"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
we all carry these things that no one else can see they hold us down like anchors; they drown us out at sea
What is home?
When he was young, home had been the jungle. He had spent his youth running amongst the vines and the cats, hearing his mother’s jaguar cry and the constant chattering of the, at the time, bustling kingdom. It had been almost like a second womb—so completely protective. He had grown up wild and strong and fearless—sure-footed and built for distance. He could run for hours without becoming winded, finding immense joy in the strength of his young, well-muscled body. There, he had learned that he had a thirst for fighting. More over, he learned that he was damn good at it. A family trait, as it were.
Then he had grown older, and he had found love. Star-crossed love, but love nonetheless. He, the son of the vicious Amazonian Queen and cutthroat Chamber King. She, the dreamy daughter of the Gates ruler. It had been fate and he had followed it—going to live with Joelle under her father Liefde’s rule. It had been uncomfortable, fitting like a shrunken second skin, but he had learned to love the Gates. He loved the sanctuary of it. He loved the peace of it. He loved the genuine goodness of its people.
And he had done his best by it. When Liefde stepped down, he had taken up the mantle as General of the Gate’s army. He had fought and protected the quiet kingdom as Joelle reigned—and when she asked him to rule alongside her, he had accepted. Not because he thought that he should, but because she had wanted him to. It had been wrong, and he knew it, but he had tried. He tried to be the good King that the Gates deserved, but his blood was all wrong for it. He could never be the white knight that Bond was.
So perhaps it was home, but he knew he didn’t deserve it to be—and so he had left. Abruptly.
Then, there had been the Dale and Librette, his sister in arms. He had thrown himself into the work, knowing it was the only thing that would keep his mind off Joelle and their children. He had poured himself into Katana’s army and quickly climbed the ranks there. He had been diplomatic—a good soldier, a good warrior, but not a good King. Certainly not a good partner or father. The Dale had become a sanctuary for him, and he suppose that made it home too, but it had been temporary. So much in his life was temporary. Even death.
He had thought that his watery grave would be his last resting place, but that too could not become his home. He had been spit out, thrust upon the land once more by magic he did not understand, by a bond he did not fully realize. And, once again, he finds himself without a home. But it was not in Magnus’ genetic make-up to languish in the meadow; he was a warrior, a worker, a Kingdom member at heart. Even now, with his memories hazy and his proverbial feet unsteady beneath him, he found himself at the field. For purpose, he supposes, although he knows better than anyone that all he wants is a distraction and work to keep busy.
The field opens up before him, and he sighs, feeling at once grounded in the reality of his mission to find a new Kingdom to serve and unease at the change. But he doesn’t give that away.
Instead, he finds a cool spot under a shaded tree to rest and he waits.
09-11-2015, 01:57 AM (This post was last modified: 09-11-2015, 04:29 PM by Fennick.)
the darkest nights produce the brightest stars
Fennick is not much of a recruiter. He is aware of this, but perseveres anyway. Should evidence come to him that suggests he is doing more harm than good, he will throw in the towel. Luckily, no such evidence had arrived. Still, he is more suited to the spilling of blood and knows it well enough. However, the spilling of blood didn’t result in growth, just destruction and death. It had its own kind of glory, but it wasn’t what the Valley needed.
One day, when his kingdom is stronger, perhaps it will be just the thing. On that day, Fennick will find himself more useful. Though not particularly enthusiastic. Battle was one of the few things he did well, but that didn’t necessarily mean he enjoyed it.
Life was ironic, and a little cruel. But, like recruiting, he persevered. We all do what we have to. He still found it strange, some days, what he decided was necessary. One day he had been a drifter, and the next he had not. Certainly, things had been easier when he was adrift. Yet, for some reason, Fennick would not go back to that life. Though he couldn’t exactly say why, this life suited him rather well.
Unlike recruiting.
The stallion grimaced. The process was difficult, even for those with a silver tongue. Fennick had no such thing, so for him it was harder. Yet, when he saw a likely looking figure he wouldn’t hesitate. That is how he came upon Magnus. It was lucky that Fennick was young, for had he known about his find’s history, he probably wouldn’t have approached. He probably would have held his tongue, and bowed to greater experience. Yet, to his eyes, all he saw was an abled bodied man, a solider type perhaps, who needed something to do. Fennick was confident that he could offer the man something to do, so he only hesitated a moment before he ambled over. Fennick stopped in front of the man, his large black body towering above his lying figure, effectively blocking out the sun.
