"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
05-18-2020, 08:50 PM (This post was last modified: 05-19-2020, 07:42 AM by Brujeria.)
Poised. Careful. Bru takes a deep, calming breath as she steps forward carefully, delicately. Empty black eyes gaze over the landscape before her. Small groups of horses graze politely together, heads shaking and tails flicking carelessly. Bru does not join them, she merely watches. A heavy sigh rolls through her as she skirts the edges of the meadow, slinking through the bespeckled shadows cast on the grass by a nearby grove of trees. Where the sun hits her, her shiny golden coat glistens softly, muted pink locks dancing softly with her movement.
She feels aged, weary, watching these other equines socialize as though they’ve known each other for ages. ”Maybe they do. You should not assume.” Brujeria scolds herself aloud, tossing her heavy head, disturbing several of the spiders that call her antlers home. Another sigh. She always sighs, she’s always exasperated- or tired- or both. Finally, she steps out of the shadows and into the sunlight, the water at the center of the clearing calling her name with a soft babble.
Bru has always loved water, she feels almost at home with the soft roar of the waterfall building as she nears, looking at it almost in awe. A dry tongue runs over her lips, parched. She had spent enough time lurking in the shadows deciding if anyone was a threat. Thirst was a great motivator, long, floating strides carrying her relatively short build across the grass. Her pace was a brisk walk as she passes other horses, making deliberate eye contact with each one that lifted their head to survey her. To say that some were unnerved by her voids of eyes would be accurate. Some moved away from her and ushered their foals to do the same, others merely looked away quickly. Bru was no stranger to this negative attention. Delicate, petite, graceful from a distance, but those lifeless eyes of hers always seemed to push others away.
Sweet, sweet water. She takes sip after sip, wetting her whistle and settling that dry ache in her throat. After she feels sated, she walks into the water, knee-deep. Looking down, she inspects her reflection. Golden body? Check. White stockings and a bald face? Check. Soft pink hair decorated with an assortment of twigs, leaves, feathers, and whatever else she could get to stay? Check. And of course, those almost comically large pink antlers sitting atop her head, spiderwebs holding droplets of water to dance in the sunlight and green moss slouching over the curves of her protrusions. Witchy? Earthy? Both? She almost wished she knew how others perceived her.
OOC: I'm rusty, bear with me! Tips, pointers, and suggestions appreciated!
I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
The sea calls him to him, and yet Ivar stands on the bank of a shallow creek, sipping the cold water as though it is of only mild appeal. Were the creek deeper, the desire to submerge himself would be stronger, but he has made his way up from the River (and before that the Sea) with a single-minded purpose.
Stealing the Ischia Dane’s children has given him courage.
Or perhaps it had simply started the always inevitable countdown until he was finally caught and punished for his crimes.
Ivar does not look guilty, standing in the new spring grass. In fact, he looks quite normal, at least by Beqanna standards. His coloring is eye-catching, sapphire blue and mother-of-pearl instead of tobiano, lines of gold like the Ischian sand dividing the color. He has no wings or horns or scales, and the sharp teeth that line his entire jaw are hidden by an ineffective equine mouth. With his head lowered to drink, the stallion’s still-wet mane hangs across his face. He has been drinking slowly, lazily even, but the moment that someone steps into the water upstream, he grows quite still.
The kelpie lifts his head, peering with one half-covered golden eye at the distant mare. He can see little of her from this distance, but he doesn’t need to. He wades into the water without thinking, and the horsehair of his hide ripples and transforms, and by the time he reaches the palomino he is scaled, and the limiting lips of a horse have pulled back to reveal instead a wide and crocodilian-toothed mouth. And yet despite that (or perhaps because of it?) Ivar is still impossibly handsome. His kind have been luring innocents for years, and it is all too clear how they do so.
His golden eyes trace the tines of her pink antlers curiously. Isobell would love those, he decides. She’d fawned over the amethyst horn he’d brought her from that feisty chestnut for days; surely a matched set of pink antlers will make up for whatever wrongs he might commit this week. Having followed the antlers from tip to base, Ivar now meets the stranger’s eyes with a slow smile that reveals even more of his many teeth. He’s taken just a little too long to greet her, perhaps just long enough to make her uncomfortable, but that is his forte.
“Do you like the spiders?” He asks, his voice a low rumble that matches the humor in his bright eyes, “Or are you just not able to shoo them away?”
