"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
It is raining and cold when Litotes finally leaves Pangea.
After so much upheaval in Beqanna, the shadow-weaver has spent as much time as he can within the borders of Pangea. As much as he travelled and called little paradises his home, he could never truly resist the call of his once-kingdom. He’s spent many nights regaling his family with tales of the past, the old and still not even the oldest version of Beqanna.
That age-old tugging pulls at his chest, though—as it so often seems to now. He cannot shake it, even as his shadows shiver and hiss at the heavy rain.
“Quiet,” he murmurs to the dark, commanding them to wrap tightly around his body. Before him is the soft, persistent rushing of the river. It is perhaps a bit heavier than usual due to the weather, but that doesn’t stop him from placing his front hooves into the icy rush. The water pressing needily into his hocks reminds him of something, a bit of the past and a bit of the present. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in . . .
. . . a long breath out . . .
“Oh,” he says, a stray sound finding his ears. Lie turns his head peering up the riverbank.
“Who’s out in the rain with me?”
and let the cool air in, feel the night slip in as it softly glides across your back and i hope you leave right before the sun comes up so i can watch it alone
05-07-2023, 12:38 AM (This post was last modified: 05-07-2023, 12:46 AM by Tavani.)
The cold rain streaks Tavani’s body in bold strokes of blues and purples that glow softly in the dulled light under the clouds. Each new droplet changes to the shades of it, just a little - mixing teals, indigos, and all manner of combinations together. Her wings are held tight against her sides, insulating them, but she doesn’t stray from the river or attempt to get somewhere where she’d be warmer. Those feathered wings of hers are much like those of a duck, the oil in them causing the water to run off - though not without leaving colourful marks behind.
She enjoys this weather, for the most part. It is the closest she can get to being underwater, and she likes to pretend walking through a heavy rain is just like swimming.
The watercolour mare thinks she is alone in the rain-darkness until a voice breaks through her thoughts. She follows the sound of it, and is fascinated by the sight of someone half-standing in the river. She cannot tell what colour he is truly, because it looks as though shadows are clinging to him, and the novelty of this draws her closer. Thanks to the dark rain clouds, the slit-pupils of her eyes are shades of dark grey that almost blend in completely with the black sclera surrounding them.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” She asks with a small smile, stopping with enough distance between them that she could open her wings and not brush his skin, but it is still close enough to feel companionable to her. And she attempts to copy his stance, putting her front hooves into the cold water - which instantly makes her gasp and then retreat to the, relatively, dry bank instead.
