"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
10-10-2015, 09:42 PM (This post was last modified: 10-10-2015, 09:43 PM by Cinzia.)
The wind sweeps across her high cheekbones like a bed sheet; silky, smooth, and early in the morning. In essence, the wind is her lover, a gentle hand slipping the covers across her delicate skin until she lies in a heap of vulnerability, all ankles and wrists and collar bones. The wind to her is to her both commanding and soft-hearted, for some mornings dawn with a whistle and a slash against her glistening fur, and others dawn with trails of kisses brushing down her stomach.
Her hushed breath curls as smoke about a fire, though she be not red but as black as ash; nay, as black as midnight, a discrete mélange of ebony and navy. Cobalt eyes study the smoggy exhalation, enjoying how temporary an existence it has. For her, however, a different fate: years and years of this and that, when all she truly knows is the wind.
Returning her focus to the stoic meadow, Cinzia rolls her shoulders, thereby releasing tension caught stubbornly in the thick base of her wings. The muscles pinch irritably, disagreeing with the idea the coy mare’s idea. Ears twitching, she listens to her lover; and as he gently pushes her towards the opening, she smiles.
It’s been too long.
Slipping towards a lonestanding tree, her figure glistens beneath the rising sun. At certain angles her black figure shines navy, the ash turns sapphire. And perhaps someone might just appreciate her midnight beauty; enjoying the breeze on her skin, she wonders if they will see her as a multi-faceted jewel, or a simple bruise.
you and I both know that the house is haunted and you and I both know that the ghost is me
The meadow unfolded before him like a lover, the land at once familiar and alien, scarred by years he had not seen and aged in a way that he did not understand. He paused along the border to take it all in, his gold-flecked eyes glinting and intense, his inky mouth pressed tight in thought as he surveyed the area around him. It isn’t until he sees the wings that his attention is diverted, and he angles his scarred face toward the mare slinking toward the tree. One ear perks forward in interest before he decides to indulge his curiosity (and, ultimately, his enjoyment of companionship) and make his way toward her.
Wings were, after all, the gold star of gifts once upon a time.
However, Magnus had discovered they had become commonplace—the sheen of their uniqueness replaced by a darker, more formidable magic: the ability to shift, the control the world around you, and even influence other souls. Still, Magnus appreciated the simplicity of their gift, the purity of the trait. Not that he necessarily lusted for them (he was content with his plain body), but he could admit that he was fond of them.
“Hello,” he says simply as he stops several yards from her, one corner of his lacerated lips rising into a lopsided shadow of a smile. His voice is gruff, husky even, but the rust of disuse had finally fallen from it, and he no longer woke up with a throat of sandpaper and a dry tongue. Life was getting easier every single day. “My name is Magnus,” the introduction came easily, slipping from his mouth on instinct. He pauses for another moment, tilting his head to the side. “How are you enjoying the day?”
10-11-2015, 03:11 PM (This post was last modified: 10-11-2015, 03:13 PM by Cinzia.)
cobalt skies like midnight lies
He’s not the wind or the wings or wonder of the world, yet he approaches her. She’s immediately aware of his presence, for he carries a strong one. Peering towards him through ebony lashes, the kittenish female nickers softly, encouraging his approach. The wind smooths her fur, bringing a small, sharp smile to her lips.
Hello, he says through smoke-filled lungs, stopping a respectful distance from her. A small shuffle of her wings sets them aglitter in the new-morning sun, but of other movements, there are few. “Good morning, Magnus,” she replies both demurely and with a coolness. She ponders momentarily of the husk in his voice, the tilt in his rugged head, and the glitter of gold in his eyes. He’s handsome; many things are.
“Quite well, thank you. The breeze is lovely,” she tilts her head, allowing the said breeze to shift her forelock away from her dim blue eyes. Unlike him, the disuse of her voice has not lead to rust and corrosion; in fact, to speak again feels like soft breath disturbing the dust along the window sill. Refreshing.
“I like to be called Cobalt, by the way.” Not Cinzia; not yet. “Have you lived here long?”
you and I both know that the house is haunted and you and I both know that the ghost is me
Magnus was, at the heart of things, a social animal. He found himself at his best when he was surrounded by others; it brought out his charm and tamed the more ragged edges of his personality. More so, he had learned a long time ago that he enjoyed the companionship of women. It was a fact that he accepted and appreciated. He loved their softness and their ferocity; he loved their strength and their complexity. Perhaps it was a simple result of being born to an Amazonian Queen and being raised amongst the vines, but he often sought out female companions, and he was softened by their presence. It helped him to tame the warmonger in his heart, and he knew it. He was simply the best version of himself near them.
