"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
Weed does not stop running until he is long out of sight from the Amazons. The magic of his first trick wears off of him slowly, and he feels his stubby, clumsy red legs morphing into the long, elegant legs of his normal self, the raven made of vines flying alongside him, swooping on either side. It was exhilarating to play the trickster, and although he had no way of knowing if his seed would take root or not. Of course, that was not the purpose. Even if the Amazons did not pledge all-out war, he was planting small hits here and there, meticulously picking away at the peace that Beqanna so tentatively held onto.
It was deliciously wicked.
Slowing down, he walked for a while to catch his breath, making his way slowly to the next kingdom—and his next target. As he walks, the gift from Straia takes flight once more and goes into hiding, where he knows it will watch with its beady eyes and then take the information to the Chamber Queen. His father’s magic once again takes hold, but this time he does not shift into the small, squat red mare. Instead, he becomes taller, his muscles more pronounced, the feathering on his legs softly falling against the ground.
Instead of the thin, slender black stallion, he becomes bulkier, larger, more warrior and less trickster. His coloring goes from onyx to a handsome, dappled gray, his face heavy and neck thick. Pleased with the transition, he moves to the edge of the Dale’s border where he lets loose a deep, resounding cry for whoever happened to be nearby. For good measure, he has urgency to it, but it does not have the same desperation that he had added when he had been in the Amazon. This was a different game altogether.
Once, as a young boy, he’d worried about the passing years. He wondered what it would be like to grow strong and muscled, to become a stallion in the prime of his life. He thought about the glory it would bring, being capable and physical – at the pinnacle of his natural life. The boy had wondered, too, what would happen as the years went on. He saw the way that the others greyed. He noticed how dull they became, their eyes, their coats, their minds. It had scared him more than anything else: more than the mother bears that came down with fresh cubs, more than the slithering rattle he heard when he stepped over a fallen log. Aging and subsequent, unavoidable death had frightened him. Until Carnage had changed everything for him.
Now, he’s not sure death will come for him in the same way it slowly drains everyone else. He can die anytime he likes (and has, a couple of times already). He knows what awaits him on the Other Side, knows that souls exist when before, he wasn’t sure of anything besides the greying. Ramiel has walked with the dead and found solace on the sands beyond. He has brought back a girl once marked for the grave (she still is, really, the flesh knitting so slowly back together). He is death’s friend – its’ confidante. One day, perhaps he’ll even master it and bend it to his will. It doesn’t scare him, though, not any longer.
Peace does not reassure him like it does others, either. He knows that it will not last, in any case, and that they should prepare for when it finally breaks. To that end, the grey stallion makes sure he knows everything that happens within the Dale. Little passes through the borders or through the mouths of its inhabitants that he doesn’t make himself aware of. Far too often, Beqanna’s history has been inundated with reports of the Dale’s take-over. From the Valley, (and Carnage) to the Chamber, and even a mercenary group, the mountain land has had more than its fair share of hostile ownership. Ramiel is not about to let history repeat itself.
He can sense the disruptions, though. He can feel the plucking like a rogue spider on another’s web, hoping for an easy take. But unlike the others, he does not fear the chaos that is sure to come. Already, he spins his own insurances. They have the backing of two kingdoms so far, and with any luck, they will soon add another. He’s thinking on it when he hears the resounding cry from somewhere near the border. Summer is at its high point, with the sun a baking, burning entity in the sky above. He spends most of his time as a ghost, letting the air pass through him to avoid the worst of the heat. But by the time he reaches the source of the call, he makes sure he is a fully fleshed horse. There are some secrets that he means to keep from the other kingdoms and their ever-prying eyes.
The note of urgency hadn’t gone undetected by the grey stallion, but when he sees the other grey, he can’t see why it was there in his voice. He can’t really smell another kingdom on the large male either, though he catches a faint whiff of the pungent Jungle on the wind. Ramiel doesn’t think anything of this, however. Their delegation had only left recently – perhaps it is simply a leftover from their visit. “Hello,” he says, caution leveling his voice. Although the man had sounded worried, he hadn’t been enough to cross into the borders. And while the ghost-king is thankful for that courtesy, he is more interested in why the stallion is here in the first place. What has riled him? He almost doesn’t give his name, but after a pause, he relents. “I’m Ramiel. Can I help you with something?”
So far in her short life on earth, she has only known peace and calm. It’s not something that she minds but her mind is hungry for knowledge and her young body aches for more. Whatever she had been before she became one with this body is distant from her now. The silvery swirls of her iris’s still seem to hold infinite heaviness as if she had lived a whole lifetime instead of being a few months old. And yet she is still much a child, finding amusement and pleasure in the smallest of things.
The whole world aching for her to discover it.
