"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
This time, when Mesarez emerges from the water it is night - but he’s just as conspicuous as he had been during the day. Like in the depths, his body glows beneath the moon - casting soft pale blue light around him.
He likes the night better, he decides. Though the sky is still far too open, it feels a little more like moving through the dark waters of his home.
Everything looks different now as well, the shadows condensing on themselves. Little in this place glows, it is a world created to exist under the sun, but there are a few other moving creatures casting their own light that he can make out through the trees where he paces along the edge.
Mesarez is powerfully curious about this land and those within it, but some instinct keeps him out of the forest. He’s wandering a shoreline that doesn’t look like a shoreline, not yet. As though the land had simply sank and there had been no time yet for the relentless push and pull of the waves to smooth rocks into pebbles and sand. He had been underwater in Baltia when the earth had quaked, so he does not know that the earth sinking is exactly what had happened. He isn’t aware that what he is pacing is still the fresh wound of lands erased from the continent.
All he knows is that it’s been just as interesting exploring this wide channel as it has been the land itself.
Though he has no ears to perk, his attention snaps quickly to the sound of movement nearby - if he’s lucky, he won’t need to enter the forest to find some entertainment. Maybe it’ll come right to him.
What was she save for pitiful? The streamline of curses and insults that loop on repeat in the back of Frey’s mind remind her of what she has been and always will be: alone, angry, and cornered by fate.
Finding that the night suits her the most, Frey often travels beneath the watery light of the moon. (That is, when she does travel. She may feel tragic but she does not possess tragedy’s signature restlessness.) While she is not so different from the wondrous and strange creatures that roam Beqanna, Frey harbors an alienation so deep inside of her that she feels safe amongst the night’s shadows. It has been years since she found a companion. So many years, in fact, that she was merely a babe then.
The darkness saves her from her whirling thoughts, too. There’s a certain gritty appreciation she has for her protection in the night. No passing reflection in puddles or pools to startle her, no friendly nomad accosting her, no bright blue sky the exact color of her missing mother.
Don’t you miss the idea of her? she thinks angrily, shaking her head.
The lime of her eyes flashes with righteous heat as she spots the ghost. Frey comes to a complete halt, hardly breathing. There are many odd things to observe in her homeland, but never has she seen one quite like this. Just as she stops, the ghost’s head snaps around and locks her in place with his gaze. Frey hardly breathes as she notices how different yet alike they are.
Ever the fighter, Frey draws her head high.
“I’ve never seen anyone like you,” she says by way of greeting, tilting her head slightly to the right.
@Mesarez
Though he’s had decades to practice schooling his features from showing his true reactions, Mesarez isn’t always the best at it. Surprise flashes across his illuminated face when he takes in the stranger that comes to a stop nearby. She could be a Baltian, and he almost thinks that she is one until he gives her a good look over. The eyes give her away - that and the greeting she gives.
It isn’t often he goes unrecognized by his own kind - after all, he is a prince who’s spent the better part of a century avoiding whatever he should be doing in favour of travelling around and meeting whoever he can.
Surprise easily fades into delight as he watches as she holds her head high - a smile growing at words she uses as a greeting.
Mesarez feels at ease talking to strong mares since there’s no shortage of them in his life, and he quickly relaxes here on this strange shore in her company. Although he feels generally uneasy being on land, conversation is something he delights in and the prospect of it erases any discomfort from his mind.
“Good, I like being special.” The bright grin that accompanies the words leaves little doubt that he means them. “You’re pretty unique yourself.” He offers back as those black and silver eyes look her over again. They catch for a moment on the rattle at the end of her tail, and he can’t quite help but ask with obvious curiosity “Does that mean you’re dangerous?”
Though Frey often takes herself too seriously, she can’t repress the small smile that splits her lips when Mesarez offers a quick reply. She tilts her head subtly, now dragging her neon gaze over every part of his body she can see. Suddenly noting he is transparent, her cheeks heat and she sharply looks away. It’s not for disgust but for the intimacy of knowing where each vital organ resides. Where she might strike with her sharp fangs.
Clearing her throat and blinking away the shock, Frey turns back to face Mesarez with a straight—but not entirely uninviting—face.