“Cobalt it is then,” he said with a roguish grin, the corners of his lacerated lips rising and his gold-flecked eyes flashing with good humor. He could make a guess that was not her true name, but it wasn’t in his nature to second guess someone’s request—let alone one as simple as this. “Beqanna or the meadow?” he counters easily, settling into his position, one hind leg cocked as his tangled tail flicked his sides. The question was a complicated one. He was not old physically. In fact, the golden stallion was truly in the prime of his life. Scarred, but battle-tested, his body having been honed by years of fighting and too many wars. But the truth of the matter was that his soul was an old one. It had been decades, centuries even, since his birth.
“I am recently new to it,” he hedged his answer, teetering on the knife’s edge of the truth. “Coming home is a strange sensation.” Of course, his version of coming home was not that of a wanderer whose compass finally pointed North. His version was one of blood and loss and spitting up saltwater on a dark, stormy beach. His version involved death and dark magic he still didn’t understand—and was somehow tied up in the story of his brother, one long-lost to him. One who he had killed and yet whose life saved him.
Shaking the ghosts from his head, he smiled at her again, obsidian tipped ears perked forward in genuine interest. “What about you, Cobalt?” He considered her for a moment, “How long have you lived here?”
10-15-2015, 06:33 PM (This post was last modified: 10-15-2015, 06:42 PM by Cinzia.)
cobalt skies like midnight lies
As has been shown over years of quiet watching, Cinzia is a peculiar animal. Not social, yet easily morphed into society; not antisocial, yet a simple observer in a troubling amount of situations. The wind has been her only companion for many moons, though she does not complain. The wind caresses her, whispers to her, and never leaves her waiting. Now and again, however, perhaps Cinzia does in fact crave the solidity and realism of true companionship. For the wind is fickle, and does not speak when spoken to.
His roguish grin stirs something akin to feelings with her, which she ignores. Even now, in the depths of conversation, she remains but an observer. Despite this, however, a similar grin slips across her tainted lips, a cat to his rogue. Admiring the flash of his golden eyes, Cinzia impulsively leaves the protection of the lone tree, drawing closer to the man who had halted some yards away. The wind cannot stop me; I am so much more.
“Both,” She counters easily, her voice languid. The warm morning sun glitters across her wings, and they open slightly so as to allow wind between them. Cool eyes flickering from the cocked leg to the flicking tail and all the places besides, Cinzia enjoys what there is to see, and what there is to not; as he finally gives his answer, it is as though he pulls the plug, releasing the mare’s baited breath.
“Indeed it must be,” She agrees, head veering away from the handsome stallion as though her words have were out of place. Home; a concept completely foreign to the relatively young mare. True, she has lived in Beqanna all her life, brought up by a mother, learning of a father she never will meet. And even so the concept of home evades her; the wind is perhaps the closest she has yet known. Wordlessly it speaks to her, and unlike her mother, it supports her when she stretches her wings and flies. But perhaps, it is again time to trust in another being. Without truly recognizing it, Cinzia yearns to know just how it felt for Magnus to return home, but contains her curiosity until he asks about her. They have only just met, and despite his good looks and heart-stopping grin, she must exercise caution. Allowing the return of a careful smile, her gaze falls back to the golden man.
She hesitates at his question, mind rewinding from summer to summer until at last an answer flocks to her. “Four years at least is my best guess,” She would laugh, but she doesn’t quite remember how to. Instead, melancholy creeps across her high-born features. “It’s not the easiest to remember when there’s no one to remember.” Swept from her self-taught ways, Cinzia tumbles on, though her speech quickens not. “You’re the first person I’ve really spoken with in… Well, a long time.” She smiles, the gesture rather sheepish. Had her fur been a lighter shade, perhaps he would have seen the crimson upon her high-boned cheeks. “At least, my version of a long time. I’d imagine your version is a little different.”
you and I both know that the house is haunted and you and I both know that the ghost is me
Time was both friend and foe to Magnus.
It had been kind in the preserving of his body—keeping him at his prime although his soul was covered in dust and soot—but it had been harsh in the loss of everyone that he held dear. Yes, he had returned to life, but at what cost? Except for his golden son and ghost of his panther father, there was none that he remembered. He was a relative stranger in his own home and the sensation was at once comforting and alienating. Comforting in the anonymity, but he could not deny the gaping hole that it left in his heart.
