"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
Mistaking hunger for love,
I might make a meal of you and not even notice.
He moves quietly over the meadow grasses just as the moon reaches its highest point in the sky. Lately he had preferred this time of night. A different kind of silence falls over the land as every other creature draws its sleeping breath, interrupted only by an occasional breeze that rattles leaves nearby. His eyes drift across the others who either can't find sleep or simply come here to avoid it catching up with them. Vulgaris wonders why they come here or why their dreams terrify them enough to chase them away. Do they dream of sounds, pain, and then red as he does?
Are they alone like he is?
His tongue runs across each pointed tooth as he loses himself to his thoughts once again. Still, his body continues on without him. The scaled legs move a bit slower with each step as he drifts closer to the center of the meadow. He stands out here, nearly white in a sea of browns and greens. The scales along his shoulders, hips, and cheeks are still a bit darker but he knows they will match the rest of him soon enough.
Vulgaris sighs slowly as he finally dismisses his endless questions and worries in favor of studying his surroundings. Now, alone with just this eerie silence, he wonders where Shiya is. Normally they gravitated toward one another for whatever reason but he had yet to even find her scent on the winds. It makes his heart sick and his stomach churn at the idea that she might not be around but he doesn't dare entertain the thought for more than a moment.
He swallows hard and tries to focus on only his surroundings.
Vulgaris
I am a bed of coals and your mouth
sets fire to parts of me I forgot I could feel.
“You’re far too fucking somber for my taste,” I hiss from somewhere down below Vulgaris, caught somewhere between a copperhead and a tarantula. Eight legs is a lot to keep track of; eight eyes even more frustrating. I skitter forward, bumping my scaled side against his hoof, whipping my long tail in annoyance and disappearing back into the tall grasses. I will have to find someone to take on my at-times-unpredictable shifting. It is something I have grown accustomed to over the years but had not considered that although my body has still not completed its regeneration, it is eager to betray me and shift into random shapes. I blink, separate images merging to one, the grasses shrinking around me, dark limbs stretching out below me. “That’s better.”
Shifting, I turn to face the stranger, piebald stallion once again. I study the scaled fellow for a moment or two before settling down to graze. The moon is bright, it’s pale rays skittering across my dulled flesh, catching on the thick pink scars hung across my shoulders before sliding on, shining through the holes that still remain in my pieced together body. The silence is nearly deafening, save for the steady grinding of sustenance between my teeth. I spare Vulgaris another sideways glance. “Who’s Shiya?’ I ask rather bluntly, mouth still full.
It has been a long time since I felt that gut-wrenching pang of absence. The first time I ever experienced it Infection's bastard children had destroyed my mother. Somehow the self-important creature had survived the attack but, despite my seemingly limitless powers, the past has always been a bit difficult to piece together and I will never understand why the bloody-shouldered Queen had succumbed. Thoughtfully, I pause. "Why are you here, Vulgaris?"
08-17-2015, 05:11 PM (This post was last modified: 08-17-2015, 07:15 PM by vulgaris.)
Mistaking hunger for love,
I might make a meal of you and not even notice.
He's jolted from his peaceful little world of quiet and thoughts when he hears a voice near him - much too near him. Vulgaris feels the thing bump into his hoof just before he staggers back in confusion while he tries to see the confused mess of scales and legs beneath him. Vulgaris has seen monsters galore, but shapeshifting is a new concept to him entirely. His bright green eyes are narrowed in confusion and a lingering sense of shock as the mess disappears somewhere into the grasses only to emerge as another horse. Tonight, he has learned that he does not like shapeshifting.
He must look ridiculous with his mouth hanging slack while words all cluster at the back of his throat and fight for a chance to be said first. His gaze finds all the fresh little scars and unsettling holes freckling the other's body, only worsening his state of confusion at this point. Not only is the stranger a shapeshifter, but he appears to be undead as well? His father had mentioned something about being undead at some point but, being a young know-it-all at the time, Vulgaris had ignored his words in favor of whatever interested him at the time.
His pointed teeth all finally meet again as his mouth closes upon hearing his sister's name. Had he said her name aloud? His eyes squint suspiciously as he maintains his silence for a few seconds more. "No one," he says once he's decided not to trust this stranger. Still, he thinks of her face, a mirror to his own. Her scales and teeth are somehow softer on the eye than his, somehow perfect where he is jagged and cold.
Then there is another question and he realizes he hasn't even got an answer to hide from this stranger. He shifts his weight before realizing Set had used his name, making him meet his eyes suddenly with an expression of minor offense worn across his face.
"I don't know that I want to answer anymore questions until you at least give me your name," he says with a light snort. He's always been too serious. Larva would have only laughed and played this game for as long as Set had entertained it. Amusement has never come to Vulgaris quite so easily. Then again, he's never really tried to relax his shoulders and enjoy himself. Perhaps, perhaps he can forget his worries for just a moment with such a curious acquaintance now.