When the cry breaks over the Dale, she lifts her head slowly and gazes solemnly in the direction it had come. Not much happens here and the cry is a strange and thrilling sound, one she has never heard before. Soliel is probably either here or recruiting in the Field, she often leaves her daughter by herself as she trusts in the safety of the others in the kingdom. The craving for excitement is too much for her and she gives in gladly, easily bounding towards the duo in the distance.
They are both strange men to her. Ramiel she has yet to meet but she knows of him thanks to her Mother’s stories. The other one is a stranger to all. He is broad and gray and something about him sends a shiver running down her spine. He looks like a warrior and she instantly is imagining all sorts of adventures he has been through. However there is something swirling in the depths of silver that reflects as she looks at him. She is not magical and therefore can’t sense anything that would tip her off that the strange man at the border wasn’t right. Yet she is of time and space and something holds her tongue and keeps her distant from him. Ramiel greets the newcomer and she simply stares at him, old silver eyes in a young face that look at him as if they know what he is doing when of course she does not.
10-12-2015, 01:34 PM (This post was last modified: 10-12-2015, 01:38 PM by Elysteria.)
Elysteria
Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like a volcano, then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision.
There is something wrong. She senses this immediately. She is not far when the cry rings out across the Dale, an urgent beckoning from an unknown source. Even had she not been such a dutiful diplomat, curiosity would have drawn her from her solitude. It is rather uncommon for them to receive an urgent summons from anyone, much less from someone she does not know. She has been with the Dale for so long now that there is little here that surprises her anymore.
As she approaches, she senses Ramiel’s presence. This is as reassuring as it is unsurprising. The Dale’s king is nothing if not attentive to the affairs of the kingdom. But as she walks, still slightly favoring her injured shoulder, a small frown touches her lips. There is more wrong here than she had first surmised.
As she steps from the trees towards the newcomer, her russet gaze fixes upon him, studying him closely. Ramiel is already there, greeting the gray stallion in a friendly manner. And as she nears, she sees a small filly approaching, one she does not recognize. She can only surmise that this must be Soliel’s daughter. The girl does not say anything, instead merely watching the pair of stallions. Elysteria steps forward, placing herself smoothly and strategically into the small group between the filly and the newcomer.
It is the strangest thing, but something about this man simply does not feel right. She cannot quite pinpoint it, but it is there nonetheless. The emotions coming from the man are jumbled, odd. She had heard urgency in his tone, but she can sense no real emotion behind the distress in his voice. Her troubled gaze turns to Ramiel, wondering if he had noted anything odd.
But ever the diplomat, she voices none of these concerns. Not in front of the stranger, at least. Instead she allows her lips to curve into a slight smile (and though it may lack the warmth that is as much her signature as that smile, the man would be unlikely to notice, considering they had never before met).
“And I am Elysteria.”
She doesn’t add anything more. Ramiel had already seen to determining the reason for his visit. And if she were acting a bit odd, well, the only one who would notice would be Ramiel, which would hopefully serve to make him aware of her apprehension.
You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is.
Strange magic was, especially for the Dale's eccentric roan stallion. For some time he had allowed his talents to lay dormant, and like unused muscles they had become dull. This lasted years, until the other day in the adoption den, he had seen need to use them. He had never not used them for so long, so the practice had strained him, made his nose trickle with blood. He knew from then on he could not allow his talents to lay at rest in such a way, and he pledged he would not. Perhaps that was why even in the presence of other magicians, he would previously not have sensed much from them. Such was not the case now. Since then, he felt the familiar tickle he had not noticed the absence of...had returned.
He is minding his own when he feels it trickle into the Dale. That was uncommon for his home, and at once he ends his grazing and sets off. Along the way he hears a call, and this perplexes him even more, it was entirely odd for someone to come calling to them in such a way. Normally his travels would be slow, relaxed, perhaps in a sense they still are because when he arrives several others are already there. He is glad that both Ramiel and Elysteria are among those gathered, worried as he spots Cirri standing in their midst. Before he can do so himself, Elysteria slides between the new comer and the girl, for that he is ever grateful. The feeling is almost a buzzing now to his insides, he knows something is using magic here and it is not his kingdom mates.
He looks sternly at the dappled male, coming to stand next to his king. "Salutations sir, I am Weir. What is it the Dale could do for a Magician I wonder?" An eyebrow arches over one of his amber colored eyes, the situation had just become more curious. Why would a magician need to holler in such a way? Why would he need to holler at all? Something was largely at miss, he was one to find out, but not so hasty. The caller had not done harm to them yet, nor did Weir know his intentions, but he was sure that with Ramiel and Ely they could figure it out. The tension among them was palpable, he was obviously not the only one to smell something off about this horse. Let him speak though of course, innocent until proven guilty.
WEIR
To bend another's energy, your own spirit must be unbendable
Weed may not have grown up a warrior, but the stallion was a trickster to his core.
