"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
FAMILIAR BREATH OF MY OLD LIES CHANGED THE COLOR IN MY EYES
In quick succession they arrive, many of their faces are familiar to her. Only a few strangers are among them, which is so very nice. She warms as Kronk finds the meeting, Wichita was grateful beyond expression for all he had done. Kronk was a good apple. Loyal, devoted, and he possessed far more courage than Wichita could ever dream of having herself.
One of their number is recently returned- a former Queen, Camelia. Wichita offers her a soft smile, noting her growing belly. At least the Gates would never lack for children, and certainly not on her behalf.
Sidra joins them, sending rocks to Wichita's throat. The girl's Mother was one of her dearest friends, and she was so very sorry for the loss. It did not matter that Fiasko had gone of her own free will. They could all be assured there was not a choice given in the matter, not really.
As the meeting comes to a start, she takes to listening in silence while watching Rucker. He gives Tioga a nicker or it is very close to one, and in return she dips her head to nuzzle his neck. He is bold and thoughtful walking up to the older males, pressing a tiny whiskered mouth against them. Wichita can only smile with apologies in regards to any interruptions he might cause.
When Gaza joins the group she noticeably starts. If she were a human, she would be as red as a tomato-standing there in embarrassment. She had not been expecting to see him ever again. Not one of her children's Fathers had shown them any particular interest. That's just how it was, and Wichita had decided to accept that fact, since over the years nothing had changed.
The little mare had just determined that the emptiness she felt, could be filled with the love of her children. She would not have ever dreamed to see the black stallion here, at the Kingdom meeting, what did that mean?
She forgets herself, doesn't realize how long and hard she has been staring in disbelief. The life inside her stirs, only adding to her humiliation. There she was, surrounded by her flock, and pregnant yet again. She was looking like a right hussy, and there was nothing she could do to fix it.
10-27-2015, 09:16 PM (This post was last modified: 11-03-2015, 01:58 AM by Voudou.)
She heard the calls, both of them. Voudou paced back and forth, keeping her distance for now. How could she really be expected to join the meeting if Mast didn't even know she was back? Then again, if he were to later find out she had been lurking and avoided the meeting altogether things could be worse. Eventually she stopped and simply stared in the direction she should be headed, the Mother Tree, that beautiful plant that seemed to hold all the life and spirit of the entire territory. A snort and an eye roll later the black vixen finally moved off with a grumpy, stiff walk that had her feet landing heavy and firm against the ground.
Because of her indecisivness Voudou was late, and it appeared that her once small herd had grown quite a bit. Her eyes scanned, looking for familiar faces of any sort. Sidra, Mast... that silver mare with the weird accent. What was her name again? Something that started with W, didn't matter too much. What really surprised the cold mare was the seemingly endless flurry of children (or younger horses at least). Where did all these brats come from anyway?
Her legs pulled her forward and the fae planted herself just outside the group, hoping to go unnoticed by most. Of course, she hadn't heard anything anyone had said at this point, but she also didn't care as she wasn't planning on contributing.
the ghost of a girl that i want to be mostthe shell of a girl i used to know well
Camelia watches with a quiet stare. She’s always had a keenness for noticing the small things (the crooked smile in the bark of the tree, the happy twitter of a bird to symbolize the approach of spring, a shift in movement to express unease). Perhaps it’s a trait established in her from her parents – from her father pulling her into his warm chest and teaching her lessons or from her mother kissing her cheek and murmuring the faery song. Whatever the root of the personality trait, Camelia notes the lines of Fiasko in Sidra’s face.
The dunskin’s hooves itch to greet the girl (her niece of sorts, although Fiasko is only her adopted sister) and learn more about her, but she resists the urge. The look of urgent need for answers is carved into every face and sewn among the exhale of their breaths. So instead she turns her gentle eyes toward the other two newcomers and her heart aches for all she has missed while she was gone. But her steely determination (perhaps renewed from her childhood by her return) flames within Camelia’s chest like a brazen fire. She will learn each Gates member’s name and their life – make them her friends, turn them from strangers into comrades.
Camelia doesn’t go without noticing Wichita’s intense staring at the black stallion. A butterfly smile briefly dances over the once-queen’s lips, but it quickly fades. She can’t say she’s ever had the displeasure of coming across a previous one-night’s stand; Mast has been the only man she has ever been with intimately. Her heart flutters and she turns her gaze toward Mast.
His questions pose an interesting (yet dangerous) situation for the Gates and Camelia wonders what they will end up doing. She knows her own critique is of little value, with her absence, and so she keeps her lips smoothly closed. However, she knows Mast has a huge amount of pressure and weight on his shoulders – ultimately, the decision of the Gates would be left up to him, after the votes of the other members – and she knows it cannot be easy.
Whatever they choose to do, Camelia knows the Gates will rise from the ashes.
They always have.
