"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
10-19-2015, 09:16 PM (This post was last modified: 10-26-2015, 02:57 PM by Wayra.)
Wayra felt an emptiness in her soul. She felt like the ice imbedded in her heart had grown, leaving nothing but cold in place of love, fear, anger and desire. Some days it was a relief, and somedays it seemed worse than what she had endured with Carnage. She had learned, slowly, through broken bits of whispered stories, that Carnage was his name. Wayra couldn’t think of him as anything other than the gray god. Naming him made it that much more real. Thinking back on her time in his lair had felt like a dream. Thinking about her life before his lair felt like someone else’s dream.
She had thought that returning home would be the answer. She thought that returning to the place she had been stolen from would ease the pain. It had not. She had grown colder and colder. Now the little blue girl felt like ice and snow. She couldn’t stay there, she couldn’t look at the place she had died and remember what Carnage had done to bring her back.
She sighed and exhaled. The breath that passed her lips was like snow, like a cold, bone chilling wind. The meadow grass around her feet turned frosty. All around her the world was warm, and bright and beautiful, but Wayra felt like the middle of winter. In her little world, there was no hope of spring.
Wayra looked up at the sun, and blinked as it blinded her. Some day, she thought, she would forget what it had felt like, to feel the sun’s rays on her back and have them warm her. She took another breath, and it hitched in pain. The literal chip of never melting ice poked at her heart. Abruptly, Wayra looked away. It would do no good to mull like this, she knew.
Her life was different now. She was different. The girl she had been had died on the ice. Carnage had brought her back, but the creature he resurrected had not been the same as the one he had lost. That girl was gone, and now Wayra felt like a stranger. She stared off into the trees, and little snowflakes of her own making danced and swirled for her. It was a comfort, some days, to play with the cold.
As always her mind wandered to the same question. “Who am I?”.
It's been a while since Kirin floated out this way, but he lets the summer air steer his course. There were no pressing engagements to see to at the moment, so he allowed himself to be guided by the wind. Same old same old can be found in the meadow, clusters of horses enjoying company, some off by themselves. It was always the ones that were alone that sparked his fancy, they required less work. He thinks the trip a bust, making use of his wings to turn back, but something catches his eye last minute.
She isn't especially breathtaking, though he doesn't often see roans, but she does posses a quality that draws him near. It's the middle of summer mind you and there she stands, receiving a dusting of snow from flakes that fall from nowhere. Right there smack dab in the middle of the meadow. How is it now one else is as interested as he is? No matter, he was not looking to compete for attention.
He adjusts course, coming to a gentle gliding stop against the wild grasses. "My, that is quite the blizzard you have going there." He isn't stupid, which is why he still stands a ways off, giving this creature ample space should she attack him unprovoked. Kirin didn't enjoy attacks, not unless he was the giver but that meant there had to be a taker involved.
Today he is interested in this snow, how does it come to pass, is she the one who wields it? "My names Kirin, what do they call you?" He fluffs his wings unnecessarily as he folds them against his sides.
10-26-2015, 02:28 PM (This post was last modified: 10-26-2015, 02:58 PM by Wayra.)
Wayra was still young enough that her reflection could be called pouting, or sulking. Her body was still young, all legs and eyes. But, there was something about those eyes, something that made her look older, a little weary, and hard as stone. She could a remember a time when she had been soft, when her heart had been a delicate, flickering thing easily coaxed to a frenzy.
That time was over, and Wayra wasn’t sad to see it go. She had bigger things to worry about, bigger concerns should she decide to let them keep her up at night.
There was little that kept her up, however. On the rare occasion that she did sleep, she did not dream. That habit had been quickly broken in Carnage’s lair. Dreaming was worse than reality, and the black oblivion was her only escape. It was precious, and still she loved to fall asleep and dream of nothing at all. That was rare however, her sleep was undisturbed but infrequent, and Wayra had made her peace with the waking hours.
This was her life now, and there was nothing to be done about it.
A voice broke her revere, and Wayra didn’t startle. She did turn, however, a prim, perfectly sculpted look of inquiry on her face. Sometimes, Wayra imagined that she was just another one of her creations, that she was just a living, moving ice sculpture.