He loved nothing more than playing the part, fooling others, using wit and cunning to get his ways. So when his father had agreed to his plans—lent him his magic, he had been thrilled. But, ultimately, Weed had known Carnage’s magic would only carry him so far. He may not be physically recognizable but if he wanted to truly deceive, he would need to finish the job. Oh, and it was a job he loved so well.
As the horses gather, Weed keeps the features of his mask stern, stoic, and calm, but he lets himself feel the excitement of the moment. He replays the raid on the Gates and the rushing of horses, and he lets that memory cloud his mind so that his body reacts in the smallest of ways. His pulse increases slightly, his mouth twitches impatiently as if there is something about ready to trip on it, his dark eyes flash.
He is, for all intents and purposes, a soldier on a mission—and not one he enjoyed.
“I am sorry for troubling you,” he says finally in a baritone voice, the sound husky instead of his usual unhurried elegance. “I did not mean to cause upset.” As the last comes toward the group, Weed does not let the insight faze him and instead gives somewhat of a sheepish smile, dipping his head as he thought quickly on his feet to counter the other’s intuitive knowledge of the magic. “Ah, again, I apologize for the confusion. I am no magician, sir,” he glances around, “I come from the Deserts—and my Queen often likes to send magic tails to ensure my safety.” A soft smile, “It is a tad embarrassing for her to not trust my own ability to protect myself.” He shrugs slightly, “But perhaps in troubling times, it is for the best.”
Clearing his throat, he stood up straighter, still allowing the urgency of his message to play in the reaction of his body, in the small fidgeting of his motions. “I am afraid that I do not come bearing good news—but it is news that our kingdom feels obligated to tell you.” His steady gaze meets each of theirs in turn, not flinching or looking away, but rather holding it for a beat. “We recently came across intel that the Valley is not harboring…good intentions. They view you as weak,” he flinches a little at the word, looking apologetic, “and there are whisperings that they have an interest in repeating history.”
Shifting his weight a little, he continued. “We view the idea of subkingdoms distasteful, to say the least, and while we may not be the strongest of allies, we could not, in good conscious, let such intelligence go without at least raising the alarm.” He presses his lips together, looking at the young child who joined the group with concern before moving his gaze from her to the King. “While we cannot tell you how to run your kingdom, nor would we want to, it may be in your best interest to prepare yourself for war.”
And then, he falls silent—a warrior who had completed his mission.
Once again, the kingdom is quick to respond to a presence at their borders.
Soliel’s little girl comes first. Having not met her, he only knows who she belongs to by the resemblance to her mother. There’s that same bright curiosity in her luminous gaze. Unlike Soliel, though, her silver eyes are unclouded by loss and the attempt to retrieve her memories. But he notices the way she holds back, even as she approaches the older pair. He smiles, encouragingly, but still she positions herself just out of the conversation. At first, he attributes it to a shy, solitary nature. There is nothing wrong with such a personality; he’s only surprised that she possesses it with the white woman for a dam. But then he wonders. Children are so in tune, connected to the world in ways the adults have lost along the way. Could she be sensing something he is not?
Elysteria and Weir come at the same time he is asking the grey male’s intentions. Ramiel notices the way that the older woman inserts herself between the potential threat and the child. Once again, he is so grateful for his almost-aunt’s continued presence in the Dale. Even after losing her daughter to a political scheme, she chose to remain behind. This fact and her ability to read and respond to delicate situations continue to make her invaluable. He nods nearly imperceptibly after she greets the towering grey. He’d noticed the way her smile hadn’t quite creased her face like it normally did. And while she is normally one of their warmest, most steadfast greeters, he doesn’t have to wonder why she hadn’t been such with this man. Surely, she senses something amiss.
For his part, Weir hides nothing. A wary curiosity reigns on his features; he even lifts a brow as if chastising the man for hiding something that is plain for Weir to see. Ramiel is neither empathetic nor able to control magic like his two kingdom-mates, but he doesn’t need either ability to trust their judgements. Something is off about the man. He flicks his tail, a nervous habit that is less to do with his safety and more to do with the entire Dale (and especially the dark girl at their heels). An unknown magician at their border is no small cause for concern, after all.
But he quickly refutes that idea. He says he’s from the Deserts, and though Ramiel can detect no trace of sagebrush or salty, ocean air, he could believe the stranger. It’s common enough for horses to run the gamut of kingdoms on various duties for their own – perhaps he’s on his way back to the sandy place even now. But the grey warrior doesn’t give his name, doesn’t even mention his queen’s name. Maybe it is common enough knowledge to assume he means Camrynn (that black woman who seemed to know more of Ramiel as a colt then anyone when she visited years ago) but surely one would give their own moniker when delivering such devastating news. He waits until the stallion is done speaking, not interrupting even when he wants to. There’s tension in the way he holds himself, etched in the lines of his face as he passively regards the nameless warrior.
