"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
Beqanna had grown dreadfully boring for the shadowmare.
She knew that the quiet was just a lull and that somewhere, somehow, chaos would see the light of day soon. It wasn’t a matter of if, merely a matter of when. But political squabbles did not phase the cold woman, not anymore. These kingdoms were still foreign to her. They were irrelevant, in her mind and would remain so until she needed more. Anaxarete had been loyal to the Chamber - the kingdom that possessed the beating heart of Atrox, the kingdom to which she had pledged her own soul. These new lands born of magic beyond even her control didn’t hold the blood and loyalty of the past. It was a pity, really. Without the Chamber, the shadowspinner was ungrounded in this new world.
To this point she’d lingered in the shadows - biding her time, awaiting an opportunity. But the boredom - the boredom motivated her now in unpredictable ways. She had no allegiance anymore - no bonds of loyalty to keep her restrained in any way. So yes, this lull was more dangerous than it looked.
More and more, she found herself wandering the common lands of Beqanna - now only vaguely familiar to her. She slips from the shadows surrounding the river with little fanfare. The shadowmare did not stop at the river’s banks, wading into the rushing water. The shadows immediately wove their way into the water, turning the clear water an inky black. The shadowmare, unfazed, lowered her nose to drink. The current pulled the blackness downriver - spreading like a stain through the crystal water. She raised her head - watching as the darkness spread.
There is little that capture’s Staves interests outside of the workings of his own mind.
Little for him to entertain himself with except the possessive way that he watches his twin sister and the way that he dreams of things that he can barely name. His first year fast approaches and with it, his body has begun to develop. His mane no longer sticks up entirely, but has begun to lay down flat; still, this and his tail are short, underdeveloped, and have yet to lengthen into anything resembling an adult mane.
The lines of his body are still painfully young, his hip slightly too high, his legs too long, and although he will mature into something tall, lean—right now, he is just skinny. Just gangly.
Such things do not bother him though.
Such things do not restrain him.
And it is only when he sees the mare move out of the corner of his eye that he escapes the trappings of his own thoughts at all. His dark face grows pensive, black eyes peering out to watch as she moves to the water. She looks perfectly ordinary, but she moves with an otherworldly grace—something that speaks to ancient tombs and he does not deny the fact that his pulse increases, jumping in his throat.
But it is nothing to the excitement that claims him when the shadows seep into the water.
His heart thumps in response to the display, eyes widening slightly, and he does the only thing that he knows how. His own gifts—clumsy and raw as they are—dig deep into the earth below him. They root through the soil and the loam until they come upon the corpse of a bird, barely dead. He smiles as he pulls on it, animating it, giving it more than just movement, but a sick and twisted depiction of life.
When it bursts from the earth, screeching, he sends it to her.
Where it will land on the ridge of her neck, or circle her head, or drop dead at her feet should she wish it.
Consider it a gift, he thinks, his lips barely quirking into a smile.
She senses his presence, and his magic, before she turns her gaze upon him. She could feel the earth part - surrendering the corpse that shot into the sky. When she did turn to face him, her gaze was pensive. The reanimated creature shrieked, voicing its displeasure at being pulled, so abruptly, from the grave. Amusement flickers in her eyes, just a flash, as the bird soars once more. It is not graceful as it circles her once, falling nearer to the water with every beat of near-rotten wings.
The shadows in the water grow more animated as the decaying bird stutters. Without pulling her gaze from the boy, the shadows swirl together to form a large serpent. The shadow serpent streaks across the clear water before striking out, catching the bird in its shadowy jaws.
The shadow serpent drags the bird to the edge of the river, where shadowy wings sprout from the serpent’s back. A set of legs appear as the shadow morphs into a small wyvern, still clutching the bird in its jaws. The shadowy creature takes flight, swooping towards the boy before landing at his feet, placing the bird on the ground before him. The shadows then melted back into the surroundings, leaving no evidence they had been there at all.
The shadowmare had stepped from the river and moved nearer to the boy. The cold woman was curious. She saw potential in children she felt like many overlooked. She wondered, idly, how many people would be quick to right off his talent as morbid or creepy. But Anaxarete could see the beauty in such a gift. Necromancy was difficult to master, and this boy was already quite adept.
“Well, well,” she said, turning her icy gaze upon the boy. The hint of a smile crawls upon her dark lips. “That’s quite a gift you have,” she said, with a gesture to the bird - lying motionless before them. Anaxarete again sent her shadows towards the bird - snaking across the ground before enveloping it entirely. When they receded, the broken and missing feathers had been mended, though it was still - irrevocably - deceased. It was an invitation to try again - to see how high he could make the creature soar.
“Tell me, what is your name?” she asked, curious about this strange, wonderful boy.
His heart, sick and twisted as it is, thus painfully when she animates the shadows. When they twist and turn and then lunge toward his animated creature. His black eyes widen just a little, the endless depths of them craving what she offers—this dark magic that she twists around her fingers and works so easily.
He glances down as the creature lands at his feet and he feels nothing but curiosity.
He does not feel shame that she was able to overpower his simple creation. He does not feel fear at what else she may be able to do. He feels curiosity and that growing, gnawing sense of want beneath the surface of his star-studded coat. It is an endless hunger that he is unable to quell. It is something that he has only just begun to understand, something that writhes to life and he has no desire to stop.
So he remains still, watching as she moves closer, as her shadows reach out and heal the damned thing.
His lips spread into a wide, empty smile—as cold as a crocodile—and he tilts a face that would one day be described as handsome were it not so carved from stone. So devoid of any real life beneath it.
Without thought, he reaches his gift toward the ground below him, pouring more of himself into the work until the arch of his boyish neck is damp. The bird begins to flutter in response, its wings giving a sickening thump as it beats against the soil, but before it can full launch into the air, the earth around it begins to tremble. Without any further warning, several birds fly upward, dirt flying as the first joins.
His face, splattered with the evidence, lifts to watch the flock of them fly together. They are in various degrees of death. Some are just bones, creaking as they defy gravity. Others are freshly dead and would look almost natural were something not distinctly off about the strange, disjointed way that they move.
Regardless, to him, they are a thing of beauty.
Smiling still, he finally looks back down, meeting her gaze without hesitation.
11-07-2019, 10:19 PM (This post was last modified: 11-07-2019, 10:20 PM by Anaxarete.)
LIKE WATER FLOWING INTO LUNGS.
She watches him with a keen sort of interest. There is much she has seen after over a century of life, but the ease at which this boy has taken to his gift is refreshing. How effortlessly he destroys the sacred line between life and death. He is not afraid of this gift. She can feel his curiosity - his desire.
She can feel the fingers of his power sink deep into the earth. She can hear the bones and flesh and decay answer the call. She can feel the earth part, birthing the creatures from their graves. As he calls to the flesh, she calls forth the shadows once more.
She finds she quite likes this boy and the games they play.
Her gaze follows the misshapen flock. Without breaking a gaze, she summons a murder of crows. The flock trails shadows - appearing and disappearing at will - twisting and turning between those built of death and bones.
It would be a nightmare for most to stumble upon - a flock of death and darkness.
For most.
Not them.
It is only when the boy provides his name does she pull her icy gaze from what they have created. A smile crawls upon her dark lips - small but powerful.
“You have a special gift, Stave,” she says, her voice cold but not at all unkind. White the opposite, truth be told. Such a talent should be fostered and this boy she saw so much potential...
“My name is Anaxarete. And if you wish it, you are welcome to join me in my home. Both you and your sister would be welcome in Pangea.” The offer is genuine, and she watches carefully for his reaction - both to the invitation and mention of his sister.
