great clouds rolling over the hills
and if you close your eyes, does it almost feel
The Tundra is quiet. Which is fine for hibernating, which is what Brennen has been doing for several years, but not particularly good when you’re trying to wake up and be a productive member of society once again. Thankfully for Brennen, a mere few moments of air time brings him to the Meadow, where the activity is never silent. It seems that for every empty home across Beqanna, every quiet Kingdom, the answer can be found in those who congregate constantly in the Meadow.
Coincidentally, Brennen’s not a huge fan. But it does serve a purpose, this bustling place, and he is here to take advantage. Large wings set him down gracefully, back legs preceding the fore, but his relaxed state goes instantaneously tense when the snowball explodes against a still-outstretched wing. Slowly he turns his head, blinking through the amber sparkles of light at Weir as Yael’s bright laughter wafts across him. For a moment he is dangerous Brennen, alliance finalist Brennen, General Brennen, with a dangerous fury kindled in his honey colored eyes – but it only takes that brief second for him to determine that he’s not under attack. That this is some sort of game, someone is playing, that it’s harmless fun. And then the fury is gone as quickly as it came and the stallion relaxes, inhaling the amber sparkles and smiling despite himself.
He takes a step towards them, cautious, and then another. Despite the lack of chill in the air – winter hasn’t yet reached the Meadow, though it creeps inexorably down from his Tundra – snow is drifting down from the sky, heavy enough to coat the grass beneath their hooves. The golden mare – a lady he recognizes, however vaguely, as once Queen of the Desert – is silent but Brennen knows that carrots and apples are not native to this part of the meadow even in the growing season, much less the depth of autumn. With a wistful regret that his youngest children are not here to enjoy the fruits of their labor, Brennen joins the party.
Even when he’s been for all intents and purposes asleep for half a decade, the elemental magic is quick to leap to his touch, a cold so deep it burns like fire. The great warrior stallion ignores his own roots for a moment, willing to surrender to the playfulness of the others, and lowers his nose to the ground, closing his eyes to envision what he wants. It is second nature to produce huge spires of ice, sharpened to points meant to impale and harm, because he is nothing if not a warrior. It takes a deeper concentration, a deep effort, to make the ice spring instead from the ground in fantastical shapes. A castle, first, whole like he envisions the Tundra’s ruins once must have looked. A skin of ice that stretches before it, perfectly flat like the lake in the depth of winter. And to finish the picture, a herd of ice-deer frolicking around the group. These he smiles at when he opens his eyes once more, thinking of his youngest daughter. She would have preferred the animated skeleton kind to the ice, of course (those she could play with), but either way she was always enamored of his strange talents.
Then he blinks back to the two who have gathered here, and smiles sheepishly. He considers the assault by snowball an invitation to the game (though he’s much too old to play games, his brain reminds him) but he might have asked before contributing so grandly. “I’m Brennen.” he offers in lieu of anything else to say.