“There aren’t many like me,” Frey states plainly, as if unique is not the compliment it's delivered as. She only knew vaguely of her father, the little snippets of words her mother offered before abandoning her. Scales, serpent, tail. There is so little she can recall, and yet she knows from those words that she is like him. It fills her with a longing she does not yet—and may not ever—understand. She's never met another that reminded her of him.
To know the intricacies of another’s life. Their intimate ticks. Their gentility and their hostility. How one might predict their day just on how the weather is. Frey swallows back the tightness in her throat. There is so little she knows, and yet so much she knows she must mourn for. What are those ticks of her father? Of her mother? Did she have siblings to think of? Love is only a fairy tale spun on the wind of a distant nomad Frey doesn’t even engage with. Always in the shadows of the crowd, never within. She wonders where Mesarez might stand, amongst that crowd. She thinks he’d be welcome within them.
“Yes,” Frey whispers. All the light empties from her face as she slowly lifts her tail and shakes the rattle. She peers harshly at Mesarez, flashing the slightest glimpse of her fangs. Wonders if he can infer the poisonous promise that lies within them.
As quickly as she tenses, Frey releases her posture.
“But you do not seem to pose a threat. My name is Frey,” she says as she chances a few steps closer, keen eyes locking onto Mesarez.
Mesarez doesn’t miss the way she sharply looks away after her eyes move across his body - though he’s not quite sure why. Disgust is easy to assume - which is, of course, ridiculous. Even here on land he is pretty sure he’s reasonably good looking. A question for another time, he thinks, as they move on to topics that encourage a grin rather than confusion.
She might not enjoy her status as unique but Mesarez is glad to hear there are not many like her - he’s not sure he could handle Beqanna if it were otherwise. Too much of a good thing, and all that, though he wasn’t above gorging himself when the mood suited him.
And that grin only brightens when she confirms she is dangerous. There is no laughter in his expression - for he certainly has no trouble believing her and he’s rather delighted by this information. The sound of the rattle and the flash of her fangs excite the warrior within him, and he wouldn’t mind testing his mettle against hers. Purely for education and enjoyment, of course.
She relaxes for now but he isn’t likely to forget those fangs any time soon.
“I’m Mesarez, and I’m only a threat in a general sense.” Mesarez returns her flash of teeth with one of his own, a crocodile smile that gleams for an instant. The hint of a secret under his translucent skin that hides little else. “But specifically to this moment, no. Unless the situation calls for it.” There’s a small pause and then he just can’t help but add with a sly grin and another tilt of his head - “Do you think it will, Frey?”
There is a subtle buzzing building in Frey's head. As she watches Mesarez, the noise rises and rises, until it tickles down her scales in waves. She blinks rapidly, wondering what might happen if she succumbed to the wildness threatening her actions. There is something almost feral about the stranger, some subtle similarity between them that she can't quite put her finger on.
Frey always imagined she inherited her impulsive streak from her mother. It's easy attributing all her negative attributes to a mother that abandoned her. She tucks her chin closer to her chest, suddenly fiercely protective of all the little imperfections so ready to reveal themselves. If Mesarez were to sense the lightning coursing through her, he might abruptly leave her, too. A raucous, anguished panic swells violently in Frey's chest, threatening to cut off her breath.
If Mesarez had flashed his crocodile smile a second later, Frey would have fled before exposing the little pieces of her so fragile they're shattered by strangers. The dangerous points immediately grab Frey's focus. Her tail rattles in an instinctive response. She overcompensates for her panic by flashing sharp, serious eyes to Mesarez's gaze. Sufficiently curious, the little snake stalks closer to the pale ghost, the subtle hiss of her tail sounding like the warning it's meant to be.
She is surprised by this stallion's mettle. How he thrives beneath the threat of danger. As if it means nothing. A sort of confidence Frey envies.
Stopping a foot short of him, Frey stares before answering.
"Do you want it to, Mesarez?" she asks bluntly, neon eyes shadowed and distant. She can't identify the warmth rolling in her gut, whether it be a craving for violence or a slight attraction to the man before her - or both. She knows more about fighting than flirting, and it shows.
"Is that a threat?" she murmurs, though she doesn't sound nearly as angry or intimidating as she should.
@Mesarez