“It is, isn’t it?” She looked at her snowstorm, and for perhaps that first time a look of mild satisfaction crossed her face. If she could’t live, if she couldn’t feel, at least she could create. Wayra wasn’t sure if her powers had been Carnage’s way of apologizing, or his way of reminding her, his way of making sure he never forgot him and his lair.
Wayra didn’t care either way. She felt a kinship with the ice, and that was more then she felt about anything else.
This stallion, however, was interesting. That was more than could be said for most. He was the most charming shade of purple, lavender really. Wayra smiled, ever so gently. She would have been perfectly charmed, once upon a time. That little smile stayed in place, and it made her look like someone had told her a terrific, dirty joke that nobody else could hear.
“They don’t call me much of anything anymore. But, Kirin, you can call me Wayra.” Her answer was a bit of a run around. It was, however, true. She couldn’t remember the last time she had heard her name, the last time she had said it out loud. She liked the sound of it, and liked the sound of his. There was something to be said, for a good name.
Had he spoken so loud? His voice broke the silence like the crack of a gull's skull against the shore crags. His hazel-gray eyes watched the female, her reaction was routine, simply turning to look at him. It was the way she spoke though that made him feel like she was not really there, or as though she was speaking to him from very far away. He has to smirk, even for this stranger. She does not exchange the usual ‘thank you’. Instead her reply is assured and she looks as though she is feeling quite pleased with herself.
Well, can’t hold that against her. He knows with absolution that if the tables were turned, he would appear sufficiently smug about it. Kirin’s vanity was no secret. You could be sure that if he had powers to boast about, he would be doing that very thing. As it happens, he does not. The snow clings to her without melting and the smile does not slip from her finely etched features. It had that look about it, that just right, artful way of looking genuine. He often plastered the same look on his lavender jaw, one that displayed care against his inner indifference.
It is then that he does away with pretense, his face falling and a flat line replacing the curve of his lips. Wayra she says, and he is not so convinced that this is her true name. Any name would do though, so it does not really matter if it is one she has made up. He steps closer, holding his wings away from his body just a few inches. Evidence that he would lift into flight should their time together cause need to depart.
”Wayra,” he preaches, the gentle crackle of snow beneath his feet accentuating his words. His eyes take on a deviant light, “Wayra, do it again.” He coaxes her, his voice firm and hungry as he closes proximity. If he could not wield such gifts, he could live them vicariously through another. Couldn’t he?
Wayra watched the purple boy with a cold interest. It had been so long since she had spoken to anyone. A year perhaps? Two? She felt like a old machine that had sat too long in the corner, enough oil and it would run, but not without first stuttering and stopping.
Luckily, Wayra had enough presence of mind not to stutter. She did, however, watch him for a little too long and a little too coldly.
Her reaction to him was strange, her reaction to everyone was strange. She remembered how she had been before, smiles and teases, gentle taunts and painless barbs. She had been playful, sweet, hopelessly naive. She was not that simple anymore. Part of her wanted to throw herself at him, part of her wanted nothing more than company. Another part of her wanted to snarl. Another part of her wanted to scream at him to get away, wanted to be left alone in the cold.
It was confusing, this dichotomy, but she hid it beneath a chilly, icy expression. She remembered what it was like, to swirl between fear and elation. The mix was worse than the former.
He moved closer then, and Wayra was acutely aware of her chill, and of his beating heart. Could she stop that heart if she made it cold enough? If he touched her would it burn? And would it be his heat that burned her or her cold that burned him? The blue girl smirked and looked away. She was a fool, now as she always had been. Still, there was her name on his lips, and it sounded even better coming from his than it did from hers. She looked back to him, eyes flashing with an emotion that oscillated between anger and desire. They were, perhaps, one in the same.
After another moment he spoke again, and it was the right cord to strike. The air grew icy between them, then frigid, and Wayra smiled, just a little. It was the right balm to his nearness, the bitter wind and icy blast that blew in his face. With a sickening crack, like the smashing of a femur, a stalagmite rocketed upwards, just shy of where his flank had been a moment before. Wayra smirked. He had said to do it again.