@[Brujeria]
and i'll use you as a warning sign that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
The flash of gold catches her eye from the shadows, sun on yellow skin bright as flowers floating in the pool. Its shade matches her own, were she not wrapped duskily in darkness stolen from the surrounding trees. Beryl has been lurking in the common lands so long that she has almost forgotten her anger, though the odd breath of dragon smoke floating by on the wind can cause her stomach to twist and leap into her breast. She has not forgotten the dream world that the painted mare dropped her into, the blankness that she alone had filled with light and shadow and blood, and the memory of of the destruction she had created - that she had wanted - has kept her distant and wary of returning to the Isle. Has a year and a half passed so quickly? She can still feel the pulsing of the black dragon's muscles, bucking underneath her paws, the way the smoke burned her lungs and eyes, the way he wheeled, blinded by her shadows. The young mare tilts her head to one side, lost in the memory, in the anger and the heat, and though she is still very much in her horse shape, a growl curls softly from her throat.
No, perhaps she has not forgiven the black dragon, after all.
But she has forgiven Leilan for becoming a dragon as well. It had always been his goal (it is not something he discussed with her, but she had been a child, then, and near death so many times.) There is still cold fear in her at the thought of laying eyes on the Isle, burnt and ashen, and she is not sure if she can return to it - not yet - though she knows that the image in her mind's eye is unrealistic. Though she knows that in the year and a half, some growth must have returned, some snow must have fallen...
Voices snap her out of her reverie. The blue and white and gold stallion is beautiful and her curled ears press themselves forward, their delicate tips brushing together into a heart-shape above her head, straining to hear what he says. She is too far to make out anything more than the alluring growl of it, but there is something else to him that troubles her, a needle that sings through her mind and makes the delicate skin around her nostrils tighten. He moves like a hunter, smooth and predatory.
Well.
I'm a predator, too.
Beryl drops the shadows that bend their cool tendrils against her cheek and slips forward, as golden bright as the antlered mare in the pond, the shimmering galaxy on her shoulder a swirl of red and blue and gold. She comes to the edge of the pond where the pair are soaking with a a soft smile - and for all that darkness that she commands, she is still a slip of a girl, still soft and willowy - she smiles and dips her head to drink from the pond before searching again for the invisible paths of their gaze with eyes dark as coffee.
the secret of walking on water is knowing where the rocks lie
Her homeland seems empty nowadays, what with Brazen as the only adult she could really talk to. Although she is in no hurry to get Lilliana back - she started it, so she’d better just sit this one out - she still misses the chestnut mare for their daily conversations; even if it was mostly complaining about their twins’ behaviour.
Her visit to Taiga recently, had also been long overdue. Truthfully, she wonders what makes a good diplomat, what makes a good queen - what makes a good anything, really. Is someone a good guardian for smiling pleasantly at the border, or if they scare people off? What good is a queen who tries to be friends with everyone - but is standing steadfast and not letting people in, just as bad?
Is it good enough of her to just try? She can only hope.
Her trip to the Field, she spends in somewhat of a worry. But as her dark brown, near-black eyes land on the trio - one pink-antlered mare being approached by two others - she figures why the heck not just try and make the best of it. She smiles a little at the sight of their coloring - the new mare with her pink assets, the tobiano being sapphire and gold-rimmed, the palomino with the galaxy markings. She fits right in, what with her rose-golden mane glimmering metallically in the sun, her leopard body spotted with soft pink instead of the red they used to be.
She is soft-spoken, though those that pay her any second mind might notice that she probably won’t budge when pushed too far. ”Welcome to Beqanna,” she offers the mare with a somewhat-knowing smile.
By now, she knows what the new ones look like, after all - taking their first steps into the unknown, they just have that look about them. There’s always some who surprise her, but most of the newcomers to this world, to the main island and it’s kingdoms, they look different from the ones who were born here and simply need a new home.
Her mind is elsewhere, the warm sun baking her body as she tries to get her mind to bring thoughts of her history into focus. All she can conjure are blurred figures and murmured voices of a life in the past. Every so often, Bru ponders over where she may have come from. She vividly remembers the smell of the ocean, and that is all she can clearly recall. Perhaps that is why she always seeks water, it reminds her of what once was. Regardless of how deep the memories may be buried, she knows that seeking the truth will only bring her pain. So she settles for wading knee deep in the water, silently debating to herself on a nap in the warmth.
She does not go unbothered for long. A short time after her internal napping debate, the water begins to ripple, gently at first. A heavy breath leaves her nostrils as her lazy lids begin to lift, black eyes meeting a mouthful of pointed teeth. It would be a lie to say her heart didn't flutter nervously in her chest upon first glance at those chompers. After staring into the mouth of the beast for what felt like forever, she pulls her eyes from his pearly whites and takes in the rest of him. The silence is still between them, almost tense. They seem to look over each other before the scaly beast finally speaks. A reptilian grin lands on his face as he asks about her spiders, earning a snort from the golden mare.