Camelia shifts to consolingly press her shoulder against Mast’s, verifying she is here for him. She doesn’t say anything just yet, but rather listens with the well-practiced thoughtfulness a trained princess and once-queen always carries with her.
He is still as the meeting continues, his body tense and ever ready for the fight. It would be clear, even to the untrained eye, that he was a soldier—a fighter, a warrior. He had been born into it and readied for it from the first breath. Both his parents had been monarchs of allied kingdoms—one of which was the kingdom that was the wolf and their doorstep. Unfortunately, he had once been Lord of that same kingdom. Of course, he was not deceptive of his time spent at the Chamber, nor his ties there, but that did not mean that he brought it up often. It was history now. In the past. Minus his panther-father roaming through the mountains, there was little reason for him to be tied to the kingdom of fog and pine.
So he says nothing, his mouth a grim slash across his handsome (if not scarred) features as he listens to their King, taking the time to meet the gaze of each new horse to join the group and nodding his head at them. Kingdom manners were yet another thing that had been trained in him. When the group becomes mostly silent, he turns his attention to Mast, finding himself grateful that Heaven had a good King at the helm. He had seen what it was like when the kingdom fell under the rule of an undeserving leader.
“My visit to the Amazons was not as fruitful as we all would like,” he says, his voice deep and husky. “I do not think they view an alliance with us as…beneficial to their kingdom.” It is hard for him to begrudge Lagertha that. It was hard enough to rule a kingdom, and not every decision could be made for the good of others. She had to put the sisterhood first and foremost. He understood, even if it had stung. He looks to Mast. “You can journey there, and I would be happy to accompany you, but I don’t think even a visit from the King will do much to change their mind. The sisterhood is not one to be easily swayed.”
He glances to Kronk. “I hope your diplomatic mission fared better than mine.”
Magnus is silent for a second, thinking, “If I am to speak bluntly,” he addresses the group of them, “we do not currently have much to offer in terms of an alliance. We are asking kingdoms to form an alliance with us based on their good graces—and, perhaps, their pity.” His expression sours on this word. “So perhaps focusing on building up our alliances is not the best use of our time. Instead, perhaps, we focus on building up internally. Adding good soldiers. Training our diplomats. To successfully do that though, we need a purpose, a clear one. What makes Heaven’s Gates different from the other kingdoms?”
He pauses to look at them before continuing on. “To me, it’s a haven. A safe place. We are where the battered and the bruised and the weary can come to rest their head. So perhaps the greatest card to play would be the honest one. We open our borders to those individuals and let them know they can find rest here. There is no judgment. We do not turn away. We protect the tired with our soldiers and we fight on their behalf. If someone comes to us weak, we negotiate with the Falls for access to their healing waters—even if it means one of us serves a sentence in their kingdom. If someone comes to us the victim of abuse, our soldiers fight for them on the challenge grounds. We care for them when they are here.”
His eyes are bright, “We carve out a name for ourselves. People will come to a kingdom with purpose more easily than they will come to a kingdom that has nothing to offer—and when people come, we will become stronger. And when we are strong, we can stand against the Chamber and give the other kingdoms not only a reason to stand with us, but the belief that we can prevail.” He takes a deep breath, feeling the truth of it sing through his veins. “Thank you for the gift of wings, Mast. I promise to follow where you lead.”
Kronk accepted his king’s gift with an honored, reverent silence. He nodded solemnly, even as the feeling of unworthiness washed over him. He had done very little to deserve those wings, and what he had tried to accomplish had yet to prove fruitful. Still, he would accept them, and he would spend his time endeavoring to deserve them.
He listened to Mast, and then to Magnus, as the others gathered. They were, it appeared, stuck between a rock and a hard place. Kronk knew how he wanted to proceed, but it would appear they would need to be patient. They would need to bide their time. Finally, Kronk spoke, wishing he had something more concrete to add.
“I’m sorry to say I have to disappoint you, Magnus. My visit to the Falls went about as well as you would expect. They told me to come back when we had the Deserts, Amazons or Dale pledged to our cause.” Kronk smiled wryly for a moment. It was not the worst thing they could have told him. They couldn’t have told him to go away and never come back.
“The Amazons have made their decision, so it would appear that list has been shortened to the Deserts or the Dale.” Kronk considered again, trying to piece together snatches of diplomacy and of tact that floated in and out of his mind.
“I agree with Magnus, we need to build from within, and we should do so with the idea of making the Gate’s a haven. That being said, Tiberios is not going to easily give us access to the Falls’ healing waters. We would need to make a trade.” Kronk considered for a moment. Perhaps sending someone to serve in the Falls would be sufficient. However, did they have anyone to spare? He shook his head.
“We’re exposed without allies. But, perhaps this isn’t a chicken or egg situation. We could build from within while continuing to look for support.” Their kingdom was growing, slowly and surely, but growing. They needed to recruit and then they needed to train those recruits. After a pause, Kronk looked to Mast, a solider waiting for orders.
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