"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
She missed him. The golden girl had been out and about, exploring the lands and seeking her siblings, but now she was home and she needed her brothers.
Her strides are languid and every step oozes sex and control. She had filled out and grown up, long legs, delicate frame, and doe eyes. Enough to make anybody come crawling but there was only one on her mind. A violet feather still lay against her neck, tangled in the base of her mane. The only token of affection she would ever carry.
Little Nicia is still a princess, still a goddess among men, and now she has the striking looks to go with the attitude. Which was good, things had grown so stagnant after all. She spots the mothers as she descends into the tranquil little cove they all call home. Making a beeline towards the iron effigy of her father, she plants a tender kiss on it's nose before calling out to her siblings to see who's still home.
Her voice rings out like a bell, strong and sweet and demanding. She has no doubt that they will show, after all, she wills it.
He isn't far, he was always around at the most opportune times. She calls, his ears pivot on his head, pushing aside his raven locks to hear. It was a familiar sound but one he had not heard for some time. One that he knew Kirin missed and was probably the reason for his lack of interaction lately.
Kult smiles, a wicked crooked grin, planting his hoof firmly into the belly of the otter he had been tormenting. One finally shrill scream from the creature before it's life was his. It was his way of responding back, she called, he answered.
Climbing the crags he crawls to her, snaking a serpentine path to stand before her. He never carries his head high so he need not lower it now, he is already giving her the respect she commands. He is bloodied, when is he not? Dried patches of wine splash his face, his legs, even his hair. He had changed some, like he notes that she has, but where some men might stiffen at her sight he simply took her in. Sex appeal was not a thing for Kult, he didn't understand it, probably never would. His coat was graying, like Kirin, but the absence of color was a natural one. His bay was merely beginning to peel back into a rose-tinted cloud.
He had not cleaned, Kirin would not approve, perhaps he would not care this time. His black vapid eyes find hers before he crackles her name, "Nicia" he says simply, but he says so much by saying little.
He does not touch her, he doesn't care to be touched himself, so a close personal eye gaze will have to do in place of embraces.