"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
There was only so much sulking that could be done in one place, and Taiga had seen more than her fair share of Breckin’s brooding. It was time to take her latest dismal talents elsewhere for a time, and give the fog riddled land a well-earned rest. It was the least she could do for her makeshift home, the flora and fauna had listened to her when there had been no one else - something to confide in when the worries and questions threatened to reclaim her in its darkness. A reprieve was only a small kindness for what was deserved, but it was all she could offer.
Following the swoops and lulls of the increasingly dramatic bends along the way, the river guided her south. Though the water’s path continued past the foothills, she did not, diverting her path deeper into the thickets of wood until she was certain she was beyond speculation and the voices of friendly exchange.
New scenery for the exact same sulking. Perfect.
For a time the thin leopard mare manages to temper the thoughts with mindless ambling, trailing her nose over the stale autumn and young spring litter along an overgrown deer path. Burs clung to her ruddy mane and the pine boughs bent to allow her by, all the while anxiety chiseled slowly, methodically to release her caged worries. To the observer, the breakthrough is insignificant, and the speckled woman does nothing more than stop moving. But the clench of her heart and wave of grief that accompanies it overtakes her, making it feel as though the world broke to dust and crumbled underneath her.
In spite of the tension that settled like a mantle across her shoulders, she noticed the shift in shadows and the cry of unsettled birds fleeing their perches within a stone’s toss of where she stood. “You might as well come closer,” she sang stoically, her head rising to glance past the treeline through hooded eyes, “I don’t have the energy to keep you from satisfying your righteous curiosity.”
01-22-2020, 04:31 PM (This post was last modified: 01-22-2020, 04:31 PM by Aodhan.)
Aodhán
There was a mental net he found himself entangled in; how could he possibly choose one over another? He could not even decide on a land to live, not truly. He loved the Pampas and Ischia both, and sometimes he wondered if he hadn’t stayed with Noah out of sheer stubbornness and later, protectiveness for the sort of peace and quiet she had created.
The water provides an easy break. Instead of north, the lone white dolphin swims towards the other side of the Pampas, to the forest and riverlands. He doesn’t seem to be thinking a lot, or maybe it is too much so that he doesn’t take note of where he goes; it doesn’t matter to him in the moment as he weighs the pros and cons and doesn’t see his solution just yet.
But after such a time in the silence of the deeper water and the un-frequented river, he decides he can just enjoy the distraction of walking and meeting someone - or meeting critters, it’s not that important. The dolphin peeks out of the water, and upon spotting movement deeper into the forest, slides onto the shore. A quick second glance reveals a horse-like shape, so that’s the shape he takes as well - fully white save for the metallic golden spots and emerald green eyes; his conformation baroque, though not purebred. The stallion is in the prime of his life for an ordinary wild horse - but he will never deteriorate, since he can alter his form.
The horse already moved deeper into the forest, and he breaks into a light trot. Even if he can’t find them again, he thinks, he might still see something of the spring coming back to the lands.
He must be in luck - the mare before him has light coloration, a misty-wooden smell and most of all, does not move very fast. When he slows down because he nears her, she finally seems to notice his presence - but it’s her voice and then her face, that truly makes him come to a standstill.
The reserves of her patience were becoming dangerously close to depletion, teetering between the point of annoying irritability and outright infuriation. Whoever they were, they were taking much too long for her taste, each second slipping by with as much pain as a sharp stone stuck in the hoof - worsening with every step that was taken. Part of her had half a mind to sigh and about-face, only allowing them the pleasure of a glimpse of her lovely white arse as she made off with what little was left of her sanity. But just as she had chastised her cloaked admirer for their curiosity, it was her own that kept her planted where she stood waiting.
A cautious Mom? comes from the side, and the lovely, indifferent gaze she once held is dropped in favor of a scowl etched terribly with contempt. Her? A mother? She wastes little time in turning towards him, spanning the distance to where he stood within a few long strides. The leopard mare spares quick lookover, noting his golden spots and eyes bright as bright as spring, but no recognition stirs within her, and she huffs softly as she settles disappointedly in front of him.
“I’m not from around here,” the ragged mare says finally. Not a lie, but not the truth either. Aside from Arthas, there were none she trusted well enough to go against what he had told her - it was all she had, the only thing she had, and she’d not lose that trust yet. “My name is Roz,” Breckin’s dark eyes are cool and distant when they rise to catch his again, “And I am no mother.”