“That sounds like a lonely existence,” he muses, his gold-flecked eyes flashing as he considers her lightly. Then he laughs, and the sound is both rare and rich, Magnus enjoying the humor as he gave her a quick ghost of a smile. “Am I?” He glances upward at the sky, thinking for a second. “What an honor.” And indeed it was. There was nothing that the buckskin enjoyed more than easy conversation such as this. It was easy, when talking to someone he just met, to forget all of the horrors of his past. It was simple to pretend that he had never changed—that he had never died. That home was right and the same.
“I’ll make sure to be worthy of it.”
Her next observation though sobers him a little, and he reflects on it with a flat mouth, his lips pressing together in thought. “My version is different than most,” he concedes, although he did not think the retelling of his tale would be particularly fun conversation. It did not seem like the kind of meeting that called for the spilling of dark truths and bitter reality. He much preferred the current, smooth gloss of the encounter—simple and sweet. “But who is to compare versions?” He brightens. “Would you like to take a walk?”
Death remains an elusive concept to the young vixen. In fact, life barely seems real to her. Four (five? Six?) years have lead the woman to no great conclusions, dramas or revelations. Were she to know of Magnus’s bloody resurrection, perhaps a sliver of her polished skin would crack. Despite his light coat and handsome gold-flecked eyes, Magnus carries a weight upon his shoulders. And while Cinzia may not be the most experienced in the matters of liveliness, she does pick up on his subtle darkness.
At his soft musing she nods solemnly, unwilling to elaborate on the subject. Loneliness is a disease well known to her, and while the doctor prescribed her drugs, she has finally chosen to get better. The first step? Magnus.
“No sir, the honour is mine,” she says lightly, though her eyes glimmer. “I couldn’t have imagined a finer companion.” Brushing the tips of her wings together behind her, the mare holds his gaze steadily, sure of herself despite antecedent factors. And instead of blushing again at his comment of worthiness, the blue-steel woman echoes his sublime laughter, allowing a smoky smile to distort her clean-cut face.
Believe me, you’re worthy.
Before she may speak again however, the rugged man falls into thought. While his lips press together, she studies his image, appreciating the slope of his whithers and the plains of his breast, the divots in his ankles and the tautness of his muscles. One might comment on the forwardness of her mind and eyes, but alas she knows no better. Observation remains her best communication, even if all there may be to observe is simple and sweet.
Sensing his reluctance, Cinzia smiles at his gentle proposal. Moving elegantly towards the stallion, she scoops behind him before coming parallel to him on his left side. Unfurling her right wing and gesturing daintily forward (like the guiding palm of an outstretched hand), she says, “Care to lead?”
Smiling pleasantly, the young woman tilts her head away from the gold stallion, eyes flicking from the lonely tree to fluttering butterflies to the whisper of wind in the long grasses. Parting her velveteen lips, the young lady snaps her gaze back to Magnus, eyes mischievously aglitter.
“So, Magnus. I have some questions for you.” Her features turn mock-stern before collapsing into a large, easy grin. “What is… Hmm… Your favourite colour?” Tail swishing, she rushes on before he may answer. “And where did you grow up? It must have been somewhere nice.” Her voice has regained some maturity, though her mischievousness dims not. It’s been too long since she’s had true companionship – he could not blame her for desiring to know even the most trivial things.
you and I both know that the house is haunted and you and I both know that the ghost is me
He follows along at her gesturing, not minding the closeness of their bodies. She was easy to talk to, he had discovered, and he was not unhappy about it. There was something about her that put him at ease while also prompting him to open up. He remained guarded about the darker parts of his past, but not because he wanted to keep it hidden; rather, he wanted to protect her from the sharp edges of it.
His laughter is soft and smoky at her line of questioning, but his gaze remains steady, flicking every so often toward her so that his gold-flecked eyes catch her own. “Well, let’s see…” he ponders the first question with a serious face, giving it the weight that it deserved. “I love the color green.” His mind wanders to the lush, rolling hills of Heaven and the wildness of the Jungle’s vines. “It looks like life.”
The next question though is enough to crack his expression a little, something shifting in his eyes. “I grew up with my mother in the Jungle. She was Queen at the time.” His mind wanders back to the days of his childhood when he had run wild and free through the Amazonian kingdom, a strong-willed Prince who was as feral as his mother’s jaguar. He had been in his element—guiltless for being who he was.
“It was indeed nice,” and it had been. Perhaps the happiest he had ever been in his life. There was no shame during those days. He had fought and ran and been one with the sisters around him: a warrior who was not asked to think twice about being such. But times changed that and eventually he learned what it was to feel guilt for the darkness in one’s own heart. He learned to second guess himself and strive to be something he would never achieve. His life was a futile exercise in being someone else.