“Do you like the cold, Kirin?” Her voice, flat and deadpan for so long, might have held the briefest hint of satisfaction, if you were in the mood to hear it.
11-02-2015, 10:46 AM (This post was last modified: 11-04-2015, 09:22 AM by Kirin.)
His breath clings to the air in puffs of white, each step makes the fog thicker around his whiskered mouth. He is far too close now but he is so very intrigued with the winter that surrounds this girl. It is out of season, out of place, and it is out of desire that he crawls ever closer. Desire for what? Power? Eagerness to wet his insatiable cruel appetite? His sickness to cause that ache in another?, perhaps even himself? It's all of these things that pull him in, that snare the girl in his sights and wraps him so tightly in the moment.
Her name hangs in the stillness and for a time it feels like they are the only two in the meadow. The conflict in her eyes balances him on the edge of the unknown. What would happen, what did she choose? The winged stallion thinks she may never act and his elation threatens to burst into darkness, but then the lull is stabbed with ice.
The temperature shifts, drops intensely around even himself, and he watches her fiercely through his hazel eyes. The blister of snow pierces his lavender hide and while his body grows cold- his eyes burn. The shell that held him betrayed him, growing stiffer, shaking in response to the chill. His mind raced and screamed more, more, more; while his lips split with rawness. A spear of ice flies past him and still he remains an unyielding statue in the middle of a man-made blizzard. He is both irritated and impressed and if he was not becoming so stiff he would cock an eyebrow.
It takes most of his will power to fight the stiffness in his limbs, to move the numbed appendages forward. He just barely managed, standing inches from her face, shaking like a sapling in a gale. "Enough." He struggles to say, because while he enjoyed the ecstasy of the burning pain of cold- he knew his body could only take so much.
Wayra wondered what the moment would look like, the moment he took his last breath. Would she feel remorse? Would she feel pain at his loss, a companion gone as quickly as he had come? Would his eyes close before they froze and popped? The blue mare shuddered, but not from the cold. She didn’t feel the cold, she felt his life in her hands like a burning, flaming ember. The weight of it tore into her, scalded her frozen flesh.
Wayra gasped when he finally said enough. For one long, stretching moment she didn’t know if she could stop. She didn’t know if she could call back the storm she had unleashed. Like a dog couldn’t stop once they scented blood, Wayra wondered if it was the hunt that called to her now, or if it was her own dark desires to punish. To punish him, to punish Carnage, but mostly to punish herself.
Wayra’s poor frozen heart made ever breath sharp and painful. A never easing stitch in her side. But, she welcomed the pain. She deserved the pain. The roaring from the show and ice was only drowned out by the roaring in her head. Suddenly, with a gasping cry, she stopped her assault, the snow disappearing as quickly as it had come. The blue girl shuddered again, and for a while she couldn’t look at him. She didn’t know what she would do if he was dead, and she didn’t know what she would do if he was alive. Finally, she did look at him, and again her eyes were cold. Her soul felt raw, her throat ripped from when she released her breathy gasp. Wayra’s wide, dark eyes were far away, and a little red rimmed, either from the cold or from the eternity of tears she had shed all those months ago. Finally, in a dead voice, she spoke.
“There are those who think the world will end in fire. Those people are fools.” And again she wrenched her eyes away. She looked at nothing, looked far into the past to when she was warm, the sky was blue, and the future was not so far away and very, very bright.
A flicker of worry passes like a ghost over his hazel eyes. Would she stop? Could she stop? He had trusted her enough to cease fire on his word, but was that blind faith? The burning cold is almost past the point of ecstasy and teeters on the brink of agony, only so much, only so far could the body by pushed. Even when that delicious pain brought you bliss, there was still a fine line before one toppled over the edge into anguish. Kirin knew, if he knew anything, he knew the blueprint of pain from pleasure.
When sound breaks from her parted lips, he groans, a mix of delight and distress. "Stop Wayra, you must." Even though they were perched on the cliff of the unknown, he kept his voice even. He could not allow himself to falter or break, bend Kirin-dont break.