“Hello.” Fennick said a little tentatively, for he wasn’t that good with words. Bravely, he persevered.
“Pardon me for saying so, but it looks like you could use something to do.” Well it was true. Fennick paused for a moment, briefly wondering if that was the sort of thing you didn’t say to random strangers. In an attempt to soften his blunt words, he continued.
“I’m Fennick.” There, friendly was certainly achieved. Even the most discerning would have to admit that it almost seemed like he knew what he was doing. Keep this up, and he may just make a diplomat out of himself yet. There are still dreams left to be had.
He’s not the only one that could use something to do; Gaza is just bored out of his mind. He’s run out of self amusing things to do. If this is adulthood, and always needing something to do… well it effing sucks. The Desert is too quiet, and it gives him the creeps. All that empty space and sand, and no one to fill it. Well, he supposes they’re out there, somewhere. But the Desert is so vast and wide, it could easily swallow a pony up and spit them back out again, years later, as long as they knew where the water was.
It’s kind of a sobering thought. A driving thought - pushing Gaza out of the Desert and towards companionship.
The Field is growing crowded again, what with the nice weather and birth of children, both wanted and unwanted. The large, glossy black stallion ambles around the milling groups, creeping on others out of the corner of his and just generally being awkward. He’s big, ok? And apparently all of a sudden very self conscious about it. He seeks something he doesn’t know they need - something (or someone) Gaza doesn’t even know that he needs.
The dark stallion may look like his sire, but he doesn’t have the noble, warrior spirit that made Vanquish so beloved. He is the last son, and one in a trio; unless they were chasing camels, he fell into the background and against his magical mother’s side. No one here knows him, no one knows the legacy he is supposed to uphold and all the pressure he puts on his immortal shoulders. Gaza has all the time in the world to grow up, and so he doesn’t. He’s ok with that, and no one’s told him to do so otherwise. So Gaza flirts and he lazes and works when he feels like it, conveniently forgetting that he now has a daughter and that he’s never met her. It’s not out of malice, of course. It’s just… well… he hasn’t seen Eld since.
Another large, dark knight draws his attention (if he didn’t know any better, he’d say they were related…), and Gaza makes his way towards the two men beneath a tree. Yeah. He needs more masculine influence in his life. The Desert could definitely use some testosterone. With a pleasant enough and curious expression on his face, Gaza listens before speaking. “I’ve never met anyone from the Valley. Fennick? I’m Gaza.” He turns his head to look at the other stallion, the one who has yet to speak, and says, “Hi there. Nice to meet you both.”
He comes to the field more often now, his journey here a symbolic mirror for his journey out from the fringes of the Chamber. But when he comes here, he usually finds himself seeking out horses who don't look much like him – those whose skill is on the inside, in their minds and their hearts, rather than outside, in the musculature of their bodies. Mind you, that's not to say that Erebor devalues those with sharp wits, quite the contrary. He believes virtually everyone and everything has value to the Chamber, and so he seeks them out with impunity. But when he comes to the field, and when he sees the stallion, he finds himself pausing for a moment.
He doesn't immediately know that the stallion under the tree is his uncle. Magnus doesn't quite look like Atrox or like Warship, or like Erebor, for that matter. The only frame of reference the boy has is Kavi, his buckskin uncle. But he's not one to favor blood relations anyway, and it's purely on the stallion's merits that Erebor decides to seek him out.
He's not the first to arrive, but this doesn't bother him. He recognizes the first stallion, from the Valley. He does not recognize the second, but he knows the scent of the Deserts. He offers all three of them a nod, facing the unknown stallion last.
Standing in the field with his usual straight, almost military bearing, Erebor is every inch his father's son. His coat is a smooth, unbroken black, sliding gracefully across a warrior's defined muscles. Erebor is that stallion in his prime, that warrior that Magnus had once been (and, perhaps, still was). His mane and tail, a strange dark blue and dark green, tumble across his neck and his haunches. Across his left foreleg, at the top almost tucked into his shoulder, a twining band of dark wine-red encircles the upper area of the limb. In between the twisting symbols, several figures are clear: a rabbit, a teddy bear, a woman standing upright, and a Pegasus missing a wing.