When he finishes, Ramiel lets a long moment pass before he addresses the news. “We are not allies at all,” is the first bullet he lets loose, poking a hole in the man’s story. And there is no denying it – doing so would only further discredit the grey. “But it is very charitable of Queen Camrynn to warn an unattached, free kingdom of impending doom.” The corners of his lips quirk slightly in a humorless grin. If only he could speak to Elysteria and Weir before going down a path he hopes he’s right to walk. If their senses were wrong, he risks spurning advice from a rather powerful kingdom… But he’d sooner place his trust in them and worry about potential fallout later. His golden eyes find each of theirs once more before turning back to the grey. “Is your queen so confident in these ‘troubling times’ that she’d send out one of her better warriors rather than a diplomat?” There’s a kernel of doubt that lodges in his brain, though. If it had been any other kingdom mentioned…but no, it is the Valley that apparently has a target on their backs. Ramiel’s own pulse begins to quicken at the thought of all they will need to do to be ready. “Consider it raised, then.” He means against Weed as much as anything, but let the man think what he will. “But do not consider the Dale unprepared.”
10-13-2015, 09:56 PM (This post was last modified: 10-13-2015, 09:56 PM by Tiphon.)
We danced with monsters through the night
Any threat to the Dale is something that Tiphon takes to high regard. He has seen it overtaken by darker powers and he always told himself not to ever let it happen again. He is the land's guardian in more ways than a king may be able to provide. The Dale is as much a part of Tiphon as he is of it. Every fiber of his being is engulfed by the babbling brooks and rolling hills. His molten locks are historic tales woven into silky threads. His breath is the gentle wind that kisses their necks.
And his ears are at every corner and nook.
In a sense, Tiphon has been present during this congregation but only now does he make himself known. With the sunlight baring high overhead the angel's body materializes among the crowd. Their voices thicken and almost distract him, but his eyes are coolly settled on the stranger. An eerie sense washes across across him but one would never guess by the stoic expression that flattens his porcelain face. "The Dale will do as it sees fit," his voice is dry and lacking in much emotion. Ramiel has said most of what is necessary and so there is no need for Tiphon to elaborate or repeat. Instead, he murmurs under his breath toward his son and neighboring comrades. "Believe nothing of what you hear and half of what you see," a brow lifts curiously before funneling his attention on the stranger once more.
"Thank you for your--" threat? The word doesn't slip past Tiphon's mouth. There is a pause. "Warning." A strange and skeptical one at that.
Love is a temporary madness, it erupts like a volcano, then subsides. And when it subsides, you have to make a decision.
They gather together, the small group of her kingdom-mates, closing ranks around their king, displaying their solidarity. She listens closely to the stallion as he speaks, russet gaze fixed upon him as a concerned frown touches her lips. She listens with more than just her ears, opening her senses as much as she can possibly make them go. The emotions of the others flood into her. She has to sort through them, but she has grown familiar with the other Dalean’s unique emotional signatures.
And his is there, strange and unfamiliar. She feels the subtle hint of excitement, a taste of almost… anticipation? She isn’t quite sure, it is so faint. But this unsettles her. They seem odd, given the circumstance. She is unsure what to make of it. What to make of him.
The Valley may be planning to attack, he tells them. Useful information certainly, if it is true. But the source troubles her. She knows Camrynn, has met her several times in fact. She had never struck her as the altruistic sort. Why then, would she warn them of an impending attack? Especially given the fact that they are not allies?
“Does Camrynn have proof of this?”
She doubts it, or she likely would have sent it. But certainly she cannot expect them to simply take her word for it.
You have to work out whether your roots have so entwined together that it is inconceivable that you should ever part. Because this is what love is.
They close ranks against him and Weed lets himself feel confusion instead of the anger that would normally course through his veins—let him indulge in that fury later. His expression is mildly bewildered and then sad, meeting each of their gaze before shrugging. “Camrynn did not send me,” he finally admits, and he frowns, his lips pulling downward. “Yael did.” He had heard enough of the golden mare to know that it was more likely for her to be altruistic than the magician Queen, and if they had suspicions about his behavior, which seemed obvious, perhaps they would attribute it to an internal mutiny within the Deserts instead of what it really was: a snake, a rabid dog who only wanted chaos brought upon the land.
“She asked me to come alone and give you the warning—in hopes that it would give you enough time to prepare,” he nods at Tiphon, “or do as you see fit. She knew I agreed that you deserved to know.” Dark eyes shift toward the mare and his expression is again apologetic. “Unfortunately, I do not have proof. Just the warning.” He swallows a little, his gaze sweeping across the group. “It is obvious, however, that my presence has been most unwelcome.” Weed dips his gray head down, “And for that, I apologize. I will see my way out.” He begins to back away, looking back at all of them with a somber gaze.
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