing into her head too loud. Her closed eyes squinch even more tightly as she tries to close her ears too. The first voice, deep and less offensive to her small head asks her to wake… the second…
Morgayne groans, struggles against the exhaustion of healing the mortal wounds dealt by the bird and all the aching of recently knitted flesh. Vision swims as she opens her eyes to the shouts of a younger girl, and Morgayne blinks her richly blue and pink eyes to try and clear the picture of the two youths about to argue over her person. She is a year old and belongs to no one at all, not even her big brothers. No one. “No!” She squeaks, rolling painfully up onto her side and baring her sharp little fangs at both of them. “Don’t touch me.”
Is she as big as that? Morgayne eyes the boy with a halo of glitter around her vision as a migraine that comes of spending her power too quickly hangs on to her skull like another raptor. She coaxes a little more of her strength to soothe that away and stumbles to her dark legs. “I am not a thing. My name is Morgayne.” The bubblegum girl glares up at the both of them, weaving a bit and having to raise her voice to be more than a lisping, squeaking play-toy. It hurts her head to look back and forth between them so she backs up a little toward a large stone so she can have both of them in her line of sight. “Tell me that stupid bird is gone.” She adds once securely close to the gray stone with the trees hanging over her head, she glances skyward herself but the light in her eyes makes her drop her small dark chin against her pink chest with a shake of her head. Too bright.
08-05-2019, 07:32 PM (This post was last modified: 08-05-2019, 07:33 PM by kildare.)
He should have kept moving. The moment that Popinjay comes at him, young and petite as she is, all he sees is the flash of white and the way her little head snakes forward. When she is grown, there is no question in his mind that she will have the capability of being a fearsome mare. But for now, she is little enough that all Kildare can do is stare at her, his green eyes looking irritated as soon as his shock passes. She comes at him with all the enthusiasm of a small child being denied a treat and Kildare wonders why he finds himself in the company of infants so often. (In all of his youthful insight, Kildare will tell anyone who asks that he is almost grown at a whole two years of age.)
His ears lace for a moment before he decides there is no need for that kind of behavior. A snort comes from this black muzzle and Kildare gives his head a slight toss, ebony waves tossing and dancing in the summer breeze. Before he can give Popinjay a few words on sharing, the tiny filly from below him speaks. He casts a wary emerald-eyed gaze below him, carefully watching her. Concern shows around the corners of his eyes, in the way he presses his mouth into a firm line. He can hear her chirping, exclaiming her protests about not wanting to be touched and Kildare is more than happy to oblige. While his head lowers and his ears prick forward to hear her, he is content to keep his face a comfortable distance from her rabbit-sized form.
He watches Morgayne, torn between being fascinated and alarmed.
Tiny girl has a name and she protests it, indignant about referred as a thing. It is here that Kildare has to admire her. No bigger than a rabbit, something that should terrify anybody in their right mind and here she was - making demands and protestations. Whatever alarm he has is fading away and is instead replaced with a lopsided grin, broadening the more she speaks. He looks back to Popinjay who makes her way forcefully forward and Kildare almost laughs. "Easy there, killer," he quips. The filly halts in front of him and Kildare turns his attention to the sky above, briefly trying to find the winged offender that Morgayne herself was searching for.
He finds it empty (as far as he could tell anyways) of predatory birds and looks down to the miniature filly as she backs up to a stone, peering upwards at him and Popinjay. "I can't see anything," he says with an almost perceptible shrug. He's never taken much notice of birds before. "Kildare," he offers to both the fillies, looking from Popinjay back down to Morgayne. "Why are you out here alone?" he asks pointedly to Popinjay (at two, he assumes the role of responsibility) before turning his attention back to the other. "And why are you so small?"
08-06-2019, 08:33 PM (This post was last modified: 08-06-2019, 08:40 PM by Popinjay.)
She sees the colt’s ears fall back, and squeals in the response, kicking twice with a back leg and ready to escalate when a tiny voice behind her suddenly pipes up. Already on the edge, Popinjay rears back and jumps away, startled, but she is quick to come back, eyeing The Thing closely. But it is not A Thing, rather, a Very Small Horse! And one with tiny fangs that glint in the bright summer sun like white quartz out of the river.
“Oh! Oh, you are very small,” she observes, helpfully, bowing down on bent knees so that her nose is on a level with the small pink filly, “but I don’t think Turul would eat a horse, even a really, really, little one.” The bay filly sounds disappointed, but only for a moment. She, too, is fascinated by Morgayne’s size, but also, her color. She is colored like dawn, blue and pink and bright. Most of the horses that Popinjay knows these days are varying shades of gold-to-white, though a few also have spectacular blues. Even Kildare’s black coat seems marvelous to her, and it is amazing that in a few month’s time, she could forget the usual colors of horses in favor of golds and creams.
When he calls her Killer, her ears pin again and she snakes her neck, nostrils narrowing until the air exits them in a breathy hiss, but she only drops her haunches to the ground, back legs tucked casually beneath her while the unusually small filly backs away, finding support against a smooth stone worn free of edges by the river’s high tides. Popinjay lowers her head, chin resting on the ground, eyeing Morgayne longingly, and wondering if she should still take her anyway. It would be nothing to pick her up and take her back to Taiga. Celina, in particular, would like her, but, she thinks, it might be hard to swear Owin to secrecy, and if he tells Lethy, Aten would probably not let them keep her. The disappointment ripples across her face again, and she looks up to Kildare, who is speaking gently to the young horse that barely reaches his fetlocks.
“I saw the hawk fly back upstream when you fell into the water,” she says, nodding firmly in confirmation of his observation, and then, back to him with a huff, “I can be alone! I am In-De-Pen-DENT! Besides, there aren’t any birds are trying to eat me for lunch.”