But apart from these small oddities, to the unknowing eye he's quite ordinary. It's underneath, in his body, that the true power lies. The same quest that had left him with the strange markings had given him total power over heat, the ability to call it forward, to stoke it, to concentrate it, to remove it. He dances with the elements in the most incredibly strange way, a prince of kinetics as much as he is a prince of the Chamber.
"Fennick, Gaza," he greets the two of them, and then his eyes slide back over to the newcomer. "I'm Erebor, from the Chamber." he does not give his title because it isn't relevant here – he doesn't think that anyone here would be impressed by titles, and he's somehow certain that this stallion wouldn't care at all whether he was recruited by the Lord or the Queen or the lowliest of the unranked. And this certainty only makes Erebor the more certain that he's exactly what the Chamber wants. His eyes land on the stallion beneath the tree, the reason they're all here. "What's your name, sir?" he does not use the term to be deferential, but rather because he's been taught to have respect, to be diplomatic, and because "sir" is what you call strange stallions whose names you just don’t know.
erebor
heat manipulating lord of the chamber
warship x straia
Yep, I need both my active characters to be talking to Magnus.
in the morning when I wake and the sun is coming through, oh you fill my lungs with sweetness and my head is filled with you
The snowstorm seems like it’s been forever ago, almost like a dream. Ramiel and Eld had pulled her from certain death and brought her to the Dale as the name was the only thing she could remember. It was unfortunate that it hadn’t brought back anything else. She had cried frustrated tears once she had overlooked her new home (which was really her old home at one point) certain that she should know this place. But her mind was a black hole that relinquished nothing. She had remained in the Dale because she had nowhere else to go and besides, she owed the stallion who had saved her life and given her a place to stay. Now that winter had gone and spring had turned to the early stages of summer, she had enough time to rest and gain a little strength. Although her memories still escape her, physically she is getting better. Gaining some weight.
Wanting to give back to Ramiel and everything he has done, she treks to the place where he had found her buried in the snow. It’s a different landscape that greets her bright blue eyes. Warm tones of red and orange and yellow burst throughout the field, summer flowers in full bloom. The grass is tall and lush and she can’t help but smile slightly, basking in summer’s heat.
It’s by chance that she spots the assembling group, all of them males. It doesn’t put her off at all. She can’t remember that she use to be that kind of girl that was one of the guys so she doesn’t recall why she feels at ease when she moves towards them. Three stallions are crowded around another under a tree and she gives them all her pretty smile as she joins the small group. ”Hello. I’m Soliel.” She says happily to them but her smile wavers as they fall on the one who is the center of all this attention. Confusion clouds her crystal blue eyes for a moment, there’s a memory that is just out of reach. A memory that’s tied to this stallion. For a moment she thinks she has it but it quickly snakes away from her. Slightly shaken, she still offers her sweet smile although their is some hesitation in her heart and her voice. ”I’m sorry…. But have we met before?” They must think she’s crazy but she has to ask even if it means making a fool of herself.
we all carry these things that no one else can see they hold us down like anchors; they drown us out at sea
It feels…odd to be back here. To once again be an unknown, the planes and angles of his face blurred into obscurity. There had been a time when the tables had been flipped—when he had been the one to dutifully march to the field every day, stirring up recruits for whichever kingdom he called home. He had found himself talented at it, able to easily engage in conversation with the other souls and display a genuine, authentic interest in their well-being. It had been natural for him to shepherd them home because he had actually invested in them. He had never seen them as just another number or a point to him name, he had truly cared to help them find a home, a purpose, a sense of well-being—and he had been good at it.
How odd that he now relied on strangers to do the same for him.
He does not mind though. He finds that he is oddly at ease as they begin to approach him, never feeling grated by the anonymous nature of his new life. For so long, he had felt at the forefront of conversation; first as the son of Atrox and Twinge and second as the fallen rogue-King. It was almost a pleasure to be given this blank slate and chance to start anew. “Hello, Fennick,” he says warmly, his gold-flecked eyes flashing as he gave him an encouraging smile. He knew just how difficult it could be to open up a conversation with someone you didn't know. “I could indeed use something to do.”
