"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
11-13-2015, 01:18 PM (This post was last modified: 11-13-2015, 01:28 PM by Sindor Aura.)
Legs tangled in a mess and covered in mud, fur matted with what may of been muck and grim from the past travels, and a face battered with cuts near the neck and ears; he awoke. Groggy and confused as his large long head swayed slowly back and forth. His light chocolate eyes surveying what little land his shaky sight could pick up. He dared not move for fear of what may of been broken to his form, but his confusion and throbbing head left him in a spinning world; where grass was the sky and a vast ocean lay before him.
In the distance however, his only working sense could detect the slight sound of other equine. Soft neighs and thumps of hoof to earth. This assured him at least. Others were around and could probably identify his state if any wandering would come up to him.
How he got this way though, was even more puzzling to him than the upside-down world he was now viewing. What happened? Why was he laying on the ground feeling each part of his body ache with pain? Why was his sight all blurred and criss-crossed?
...
Where did he come from? Where was he? Who was he?
All he could remember was a name...Sindor.
the ghost of a girl that i want to be mostthe shell of a girl i used to know well
With Topsail growing bigger every day (and also growing Camelia’s overflowing heart with love), she has found she can leave her daughter behind in the Gates more frequently. Her parenting methods with Finner were very different from how Topsail’s are now, perhaps simply because he is her firstborn. Even so, despite the threat of the Chamber lingering over the kingdom like a thick cloud, Camelia knows the Gates will protect Topsail – and if the kingdom disappoints, Mast will always be there.
And so Camelia takes the time to travel to the field. The summer heat is warm on her golden back, sending comforting warmth into her bones and soaking into her skin. The walk is peaceful and calm, giving the ex-queen time to reflect on herself without Topsail’s curious voice infiltrating her mind every two seconds. Although she doesn’t mind her daughter’s voice sounding inside her head, Camelia finds the peaceful walk by herself to be uplifting and enjoyable.
The field is a chaotic bustle of politics and competition, as usual. Although Camelia was gone from Beqanna for a few years, the field has never changed. It – and the meadow, its sister – are steadfast, historical places of the land that she supposes will never disappear. And so the dunskin mare gracefully swims between the rough waters of debating and pining, seeking out those with the heart of a true Gates member.
Her gentle brown eyes stumble across the sight of a stallion lying in the mud immediately. Finnley and Kaelie instilled a deep sense of mercy and desire to assist into their daughter, and it has always proven to show through in the times it is needed. This time is no different. Camelia’s steps hurry to get closer before she is leaning down, her eyes anxiously scanning over the stallion’s body. She notes a few scratches and cuts along his face, ears, and neck but there are no other visible signs of injury.
Speaking softly, Camelia’s says, “Are you alright? Do you need help standing up?” Her immediate concerns are about his physical well-being – is he dying, did he need water, was he starving, did he break a bone, could he stand up – and never about what happened to get him there or what his name was or how he ended up on the ground. First, Camelia needs to make sure he isn’t dying.
The world seemed to come back to him very slowly, spinning slowed and the senses he once bore returned to normal as...well before he came here. Questions came into his mind as to where and how he got here. And why did his body feel beaten from blows he could not recollect? and what was his purpose here? Why did his legs cease him to lay here in the thick of mud and grim?
Many of these questions swarmed his head that he almost misheard the voice that spoke to him!
Sindor turned his long head toward the sound to see the looks of a mare with light brown coat, a few darker markings to add. Her voice, while soft and assuring, was also concerned and worried about something. Sindor focused his chocolate brown eyes to the mare to try and keep his attention without seeming rude; his headache creating problems for him to completely give full attention.
"I don't know...I'm a bit scared to try to speak the truth.." He said as he gave out a painful cough. In fear of something broken, say a bone or tendons destroyed. But he couldn't feel anything being hard to control, just extremely sore and painful to move. "But...I can try."
Inch to step, and step to heave he rose his hulking body to his hooves. Wobbly like a newborn colt, his legs almost too weak to support his large weight as he straitened his legs to keep still. The world still felt tilted to him, as his head swayed back and forth lightly.
"Where am I?" he said with a softer pained huff from his nostrils, still locked to the mare's form.
the ghost of a girl that i want to be mostthe shell of a girl i used to know well
Camelia isn’t sure what his condition is. She wonders if he might be having difficulty in his mind, rather than his outward body. Every soul she meets has some amount of dark patches sewn into their hearts – some more than others. Sometimes those patches might be rotting away, a disease causing chaos to ensue inside their minds. Sometimes those patches are eaten away because of an event in their life. Camelia knows herself that the wildfires in the Gates left a hazy spot in her mind which left her riddled with nightmares of fire and heat and suffocating from smoke.
