"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
At one point in her life, Etro had thought she had constellations trapped in her breast.
She had spent her nights sleeping under the vast, impossible, infinite sky of the Deserts kingdom and had imagined that those same nebulas swam in her veins and expanded across her chest—that she was nothing but stardust and the echoes of centuries past. But such dreams were for children, and she was no longer a child. Her eyes had seen her mother break down before her. She had felt the illness of a kingdom that could not keep her (a kingdom that did not want her). She had felt the settling dust of understanding when she learned that the metallic tang that hung around Kingslay was that of life taken—not borrowed, not given.
Reality had a harsh, cruel edge, and she had the scars to prove it.
So when Etro walks through the meadow tonight, her steps are slow, and she takes care to skirt around the edges of the gathering groups where her powers may extend. She does not fully understand just what her trait negation means, but she has seen magic fight to pierce the veil around her, and she has seen Kingslay’s raging fire reduced to smoldering ashes in her presence. Whatever she was, she smothered; she was not the stars—she was a black hole. She swallowed the magic of anything near enough to her.
In silence, the plain bay mare moves toward a lone tree, coming to rest underneath it, one hip pressing perhaps too hard against the bark. With a sigh, she drops her head, closing her muddy brown eyes to shut out the rest of the world. She was not a creature that was prone to the tempting touch of sadness, but tonight, she feels it: the fingers grabbing onto her heart and squeezing. Tonight, for the first time in perhaps ever, she feels the bite of loneliness.
She is wild, like a weed. The world is her oyster, and she is intent on discovering it. She will leave no stone unturned, no corner unexplored. Her parents fret and fuss over her and her well-being, but being the child that she is, she pays them no mind. Surely she was born with a gypsies soul, for what else would give her such a yearning for wandering? She is still a fawn-like thing, all too long legs and large liquid eyes. Like a deer she is in a constant state of motion, for even when she is finally still the quiver of her nostrils will betray her. Perhaps she shouldn’t be out on her own, not at this age…but she isn’t one to give to social conventions. She would much rather make the rules as she goes along and bend the ones already in place. Though she was born a princess, she was a gypsy at heart.
Mama should have known better than to nap. It doesn’t take her long to take advantage of her mothers exhaustion, and she slips off unnoticed into the forest. Though she has no destination in mind her feet clearly do. The fact that night has fallen does not deter her; to the contrary, she comes alive beneath the star shine. Shadows dance at her feet and she snorts, more playful than scared. The world has shown her nothing to be scared of, so its not a feeling she’s familiar with. It is in the midst of her play that she nearly bumps into someone else. A plain bay mare, resting against the rough bark of a sturdy-looking tree. Topsail does not notice that her brain starts to feel fuzzy, and if she does notice she pays it not mind. “I’m sorry…” she thinks, looking into the eyes of the mare. Being somewhat unsure of her ability, the grulla filly says nothing more, giving the other a chance to get the message. Unfortunately she hadn’t practiced much on anyone other than mama and father. Again the air feels static and Topsail can’t help but give the mare a wary glance.
in the hushing dusk, under a swollen silver moon, I came walking with the wind to watch the cactus bloom
Exhaustion floods her, and she cannot help but think of Kingslay. Cannot help but think of Sleaze. Cannot but help think of her father. They surround her and choke her, and she feels as if she cannot breathe. Her muddy brown eyes close, tighten, and she swallows a few times, trying to steady the earth beneath her. It was all happening too fast. She was changing, losing the ones she loved, disappointing the rest. She was meant to change destinies, destroy dynasties, shape the stars, and she is doing nothing. She is nothing.
It is not until she hears the sound somewhere in the depth of her mind that she moves. The sound is faint, fuzzy, and she frowns, opening her eyes to see the small filly by her side. “Oh!” she cries, surprised, and her voice is the same silver bells that it has always been. Even if she is not. “I didn’t see you there.”
Her face falls again, and one corner of her lip pulls down into the corner. “Was that you?” She can almost feel it, the faint ringing of something in the corner of her mind—something protected by the smothering blanket of her ability. “Did you say hello?” she questions, dropping her rather plain head down to the filly’s level, nondescript eyes sparking with the beginning of interest. She had seen a lot of magic in her life (mostly when she was young and, now, from afar), but she had not yet encountered telepathy outside of her mother. It was intriguing, and she hated herself for making it fuzzy—for making it unclear.
“My name is Etro,” she finally greets, smile turning sad when she thinks of all she has, was, ruining.
-- vanquish and yael's forgotten trait-negating princess --
steady as a preacher, free as a weed… --couldn‘t wait to get goin‘ but wasn‘t quite ready to leave
She was not meant for anything, at least nothing noteworthy. But she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt though that she was meant to run. She was meant to taste all that the world had to offer, to run from one corner of the other and back again for good measure. There was nothing too far for her, not even the stars. She’d taste them too (bitter, probably; but exotic and otherworldly). She would even let the flames of the sun lick her ankles, just to say she had. While she may not have been born for the world, the world had certainly been born for her.