Vulgaris
I am a bed of coals and your mouth
sets fire to parts of me I forgot I could feel.
08-18-2015, 01:12 AM (This post was last modified: 02-02-2016, 08:17 PM by Channary.)
death seems better than the migraine in my head
When one is blind, you don’t exactly care whether or not it is night or day. There are subtle differences between them but Channary doesn’t really prefer one or the other. Daytime means that there are more horses out and about to bother her; nighttime means that one is more likely to stumble across someone with darkness in their hearts (like baby Channary on that night that seems so long ago now, though at the same time she can remember every excruciating moment like it happened just yesterday). Nighttime brings out the creeps. Or just horses like Channary.
Does she have darkness in her heart? Probably more than she cares to admit. She had been a sweet child until Flamevein had decided to burn out her eyes, and it has left her with a mean streak a mile wide. Some days she remembers the months of agony and the infections that nearly killed her and she knows that she is not a kind soul anymore, and it doesn’t particularly bother her. Someone else deserves to feel the pain that she was put through; everyone deserves to feel that pain.
The burns healed slowly, as do all terrible injuries, and she wants them all to know what she felt. She’ll never be beautiful because of the scars on her face; she’ll never take a lover because they’ll not be able to get past the hideous scarring that angles from her eyes to her cheekbones, nearly to her neck. If her eyes were still in their sockets, the pink flesh would make them look as if they were still on fire. Once, she had had the chance to become at least pretty, but the pyrokinetic stallion had torn away any chance for her to grow up beautifully.
She doesn’t want pity, though. She’s understood for a long time that she’ll never be beautiful and she doesn’t mind.
She doesn’t need beauty to be powerful.
The sound of a deep, resonating voice reaches her ears and the buckskin pauses, ears pricked in the direction the voice came from. Usually there is not this much conversation this late at night and she cannot help but be curious. She makes no effort to be quiet as she approaches (she already stumbles and shit because of the whole sightless-ness thing, why bother trying to hide?) and misses most of the reply by the other stallion. If only she could actually see them; their stark differences from normal horses would send most running. The patchy piebald just looks sinister, and then there’s the snake-stallion with scales and pointed teeth. With her burn scars, perhaps she fits right in.
“Are names truly that important to you, dear boy?” she asks dryly as she approaches, managing to stop her clumsy hooves before she intrudes on either of the stallions’ personal space (and without tripping over air, for once). “Names are powerful tools,” she continues, head pointedly not swinging between the two. “But clearly he already knows yours, which means that he probably knows mine already as well. I’m Channary.”
The different. They’ve always intrigued him. The shifters, the magicians, the equus this and that. His father was a nobody who fought his way to the top to become a somebody. A legend perhaps only in Chamber-lore, but a legend nonetheless. Mother, now … He cannot remember a time when he was unnerved by those who could read minds and wield powers beyond his imagination. Surely there was such a time, as Set was not magic-borne but rather earned his particular skills with his own blood and flesh, but time has a way of erasing unimportant memories. Mother, she despised traits and powers, looked on them as weaknesses, crutches. Perhaps the only aspect in life the two had disagreed on.
Vulgaris squints at Set, denying his sister’s existences even as her face flits across Set’s mind’s eye. The piebald grins around a mouthful of grass, chewing and finally swallowing with a low, mocking snot. The serpent-stallion’s expression screws up in well-deserved consternation, seemingly offended by the prying, and Set coughs dryly, bone white teeth suddenly bared in a hyena’s ricocheting laughter. Before he can reply, though, another joins him.
He does not greet her. She will not miss his breach in etiquette. A thirst for power hums within the terrible little creature, her soft buckskin coat in stark contrast to her off-putting façade. Missing eyes, radiating scars – her sightless eyes bespeak of a terrible violence. He watches Vulgaris closely as he turns to look at her, weighing the other’s reaction against what he feels it should be; arrogant through and through. Finally, he shits only just, subtly including the younger mare in their clandestine meeting here, in the meadow. Her bluntness brings a low appreciative laughter bubbling up in his throat. It spills out amongst the three before spreading, the sound drawn tightly around them before dissipating into the cool, night air.
“For one unable to see, you’re fairly observant.” She’s an unattractive little thing, made even more evident by her self-carriage and measure of self-worth, but those are things easily changed. Her tongue is sharp, her wit insurmountable. A worthwhile trinket … perhaps more? Slowly he feeds her sensory from her surroundings, painting a picture of what she would see had – Flamevein, was it? – not left her with two empty sockets. “I am Set,” he says simply, shoulders rolling in feigned nonchalance.