Nonetheless, Camelia attempts to assess this stallion’s situation to the best of her medical ability (which, truth be told, isn’t a whole lot of ability). When he coughs, she shifts her ears in another sign of almost motherly worry. The instincts of a mother to her foal are strong in Camelia, especially with her own baby back home. Paired with her high amount of empathy, the dunskin is nearly dancing – in a figurative manner – around the stallion trying to help him. Her outer composure is one of grace and calm.
The stallion moves to stand and Camelia graciously steps closer in order to lend her slender figure to aid him. He wobbles and tilts like a foal still unsure about their hooves, but the ex-queen manages to steady him easily with her own frame. Although she is clearly womanly in the physical sense (slender and with womanly curves and delicate features that caress her face), she is still strong enough to help this stallion to his feet.
He suddenly asks his first question and it is a clue to what he knows. Which is, in short, nothing about Beqanna. With a deep sniff, Camelia notes he doesn’t smell of Beqanna, but rather from the outside. His scent is lathered in unfamiliar places underneath the sharp, salty tang of blood from his cuts. Camelia’s voice is gentle once more as she replies. “You’re in Beqanna. This gathering place here is called the field.” She doesn’t bother loading him with deep information about the field. He doesn’t seem mentally strong enough to gather and keep such knowledge.
So instead, she begins with simple things. “My name is Camelia. What is yours?”
Bequanna...it struck nothing in his mind. No memory... no clue. Nothing. Well in fact, there were no memories at all. A blank slate he did have. What was this land called Bequanna, how did he enter this land; what did it have in store for him? He pondered on these as the first greeting came from the mare.
She gave her name, Camelia! It reminded him of...well nothing. But it sounded nice and it was the second name he knew so far, and that at least comforted him to know more than his own name. "I...think I'm named Sindor. Forgive me, I do not recollect the past few days...or anything of that matter. I'm as new minded as a colt coming onto the world. I'm not even sure how I ended up in the mud here!"
He shook his head lightly to rid of the throbbing nucense in his head, his blackish mane with mahogany tips wiped the sides of his neck, stinging where they touched cuts and bruises. He gave a low huff, seeing as the mare was attempting to help him, he could tell his weight was almost a bit to much for her...at least that was what he thought. "Was anyone with me when you found me? Or am I alone here?" His demeanor gets low, and saddened. Had he been abandoned? Was he always this weak? Was someone mean't to look after him and flatly left him to fate's cruel claw? Why?
11-15-2015, 01:30 AM (This post was last modified: 11-15-2015, 01:31 AM by Hurricane.)
He is in the field again. It seems he is in the field often lately, despite the fact that duties call. But then, this is one of them. And the Tundra does have quite a need. The weather today is inordinately hot. Then again, that is likely because he is used to the much cooler temperatures of his northern home. Summer has rolled around, bringing with it the sweet fragrance of growing things and greatly extended daylight hours. Not that he would object to the lack of darkness. Not when the Tundra has warmed enough to actually be considered somewhat balmy (at least by Tundra standards. By others it might still be quite chilly). Here though, it is downright hot.
That does not stop him however. Brushing off the mild discomfort as he does the frigid winter temperatures in his home, he continues forward. He scouts the field in much the same way as he patrols, though in this case, he chooses to walk rather than fly. His large, feathered wings are tucked neatly into his sides as he stalks forward, ruffling them occasionally in an attempt to keep cool.
He has been at it for several hours before he stumbles into the pair of them. Or rather, catches sight of them from a distance and halts so that he might more closely observe. The stallion, lying prone, appears to have been subject to something rather unsavory. Even from a distance, Hurricane can see that he is in rough shape. He debates for a moment whether to approach invisibly, so as to reconnoiter at a closer distance, but ultimately decides against it. He is not yet entirely sure he wishes to approach. While he is not averse to sticky situations, he is also not the most comforting or healing fellow. And the mare seems to be doing a rather fine job of ensuring the other stallion’s health for herself.
Finally, he makes the decision to step forward, to find out firsthand what is going on. After all, he can always walk away, though he is not so heartless that he would leave a man on death’s doorstep. As he nears, he can hear their conversation more clearly. Where before it had been only faint snippets, now he can pick out more easily what is being said. It seems that the darker stallion is named Sindor and has lost his memories. That, at least, is something he is familiar with.
Having lost his memories once, long ago now, he can understand the other man’s confusion. Can still clearly recall the frustration and agony he had put himself through trying to reclaim them. Unfortunately he had never been successful. But then, he has lived so long it hardly seems to matter anymore. He had simply replaced them with decades of new ones.
He halts at a comfortable distance from the pair, eyeing the battered stallion closely.
”You’ll give yourself a headache if you try too hard. Remembering, that is.” Pause. ”I’m Hurricane, by the way.”
the ghost of a girl that i want to be mostthe shell of a girl i used to know well
He doesn’t remember anything. Camelia’s stomach drops in mingled dismay and fear. She wonders, for a flickering second, what it might be like to forget everything (the Gates, Mast, her parents, her children, her childhood, the tightly-woven blanket of memories that swaddle her personality). It almost causes her delicate ears to flatten against her skull, but she resists the urge of making an ugly face. Having no memories must be a scary thing and Camelia is prepared to provide the upmost comfort to this stallion, regardless of how many hurdles she must jump.