"They live there and I don't wish to bother them, as long as they don't bother me. I'm not for or against them." She rolls her eyes in her head in an attempt to catch view of the spiders, but ultimately cannot and settles for searching for them in her reflection.
“Where are you from, scales?” She then prods the -surprisingly handsome- beast, genuinely curious where an equid like that may hail from. She tilts her head to the side curiously, pink mane bouncing energetically with her every move. She wants to know more about him, as much as she may be offput by his smile.
A brief moment passes between her and the stallion, and she will not take her black eyes off of him. There is an air of danger that hovers around him. And with those teeth? She can only assume predator. Another shiny mare like herself seemed to join them, dipping her head to drink before greeting them with a simple hello. Bru nodded her head, antlers pointed at the other mare, almost defensive. If she’d known she’d get this much attention, she would’ve stayed in the shadows.
Bru grins, sheepishly, at the other two horses near her. They both emanate danger, though she is unsure if it’s rolling off them in waves or it’s her nerves making her interpret them that way. She’s never much liked attention, never been part of a group, never been loved. She always wonders what it may be like, to love or to belong, but she does not let her mind linger on the subject. It saddens her to think about.
Yet another horse works its way over, though Bru feels much more comfortable with this one's approach. Bru herself has never been much of a fighter, more of a flee-er or a talker. The newest addition to their group seems less predatory than the first two, but Bru does not let her guard down. She backs up a step, moving into the shallower water in case a quick escape is necessary. Her almost too skinny body facing the other three. The third welcomes her, and she smiles back, warmly this time. “Thank you.” She says politely. She does not want to tip the scales against her, doesn’t want to step on any toes.
“Bru.” She offers her nickname simply, black eyes moving from face to face. She is anxious to see what happens next.
I V A R i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
When she tells him she does not mind the spiders, Ivar responds by rolling his shoulders in the semblance of a shrug. He does not mind them either, his body language says; he was simply making conversation.
“Ischia,” he responds to the mare’s query about where he is from, encouraged by the curiosity she shows. “My name is Ivar.”
Then something moves at the corner of his vision, another golden mare who has arrived from downwind of them, the sound of her footfalls hidden by the chatter of the stream. Ivar turns to look up at her, his curious eyes lingering on the brightly colored marking. It’s a pity the skins waste away so quickly. They are often more colorful than the bits that he is able to preserve. The palomino comes closer, drinking from the water without fear, and addresses them both with a smile and a hello. A third mare joins them not long afterward, and her spots and the briney scent of the Nerinian sea on her skin are nearly as alluring as the water.
Nearly, but not quite, and so the kelpie remains where he is, the water rippling around his scaled legs. The spotted one welcomes the antlered one to Beqanna, though still the pink-haired mare moves a little farther away before answering with a single word that he assumes must be her name. Crowded by the three of them, he wonders, or just wary by nature? There is silence then, which Ivar breaks just before it grows uncomfortable.
“I am from Ischia,” he repeats, though this time it is said for all of their company and not simply the palomino in the water. “Here to find someone in need of a home. If white sand beaches, endless summers, and a few other mares to keep you company sound at all appealing, perhaps that someone might be you?” The kelpie speaks casually, the offer seeming simple. And it is, because while he doesn’t mention what else might wait for her in Ischia, it’s quite possible nothing does. It will not be a struggle to keep her alive long enough to see if she can bear him kelpie children, not with how disappointing this years crop of foals has been. His better children will eat well, and Bru will be in little danger, tucked away safe in paradise.
His mind wanders as he waits for an answer, and he decides that he will visit Nerine soon. Is it a coincidence that woman is both spotted and from Nerine, or has fate favored him yet again? Might this be another of Breckin’s daughters, he wonders? He had gotten rid of the woman after the two girls she bore him lacked any kelpie attributes, and while the satisfaction of drowning her is one of his favorite memories, he thinks that he would not mind making more with the golden-maned appaloosa.
@[Beryl] @[Eurwen] @[Brujeria]
and i'll use you as a warning sign that if you talk enough sense then you'll lose your mind
05-23-2020, 07:12 PM (This post was last modified: 05-23-2020, 07:19 PM by Beryl.)
Standing at the water’s edge, doubt threatens to creep in, as it always does, but Beryl forces it away with a curious tilt of her head, brown eyes bare of any malicious intent as they take up the gold and pink mare’s gaze. If she had hunted deer more frequently, perhaps she would recognize the defensive antler-shake for what it is, but her study had been almost entirely in hares – prey being scarce on the Isle – until she leapt quite suddenly into hunting dragons. But that was nearly half a lifetime ago.