If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, quacks like a duck… but she sounds weird, doesn’t quack like the same duck. It is her voice, he is certain, just as he knows her scent. How could one forget their mother’s scent? But she… she doesn’t know his. How does one forget her son’s scent?
He shrinks before her eyes; literally. She is so cold, so distant, and she doesn’t recognize him, that it almost affects him instantly. Both subconsciously and consciously, his shape is altered to what it once was. Younger, smaller, his voice pitched a bit higher - a 6 month old colt, staring at his mother-with-a-different-name with uncertain, hurtful, wide eyes: trying to appeal to her still, trying to understand what happened, and why she doesn’t want to be his mother any more. ”You left us with dad when I was this small. He said you needed space and I believed it. Maybe he did too? Where you Roz back then too? Have you seen Oisín and Eurwen? Or Ilan?”
But his questions are hopeless attempts; if she can’t remember him, nor his siblings or his dad, then all of this is futile and he will not get any answers. The spotted knabstrup hybrid bites his lower lip, seeing that his questions are not helping him in the slightest; stepping back a little to stay out of her reach as if she’s not the one he knows, as if she is indeed a stranger who is about to attack him (at this point nothing is certain) he tries something else. ”Where’d you get Breckins shells and feathers… Roz, you said? Did you… did you kill my mother?” As if he now believes she got possessed, or maybe this is an evil twin of his mothers’, who’d taken her trinkets from her. It’s not right, but maybe, just maybe, if she is the same person as she was before, then deep down she will feel guilty for leaving? Mother always was so kind and caring, maybe some of it is left? Could she not feel guilty or sorry for lying to his face about not being his mother? For being this… Roz person in her stead?
And what if she is an evil twin? What can he do then?
Watching with a fixed gaze, there’s little emotion passed behind her dark eyes as he phases down into a younger version of himself; in the absence of all else - curiosity would always remain to withstand. And that was what bound her there as he prattled the names - Oisin, Eurwen, Ilan - that bring no spark of recollection. He keeps going, and she listens, lending a pirouetting pale ear forward and back, stepping closer yet took look down her ruddy nose as if to size him up. There’s a moment when she wants to stop him, hold him to a pause to ask the name of the father he spoke of and the name that he himself went by. But what would that do to her? Where would that drive her to? She already had three names too many, three names that some part of her would clutch to.
There was a risk to that, she reminds herself in warning - a risk to asking questions and finding answers that she knew would tip the balance and she was unprepared for that yet. Arthas was - for now - still the priority. Not herself.
“I am no mother,” she reiterates, slower than the last time, making it a point to draw the attention of his tortured green eyes in the emptiness of her own when she answers the first cluster of questions. “As for the trinkets,” she begins while taking a stride backward, well-practiced and confident in this instance if this scenario were to arise - for once the withering leopard mare had been prepared. “Did your mother ever tell you where she came from? The lands outside of Beqanna are vast. Did you not think it possible that she might come from a place where we share similar attributes and accolades?”
There is little he understands about this mare before him, and less so with each word she speaks. Through his earlier rambling, he had not noticed any of her facial micro-expressions, and her words land harder than she probably uttered them in the first place. I am no mother.
He stares, hardly registering most of what comes next. His earlier, defiant statements brought from her naught but more denial. She uses reasoning which he knows somewhere, somehow, to be flawed, to be wrong - but the logic of her statements and the belief with which she brings them, bring forth a wave of immobilizing fear as cold as the waters that surround his birth home. And it is that wave that drowns the fire inside him for a moment. He shakes his head - they’re Nerinian trinkets, at least that’s what he'd always thought - but he can’t be sure. She had never told him where she was from, and he’d never asked. His father had told some stories of his youth - perhaps as a bit of a warning not to be as stupid as he, but still - but he doesn’t remember his mother doing that. She never told of her youth, or where she came from, be that Beqanna or elsewhere.
In the moment, he doesn’t come to the conclusion that she might not have remembered; but right now all he can do is shrink and shake his head. He feels tiny beneath her gaze. She might not be Breckin after all, might not be a mother like she says. How could any mother be so cold, so distant?
He tries to hope for something - her scent is similar, if not the same. ”You’re certain you don’t have a twin sister?” he pipes up - but the look in her eye is enough.
It’s hopeless, whatever this is. His mother is not present.