She is about to tell Sindor not to think too hard about what happened when a stallion arrives to say the same thing. The dunskin offers the other stallion – Hurricane, he introduces himself as – a sunny smile and nods toward him. “I’m Camelia.” Having just gotten back from a period of silence and wandering of Beqanna, she wouldn’t know that this winged stallion is the king of the Tundra. She would have, then, treated him with more respect compared to an equal. But nonetheless, her attention is again drawn by Sindor.
“You’ve already been forgiven,” Camelia says with another generous, bright smile. She continues to lean against his side, aiding him standing. His question about being alone causes her to hesitant. “I’m sorry, Sindor, but no one was with you when I found you. Don’t worry too much about it now; I’m here to help you.” She offers another one of her sunny, trademark smiles.
“Do you think you can walk enough to reach that creek over there?” Her head dips toward the slow-moving creek winding between a pair of trees. He must be thirsty (who knows how long he had been laying there?) and she could also help wash off the mud and inspect his cuts and scratches to determine how severe they are. Already, Camelia can think of a few herbs at the Gates that could drive away the possibility of infection, but the Gates is a long way away unless he decides to come with her.
She shoves away the habit of advertising for her kingdom and instead focuses on Sindor’s wellbeing. Her eyes turn toward Hurricane. “If Sindor needs help to the creek, would you mind taking his other side?” Motherly instinct swamps her and it happens to also turn her into a woman ready to use whatever means necessary to aid another, including delegating the resources.
Sindor's hopes slightly fade as his hope of anyone else who could of been with him was denied. But he does not show his sorrow, instead he tries to pick his head up a bit higher to show that he's still physically strong; while his body on the inside screams in agony of being shifted into that position.
It seemed as if Camelia were to utter more words to him when another equine appeared on the other side of Sindor. White almost like snow to Sindor's eyes, with big feathery wings perfectly tucked in at his sides. He game his name as 'Hurricane' and told him to take it easy with the memory.
Sindor dipped his head slowly in the direction of what looked like a small creek, Camelia pointing it out to him first off. Now that he thought about it, he was quite parched; a bit dry in the tongue as well. Sindor gives a single nod to Camelia, accepting the extra help from the other stallion if he so choose to aid his other side. "I have so many unanswered questions...but I guess I'll store them away for now. I'm glad I ended up in good company instead of being alone to fend for myself."
The faint hint of dismay and lost hope visible on the other stallion’s features stirs something within him he had long since thought lost. Compassion. Only the faintest hint, but there nonetheless. He can too easily recall the crushing emptiness associated with the loss of ones memories. The fear and gut-wrenching worry of what was and what could have been. Eventually, one learns to live with it, to accept the gaping hole where memories had once resided. Simply moving forward until that hole shrinks, until new memories are made that displace the awful emptiness of what once was. But it is not a quick process. And Hurricane can fully empathize with how Sindor might be feeling at this very moment.
If he is lucky, he might regain the lost memories. Hurricane had never been so lucky.
That had not stopped him though. He had remade himself, forged a new man out of the shell of the old one. He is quite satisfied with his new life and can no longer regret the loss. He doesn’t know the man he was before, but he knows the man he is now. And to him, that is what matters.
Hurricane is not surprised at the other stallion’s slight reluctance to give the intense reflection a break, though he seems to heed his advice nevertheless. The frustration must be eating him alive. Or, if it isn’t yet, he has no doubt it soon would be. But a sore head never helps anyone.
”Your questions will be answered in time, or they won’t. Either way, you’ll do yourself no favors by making yourself ill.”
Stepping forward, he lifts his wing out of the way as he offers the battered stallion his assistance. When they have reached the creek, he eases away slightly, giving Sindor space so that he could quench his thirst. He stays near enough that he can assist if needed, but he sees no reason to crowd the man unnecessarily.
”I can help you clean the wounds a bit, if you’d like.”
He extends one wings slightly, indicating that he could use the appendage to collect water. The things were rather brilliant at soaking up water. Annoying on most other days, but potentially useful today.
”Injuries of the mind heal best with sleep. At least mine did. To that affect, I could offer you a safe place to rest, if you’d like it.”
No doubt Camelia could offer him the same thing (he recognizes her, if not by face then by name. She had been queen after all, and he has little doubt she is here for the Gates, even if she has not said so directly. He doubts she would recognize him. He had been little more than a Tundra soldier when she had ruled. That he is king now makes no difference. It is not something he regularly bandies about). He’s not even sure the other man would care for the Tundra. It takes a certain strength and fortitude to thrive there, and he simply doesn’t know Sindor well enough to have seen if he has what it takes. But he would be remiss in not offering. Besides, the Tundra has a way of taking care of its own.