The scales on the stallion – on Ivar - remind her of her father at first, but they are not at all the same when she sees them better, their shape and their texture made for swift movement through water. She wonders if they are as impenetrable as dragon scales, whether her claws could cut through them if it proved necessary, and she is glad to remember that it would not be necessary to find out, especially with him so deep in the water. She shudders softly and will not follow either of them there, the idea of being so far immersed intolerable.
With no reason to assume his actions anything but wholesome, the girl only frowns softly though the flat teeth in her mouth turn sharp, hidden away where no-one can see. Yellow eyes watch her from every dark place, even from the depths of the pool, but she leaves them to lurk and swirl. As a child she kept those shadows close but she knows now they needn’t be. In a breath, they can have her safe away, in a moment they can pluck Ivar or Bru or the pink Nerinian from where they stand and leave them somewhere else entirely, and the knowledge of it settles the nervousness that makes her milk-white tail flick from side-to-side.
Instead, Beryl stays at the water’s edge and if, for a moment, the shadows of the stiffly rattling reeds seem to reach for her, the phenomenon is gone in a blink, a trick of the light. Though her ears remain fixed on Ivar’s position in the water, the youth turns to look at the spotted mare, dips her head in greeting and side-steps to make a place for this newest arrival. Her dark eyes trace something almost familiar in her shape, but she cannot place it. The intimacy of it itches and distracts from her mounting distrust.
Remembering too late that she has sharpened her teeth, she smiles at the northerner and, in trying to hide those cruel canines, unknowingly mimics Leilan’s oft-worn expression, attempting to minimize their prominence. Deflect! She turns back to the pair in the pond.
“Beryl. Of...” Her voices falters, unsure how to recommend an island full of ash, “Of Nerine.” It’s not really a lie, though she wonders if the Nerinian will call her out on it.
the secret of walking on water is knowing where the rocks lie
The mare in the middle seems to be a little overwhelmed - something that Eurwen can relate to, these days. However much she may be strong enough to carry her worries alone, at least for a while, she feels very much like she doesn’t want to - at least, not for too long, and not by just herself. What is the point of carrying weights and worries, the point of leading and ruling, if she can’t share it with anyone? For that alone, she knows she will never want or crave power, in fact she resents it.
She doesn’t need power to bring changes, to steer the world bit by bit into the direction she might want it to go. The rose-gold maned mare knows how to change - herself and others - and it starts with this; with befriending the right people.
Bru, the palomino-and-pink calles herself, and to this, Wen gives a little nod. It’s not her turn to speak however, the male and female who’d arrived before her - one older, one younger, she notices - doing so first. The male in the water seems very attractive - almost overly so. There is a sense of caution coming to her that she cannot quite place (perhaps the way he looks her over), but then, she isn’t too near him right now, and she decides to pretend she doesn’t notice his mesmerizing looks, in favour of the woman who might indeed be searching for a home.
Eurwen is a patient girl, has always been, and though she blinks once at the mare beside her who claims to be of Nerine - she’s never seen her - she doesn’t otherwise deny her. She smells of the wild, of forests - not Taiga, not Nerine, not the cold and ashen Isle; but perhaps she’d only recently arrived, or kept to the shadows, or - has the same damned wandering-trait her father does. If it wasn’t for the ice that always clings to him, he might smell more of the forest than his home, too, she reckons.
For a while, she wonders why her mind brings up her father, until finally her conscious latches on to what her subconscious tells her - the galaxy-marked palomino - Beryl - has a few mannerisms that she recognizes. Seems that she’ll want to talk to the self-proclaimed Nerinian then; but perhaps not here, and not right now. They’re kind of in the middle of something.
”Ischia is a lovely place, if that’s the thing you’re looking for,” the spotted mare agrees. She’s never been, but her conversation with Loire, who hailed from there, had given her enough insight. It would never be her own home, though. ”I’m Eurwen - from Nerine, as well.” she offers a small smile to both other mares, a knowing look to Beryl, a warmer one for the mare calling herself Bru. ”Much colder than what Ivar has to offer, and perhaps colder than this water right now, as well. But it’s also a more independent nation. Wild winds, sturdy rocks, green moors, and a few beautiful sea-caves near the black sands down below equally-colored cliffs.” Bru didn’t seem to be the type to… how had he put it? A few other mares to keep you company - a herd, then. She didn’t seem a regular herd mare to the spotted Knabstrup hybrid, though looks could sometimes be deceiving. She smiles a little, wondering if she had the right of it or if the male had. ”Some say the women of Nerine are much like the land itself, but I find the likeness more in being free, sometimes rock-stubborn, than to say that we are a cold folk.”