Crystals form around his nostrils, at the edges of his cracked lips, along his jaw and crusting his eyes. She take so long to end it that, for a moment, he didn't think she could. Not until her voice breaks again and just as suddenly as it had begun, it ends. Her form is racked with shivers, was she cold? He didn't think she was, many were not affected by their own powers, and he doubted Wayra was any different. It's the fact that she won't face him now that brings him the most dissatisfaction, and a growl of irritation ripples up his burning throat. Her cold stare meets his, which is far from unsettling; in fact he finds it invigorating, feeding off her.
The conflict brought immeasurable delight to their meeting, and ever so slowly he feels the snow crusted shell of his body thaw. Now that was an odd sensation, especially the stiffness and ache that it left behind in his joints. Is that what an arthritic old man felt like? His brow creasing at the passing thought of age. Kirin did not want to grow old, with each passing day his anger and worry increased and he was so very stuck on what he could do about it. "The world is full of fools.. and he who would not see it, should live alone and smash his mirror." He purrs, flexing his wings to release the tension that came with being frozen stiff. It was remarkable really, it wet an appetite he did not know he had had.
"The world will end when God says it shall be so, but first we must please him so we can ascend above the insects that plague Beqanna. Everlasting life Wayra, if only we can show him we are worthy. We shall be unified in his glory, to deny such is fatal." Of course he speaks of the only 'true' God he knows, his father, Khaos. A righteous and all-encompassing stallion, he had created them in his image but still they had work to do. He reached a feathered arm to pull her head back, she had taken to looking away, and how he hated that.
11-08-2015, 02:44 PM (This post was last modified: 11-09-2015, 11:48 PM by Wayra.)
While it wasn’t warmth that tingled in Wayra it was something else, anticipation? Fear? Neither felt right. She certainly wasn’t afraid of him, but perhaps for him? She couldn’t bring herself to feel that either. She couldn’t bring herself to wrinkle her brow or widen her eyes. His growl, however, was a welcome relief, for it meant he was alive. The sound swept through her, raising goose flesh as it went. The little blue girl met his eyes, and there was a hello in them. A welcome back ice man.
Then he spoke, and that noise was welcome too, it brought forth a wave of something unrecognizable. She watched him, momentarily entranced by the ice crystals that had formed on his tender parts and were slowly shattering off in the face of his movement and warmth. Something akin to a smile flicked across her face, so brief and fleeting that she wasn’t even sure it had been there at all. When she spoke her voice was low and purring, copying the noises he made, making them anew so she could hear them again. She brought forth a purring growl that began low and rumbled up from her belly.
“And how, Kirin,” She paused, drawing out her words until they threatened to snap and shatter.
“Could I please him?” Her eyes didn’t twinkle, but they did glint, like polished onyx or slick ice under a warm sun. She wasn’t sure what game she was playing, but she was playing one. She was a chess piece, they were all chess pieces. First she had been a pawn, unnoticed and unused on the board, then he, the gray god, had picked her up and played her, and now she was something else. Not a queen, not a knight, but something else, perhaps a little more powerful than a pawn. Kirin spoke of his god, and Wayra thought of hers, his eyes, his lair, the lingering bits of ice in her heart and soul.
The chains grow taught, as they ever do. Kirin is warmed by the success of his own coaxing, coiling the chains further around, the links folding and locking up.
"Ah," he purrs, for he did enjoy regaling the ways of his people. Like a skilled teacher attempting to preside over an undisciplined class. "We do works in his name, we procreate in his image. All this, because death is the end Wayra, and we are above such final things." Circling her steadily, because it simply just isn't enough to parrot truths into the air. He wished to see that truth take root in Wayra's life and, in turn, bring forth fruit in her behavior.
"I've got my own herd, my family is there too. They could be your family, we could be your family. The adults, they don't understand, but I can understand you Wayra." He didn't know for sure where she had come to the Meadow from, but there were adults involved-there always were.
Back home, there wouldn't be any adults to bother, use, or ignore her. The Mothers let them do as they pleased and often they disappeared into the hills themselves. The Children, were more than capable of surviving without them. No, the adults wouldn't be there to prey on the lovely roan girl, to use her for their own means. That was not to say that the Covelings wouldn't try to, that he wouldn't. He always left that part out though.
Soaring sadist of Silver Cove
<33 gah and he is going to be so pissed with the Gates xD