His smile remains though, such thoughts only an undercurrent to the conversation. “Now it is my turn.” He muses thoughtfully, exaggerating the thoughtfulness with soft sighs and tongue clicking against his teeth. “Where did you grow up?” A pause, “And where is your favorite place to spend your days now?”
His laugh rings in a lordly fashion; deep, soothing, and intriguing. It warms her stomach like a cup of tea might on a rainy day; a constant feeling, one she wishes to feel more often. And though their eyes meet occasionally, her stomach does not flutter. She’s comfortable with him; more comfortable than she could have imagined.
Perhaps it is well and good that he keeps the blades of his past tucked beneath his skin, for she has no weapons to match the like of his.
“A lovely choice; green surrounds us, it would be a pity to hate it. I myself prefer yellow.” She glances towards the rising sun, ears perking towards its subtle warmth. “It’s a quiet colour.” Silence falls, as though this is explanation enough for her favourite colour. A trivial thing it may be, yet she cannot bring herself to speak further on the matter, for yellow is a guarded colour; and it’s difficult to speak of being guarded when that’s all she has ever been.
As Magnus speaks of his birthplace, the mare cannot bring herself to avert her gaze from her smoky features. Her smile reflects his own, a more docile take on his charming expression. “I’ve never been to the Jungle,” She murmurs thoughtfully, “It’s always seemed so… Intimidating, I suppose.” Tossing her forelock, she imagines herself in his place, a princess of a mighty kingdom, one of renown and prowess. The image pulls a sad sort of laugh from her lungs, one of early mornings and cool fingertips.
Smile genuinely widening at the stallion’s playful thoughtfulness, Cinzia extends her wing and bumps him, chastising his teasing ways. His fur is soft against her feathers. “Well, I was born in the Valley. That’s where mum likes to hide away. She’s no queen, not even a subject anymore.” Her face contorts gently, shoulders rising in a shrug as the duo strolls along. “It was my home I suppose, but it’s always damp there. A dusky place. I left as soon as I could.” Shrugging a second time, the mare flicks her forelock again, slightly uncomfortable with the topic. Glancing towards Magnus again, his steady features encourage her to continue speaking.
“Now though? I guess this is where I spend most of my days. But my favourite place… Hmm… I don’t do much travelling, but I’ve always enjoyed cocooning myself in the quaint forests of cobblestone creek. It’s a herdland,” She explains in a rush, rather sheepish to reveal her hide out. “But I’m the only one who lives there. I just like the sound of the creek, y’know?” She shrugs a third time, laughing in a breathy way, less cool fingertips and more burning cheeks. “So… Yeah. Uhm. Do you do anything weird like that?” Pulling a big, silly smile, she makes big eyes at him, a comical expression. “Please tell me you do. Please. I would hate to be the only weird one here.”
ooc: to be honest this is the cutest thread I've ever threaded.
It is often strange to him to discover that others viewed the Jungle as intimidating; to him, it had always been the most welcoming place in the world. Of course, if he stepped back, he could understand their hesitancy of his birthplace. It was not a forgiving land. The kingdom in and of itself was harsh. It did not tolerate weakness and often culled those who were not worthy of living there. It was a natural process, but it did not make it a kind one. The Jungle was beautiful, but she was fierce—and often vicious.
He loved her all the more for it.
So his smile is soft at Cinzia’s explanation, nudging her gently. “I would love to show you there.” He glances up. “I am not a resident, but they have not been too offended by me returning from time to time so long as I respect the borders and the protocol.” Magnus did not love having to wait to be escorted in the kingdom and often longed for the days when he ran in and out as free as the jaguars themselves, but he understood that he was now a stranger to many, if not most, of them. He would respect their wishes.
When she speaks of her birthplace, he feels himself sour a little. He never was a fan of the Valley, and if he was to name the kingdom he detested most of all, that would most likely be it. Librette’s attachment to it was perhaps its only redeeming quality—and as far as he knew, she was long gone. Magnus no longer had any reason to like or even tolerate the Valley. In his opinion, they were nothing more than bullies.
But he doesn’t tell her that or hold her responsible for ties to the kingdom. He just walks quietly by her side, listening attentively, laughing at her final confession. “I hate to break it to you, but you are not even remotely close to being the weirdest one here.” His mind wanders to all that was weird about him—his death, his resurrection, his time spent jumping between kingdoms. “I personally love to wander through Heaven when everyone is asleep. I often check in on everyone before walking the borders by myself.” He shakes his head. “I guess I have always had trouble sleeping.” One corner of his lips rise into a crooked smile, “But I like the sound of running water too.”
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