The mare speaks and Topsail feels the air shift, feels the static become almost palpable. “Yes! That was me!” she thinks, though her voice sounds broken and muffled, like she was underwater. She shakes her head as if to clear bothersome flies, but its of no use- the static remains, pressing on her mind unpleasantly. The filly is at the point of turning away when the mare, now known as Etro, lowers her head and smiles. While Topsail may have had the tendencies of a weed, she was not rude. So she stayed, doing her best to ignore whatever hung in the air between them. Despite having limited practice, she had never encountered such trouble getting her words through. The world hadn’t saw fit to give her a traditional voice, though she’d tried that too. All that came through were squeaks and mewls and whimpers; it was if an iron fist was wrapped around her vocal cords. But now the same fist seemed to be moving to her mind, and for a moment she was scared. “Are you doing this to me?” she asked loudly, her tone bordering on the thin edge of anger. For good measure she pins her small ears and narrows her eyes, her frown deepening at the mare. “This is the only way I know how to talk…you’re making me fuzzy Etro…” Her voice softens slightly, for she had taken notice of the sadness the mare was now wearing. Had their not been so much interference perhaps Topsail could have felt it. For now though, all that she felt was the static and hum of an unknown electricity.
in the hushing dusk, under a swollen silver moon, I came walking with the wind to watch the cactus bloom
Etro was not in control of her trait like many were these days. She could not wield it like a sword and she could not sheath it when she wanted. Instead, it was something woven into her DNA and something that just was part of who she was. She felt it with every breath, and she felt it with every thrum of her heart. Still, with practice, she had learned how to rein it in. It took effort and it hurt, but she tried it now. She felt her way toward the edges of the negation, and she tugged. Sweat broke out on her neck, the plain brown of her coat beginning to darken, but she concentrated until she felt the air around her becoming lighter.
She was not able to completely cancel it out, but she could make it easier.
Or, at least, she could hope that it was easier for her companion.
“Yes, that’s me,” she finally says, and it would be impossible to not notice the sadness in her eyes, the way her voice fell slightly at the confession. “I…” her voice breaks a little, and she shakes her somewhat ugly head, “I cancel out magic.” It was the first time she had admitted it aloud—the first time that she had really admitted it to herself. It was not something she appreciated or loved about herself. She wished with everything that she was able to lose that piece of herself and watch her mother in all of her glory rather than watch her strain against Etro’s smothering ability. She wish she could watch Kingslay burn.
“I don’t know why, or how.” She frowns, shrugging her shoulders before giving a sad smile. “I am really sorry,” she hunts for the words again. “I didn’t mean to make this more difficult for you.”
-- vanquish and yael's forgotten trait-negating princess --
steady as a preacher, free as a weed… --couldn‘t wait to get goin‘ but wasn‘t quite ready to leave
She wasn’t used to being stifled.
She was used to doing as she pleased, unchecked and reckless. But in the presence of this mare, she felt choked. Her mind was static and fog. Beneath the haze she felt her powers struggling, trying to break through the mire to the surface. Had she been older and more practiced, perhaps she could have fought it. But as it was she felt herself slipping beneath the waves of static that the brown mare was casting off.
Then suddenly, the blanket felt lifted somewhat. The air was lighter somehow, and Topsail could feel her powers beginning to resurface. There was still the static hum, but it was less than before. It was tolerable now, where at first it had been downright miserable. She relaxed somewhat, though there was concern etched onto her small face. Judging by the lather on the brown mares neck, and the way her nostrils flared pink, it was obviously a struggle. Despite her initial confusion and anger, Topsail found herself sympathizing. With a sigh she stepped forward, placing her black muzzle against the brown mares shoulder. The skin felt somewhat electric, so Topsail didn’t linger, but she hoped the mare understood. “I’m not magic though. I just don’t have a real voice…” she thought, looking into Etro’s eyes to see if her message came through. She had grown so dependant on her power that she hadn’t practiced communicating without her mind. “It’s ok. This seems more difficult for you than it is for me. I’m sorry for…well, I don’t know. But I’m sorry.” She lowered her small head, trying to convey sympathy in her motions. Finally she smiled, bumping her nose into the brown mares shoulder. If Etro could try to change for her, then surely Topsail could try and do the same.
in the hushing dusk, under a swollen silver moon, I came walking with the wind to watch the cactus bloom
Etro could not deny that reining in her ability was taking its toll. Her neck was slick with sweat, frothing in places, and she could feel herself breathing heavily. But she also understood that it was worth it; if she was unable to control it, even for a few moments, this filly would not be able to communicate with her. She smiles gently when Topsail reaches out to brush her shoulder, and she leans into the child’s touch for a second, comforted by the physical contact. It felt like ages since she had been around a friendly face.
“It feels like magic,” she says tightly, her voice strained from the effort—but she manages another smile, her muddy brown eyes kind despite the exhaustion that began to pull at the edges of them. “It would seem that the heavens gifted you with an even better voice,” she murmured and wondered at how lucky the child had been to be born with the gift that practically negated what others could see as a defect. Not that Etro viewed it that way—but she had no way of knowing the struggles of being mute in a world of noise.
With an apologetic look toward Topsail, Etro relinquished her hold on the edges of her negation, and she felt it flood the area one more. She dropped her bulky head and closed her eyes, focusing on catching her breath. Her sides heaved, and she was quiet for several moments. It was more difficult to do that when the power was so close; she had managed to hold onto it for longer when her mother had been wading through life and death to find Vanquish. Etro wondered if Yael’s lack of mental presence made it easier.
The truth was that Etro had no idea what her negation meant—or how it worked. She knew in some distant corner of her mind that it could be powerful, but she did not know how; she only knew that what she was meant she was denied some of the beauty of this land. And for that reason, she hated it. Calmer, Etro reached for the edges again and curled it toward her, gaining a steadier grip. She looked toward Topsail. “So where are you from?” She’d be damned if she’d stop a friendly conversation from happening.
-- vanquish and yael's forgotten trait-negating princess --