His attention is diverted as another approaches him, larger than the first, and he shifts slightly to greet him, dipping his head slightly in greeting, the ink of his forelock falling over his eyes. “And hello to you, as well, Gaza. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” It was easy—so easy—to fall back onto those kingdom-taught manners. The sharpness that came from being raised by monarchs, the military control over your instincts. He had always been a smooth conversationalist, and he thanked his mother’s wild temper for drawing it out of him. Above all else, he was a diplomat and a solider (though, admittedly, more skilled at the latter). While he may not thirst for politics, he now knew not to shy from it.
So he appreciates the military bearing of the third stallion to approach him, although he does not know their familial ties (not that he would be surprised, Atrox’s wandering eye meant he had dozens of both close and distant relatives). His gold-flecked gaze settles on him for a second, perhaps recognizing some of himself in the other, before he just nods. “Ah, the Chamber.” His roots ran deep there. His father had practically branded it on him, and he had even served it for a time—rising as Lord before leaving. There were few kingdoms he had not lived within, and few that he had not held titles, but the Chamber had a way of getting under your skin and staying there. “Always good to meet a Chamber man.”
But before he is able to answer the question, the mare arrives, and something simmers under his skin, plucking at memories half-remembered. There is something familiar about her face that makes him pause, but he shakes his head, his lacerated lips pulling into a frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t know, Soliel.” They might have, but his memory was shaky—half of it still reforming and as insubstantial as sand running through his fingers. He had no way of knowing what was real and what was just his dreams.
Finally, he addresses them all, meeting their gazes one-by-one. “My name is Magnus.”
in the morning when I wake and the sun is coming through, oh you fill my lungs with sweetness and my head is filled with you
Wherever she had been before she fell back into the cold field of Beqanna had swiped her memories as their own. She no longer recalls her childhood days, of the quiet loving gray mare that had been her mother. Of the kingdom they had lived in. Of the buckskin man her mother had so blindly followed, no matter what. She doesn’t know that somewhere she has a brother, a half-brother, that’s come back to these lands as well. A boy born to the gray mare and the buckskin man. Then again, even if she had control of her mind, she still wouldn’t know him. He had been a secret, kept from them all the day her mother died.
There’s an uncomfortable nagging in her head, a spreading migraine that won’t go away. This buckskin stallion seems almost as confused as she is. He shakes his head and the struggle to remember falls away with it. ”Oh.” She says quietly but quickly pulls back her sunny smile. ”Perhaps I’m mistaken.” That nagging feeling won’t leave though, a small bell ringing when he speaks again. Magnus. Magnus. Why is that so familiar? Curved lobes flatten to her skull as she tries to shake off the spiderwebs. Stubborn things that refuse to budge. A soft sigh as it all slips away from her. Oh well.
”Welcome Magnus. I suppose I’m here to offer you what these guys want to offer you.” A shy grin as she bumps the nearest stallion with a sense of joviality. All in good sport right? ”I’m from the Dale and we would happily have you join our home if you desire.”
Fennick smiled at Gaza, then chuckled at little at his introduction.
“Well then, I’m very happy to rectify that.” Fennick wasn’t much of a talker, but he when he played at being a diplomat he attempted to do the position some justice. It would be a shame, to wander into the Field only to convince everyone that the Valley was a hopeless, depressing place.
Gaza, Magnus and Fennick soon had company, and the black stallion nodded at them in greeting. Of course he recognized Erebor, they had bumped into each other several times. The girl he didn’t know, but he repeated her name to himself, in case they should cross paths again. Soleil got to the point first, and not to be outdone, Fennick followed suit.
“You would also be welcome in the Valley. We’re experiencing a bit of a rebirth at the moment. There’s plenty of opportunity for ambitious men to leave their mark. Or, if you’re not so ambitious, to be entertained by those who are.” It wasn’t much of a sale’s pitch, but hey, it was true. Fennick was still rather new to his home, and already much had happened. He felt the direction of the wind, and knew enough to realize it was changing.
He couldn’t say how he knew this, he just did. In a rare moment of unguarded expression, Fennick grinned. There was adventure in his expression, and a bit of wicked glee. He didn't know much of anything about Magnus, but he seemed like a man of action. Perhaps he would do well among the Valley ranks.
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