Mistaking hunger for love,
I might make a meal of you and not even notice.
He has learned not to trust the night or the things that it brings with it anymore. To him, night is when all the most awful things happen and monsters leave their masterpieces to be discovered in the morning sun. Vulgaris had been born perfect despite his father's affliction but the witching hour had made certain that he would awake to find himself an abomination. Now, he refuses to sleep in the dark unless exhaustion has finally taken hold of him and dragged him off to his nightmares or, less frequently, dreams.
But he does not think of these things even as the eyeless girl wanders into their conversation to make them a trio of various atrocities. His slit pupils flick to stare in her direction as she speaks and he can't help but allow his lip to curl like a dog baring its teeth at a perceived threat. What little light is available catches on the slick skin of her scar tissue, though, and he eases his expression back to one of general dislike. There is neither disgust nor pity evident in his stare and even Set's prying mind will find no such thing within him.
(For a moment, the reptile brain thinks of how vulnerable she may be. Hunger briefly stirs in his belly before he chokes it back. Things are not always what they seem.)
"Should the blind really use the word 'clearly'?" he asks as he brushes her own question aside. It seems that he is not in the mood to answer much of anything in his current state as he gives a light snort. But then the stranger gives up his name at last, drawing the serpent's attention once more as he examines him briefly. The name is unfamiliar and so he remembers it for future use.
"Well, Set and Channary, I suppose I am here because it's more appealing than anything else."
More appealing than sleep, he means.
More appealing than vulnerability.
"And what about you?" he asks as his face begins to show sincere interest rather than generalized aggravation. He's no summer fire, but he's warming up to the idea of company little by little.
Vulgaris
I am a bed of coals and your mouth
sets fire to parts of me I forgot I could feel.
09-13-2015, 09:41 PM (This post was last modified: 02-02-2016, 08:18 PM by Channary.)
death seems better than the migraine in my head
Channary has power. She hasn’t yet learned how to master it, but it is there, dwelling deep beneath her surface. It is a peculiar thing, her ability, and though she cannot see it in action she knows that it can become a force to be reckoned with if she takes the time to practice. She may not be knowledgeable about what it actually is—damn that wretched Flamevein—but she will learn to harness it and maybe one day, she will use it to punish him. She will peel the eyes from his face and drown his flames by sheer force of will.
Sandstorms will tear him apart.
She is not helpless and she is not vulnerable. She has learned ways to protect herself that do not involve the use of her eyes. Like all who have lost a sense before, her other senses have adapted and changed to make up for the loss. She can hear more clearly than most and feel the slightly vibrations in the ground when someone is near. She is not likely to be caught unawares, no matter what the others (Vulgaris) think. She is not worthless and she is the furthest thing from helpless. Just try her, you’ll find out.
The first voice she had heard is the first to speak, moving minutely to include her presence in their tiny gathering. “I’ve learned to adjust,” she responds curtly. Then, suddenly—terribly—she feels magic flowing through her and a picture is painted before her (lack of) eyes. She cannot help but silently panic; she has grown so used to the darkness that seeing again is a terrible thing. She would blink to destroy the image but she has no eyelids and the image is purely a mental one. She doesn’t let her nervousness show, but all the same she turns her head in the direction of the one feeding her the images. “In my years I’ve grown quite comfortable without my eyes, as much as you are comfortable with your sight,” she tells him, trying not to tremble. It’s discomfort as well as panic that is flooding her and she knows that he will be able to sense it. “If you could cut that out, I’d be grateful.”
Oh, she knows the name Set. Perhaps they all do; stories of the cruel magician have travelled all across Beqanna and Channary is not exactly one to ignore the gossip. He was a powerful King until his kingdom kicked him from his throne and his family started an alliance that stretch over half of the kingdoms of Beqanna. Well before Channary’s—or Channary’s mother’s—time, but they still talk about the Blood Alliance. Perhaps the immortals need to stop telling the stories and stop living in the past; the present is what’s important, not the faults of many years ago.
Vulgaris’ comment would have had her rolling her eyes if she had any (she knows, you’re all sick of the eye puns; too bad). “Aren’t you clever?” she responds dryly, glancing (Christ this is strange) in his direction. The scales and such aren’t really as off-putting as they probably should be, but probably because Channary has seen Hell itself and survived… or some cliché wordy bullshit like that. “Make fun of the girl who doesn’t have any eyes. Did you have any friends growing up?”
Yeah, she’s that bitch.
Why is she here? Why not? There’s never anything fun happening anywhere and maybe Channary wants to stir up some trouble. “I don’t know why I’m here, Vulgaris,” she says, wishing again for blackness to sweep across her eyes once more. “I just go where the sands push me.”
After a pause: “It’s too quiet in Beqanna. Maybe that’s why I’m where I am right now.”
Set
