the dead are coming home; anyone

[demian]

demian

It was dying. His sacrifice to build the protective force that surrounded his kingdom was slowly disappearing. And just the smallest of flame flickered through the v scaring under his left eye. The once king of the Valley had emerged from his hiding just in time to feel the change blast through the air and across the forested kingdom. For the last year and a half, the jaguar man had kept to himself among the caves near the oceanside, allowing his body to naturally fight and then heal from the infection caused by the cosmic fire burning away his eyes.

It had been a great sacrifice of his. To give up his eyes in order to protect the one place he loved most of all. And now it was tumbling, being replaced by an even more physical force. And even though he knew it wasn't up to him, the pain pushed at his heart like a needle slowly pressing into skin. Maybe none of it had been worth it. Yet the wall had kept their kingdom safe while he was gone. And he probably could have handled it just fine, without pain, had he not traveled to find the tree in the center of the valley gone. The magic could still be felt, but just barely, when he had stood on the mound of earth where the tree once stood.

It was then the pain had traveled through his heart. So many changes, so many sacrifices. They had all led to this. A new entity. A tearing down. And the jaguar knew that he couldn't stop it. That it wasn't his place to say anything. But it was still a slight disappointment. Even if it shouldn't be. He still didn't yet find his answers to the questions he was seeking. Why did they change it? What took it's place?

For hours he had waited until he realized the forests were silent and that was when he turned and began to slowly move towards the edges of the kingdom. Fire building and changing his body as he began to move faster until he was galloping and all but a horse shaped by fire entirely. And with that transformation, he crashed through the wall and into the outside world sliding to a halt and turning to look at the blue green and purple flames as his body solidified once more. All except his eyes. In the sockets danced two balls of interlacing flames of blue, green, purple and yellow and with a quick turn he trotted away and towards the gathering lands of neutral territory.

It seemed to take hours before he found himself surrounded by the trees of the forest surrounding the meadow and it was only then he slowed, a soft glow of orange surrounding his gray-white body as he stepped lightly in and around the trees. The crunch of leaves and small twigs crackled underneath his softly planted hooves until finally he came to a stop next to an old oak and tucked his wings snugly against his sides. And it was here that he allowed the flames to drain from his sockets and back to the deepest parts of him before anyone could see. In place were two sockets, scarred to the point it seemed as though his eyes had been clawed at repetitively until not just they were gone, but the lining behind them was shredded and torn apart. With great acts come great sacrifices. And his sacrifice had almost been his life, not just his eyes.

It was then he heard the rustling and with a snap, he turned his head towards the noise and huffed slightly before speaking in a deep and rumbling voice, "If you plan on sneaking up on me, just know that I am able to hear you." It was then a smirk dances slightly across his features before he rolled his shoulders slightly. "But if you're going to creep on me, you might as well creep on me while up close." And there it was. An invitation to whoever was lurking to come and join him for a chat.

i'm going to burn this world down in her name.

[Hestia]

the cat and the fiddle

Its been quite a while since she had been able to be out on her own. Not only did she have two yearlings tagging at her side but also that of her new found partner in crime Fennick. the worrisome creature hardly gave her space to breath much less space to think. She chuckles lightly at this thought. There was not much time in the day left to think on depressive things, nor the shadows that had so frequently kept her company in the past.

For that she would always be grateful to the stallion. Her little ones were finally beginning to fend for themselves, as much as she loved them she couldn't be more grateful for this. She was sure that the king was racing around after them as any overly concerned father would. Thus she had no need to worry about them herself on her meanderings.

Taking in a deep breath, the crisp wintery air circulates through her lungs, filling her throat, and reviving her brain with a heady sense of rush. Snow flakes fleck on her mane and rump collecting in glistening spots against her black coat.

It had just filled out replacing what weight she had lost after the pregnancy making her used to be slender figure quite a bit fuller. More maternal in its volupcious curves. Where she had been a pretty little wisp of a creature, now she filled out nicely carrying the few extra pounds nicely around her hips. Though she had at one point been toned, the muscles had softened replaced with a more appealing open armed sort of aspect to her body.

She was also finding that she was often needing a few more naps then normal. She couldn't know that this was part of aging. Having been an immortal, her body was adjusting, and slowly decaying through the passage of time.

The more the days passed the more it seemed that she would not last quite as long as she had hoped. There is quite a rousing in the forest. And just as she is getting herself familiar with the newly developed land, another appears, someone vaguely familiar, yet not at all within recollection. hello? her soft melody of a voice echos through the trees.

The sudden response startles her a bit Well it may just be you that is creeping up on me. she smiles warmly circling her way around the trees so that she can see him properly. When the eyes. Or should she say the lack there of reminds her of where she would know this creature. I'm Hestia, finally we meet. Even as she had been brought into the Valley by Fennick she had still yet to meet the ruler at that time.

Hestia

The living dead

[demian]

demian

"Maybe I am. I guess you'll never know." With a slight smirk he tilts his head slightly towards her. He hadn't been expecting to run into one of the members from the valley out here in the forest. But you could easily say that it wasn't too much of a surprise. Even the others sometimes needed to get away from the hustle and bustle of kingdom life. Shifting his weight, he straightened, head turning towards the mare. Just barely he could see her but to him she was made of black smoke against a slightly lighter surface.

"It's nice to finally meet you Hestia," his voice is deep and smooth, quietly moving across the space inbetween them. "I'm Demian, though I know you already know that." His introduction was purely made out of formality and politeness. During his time as King he knew he had not had the chance to meet everyone, but he had at least taken notice of everyone that lived there, and Hestia had been one of them. Even though he couldn't see it now, he could easily remember her face like he had seen it just hours beforehand.

Licking his bottom lip slowly he shuffles his wings at his sides a bit before speaking once more. "I'm sorry we weren't able to meet before." And he was. He had tried his hardest to keep up with everyone, but overtime the tasks of being king had become tedious. Especially when the infection had taken hold. Back then he had made his closest friends and he had of course taken a few under his wing so to say. Fennick of course had been his first. And eagerly he had encouraged the young man to grow and evolve, eventually making him a king.

What fun it will be when the once jaguar king is able to meet the two children of the boy he had so much faith in. Even more so would it be an enjoyment when he found out that Hestia was their mother. But it wasn't something he knew yet and he'd of course let the two tell him rather than pry. Letting a slight smirk tug at his lips, the jaguar man shifted his weight once more. "How has the Valley been? But more importantly, how have you been, Hestia?"

i'm going to burn this world down in her name.

[Hestia]

the cat and the fiddle

Well it seemed that war would be upon them shortly. How juicy the gossip would be, the ringing wails of mares over their loved ones corpses. How dear to the heart the bitter vengence of women scorned. The burning anger of foals loosing parentage. The next generation would be scarred, the reaping would be sweet and gory. The children would run scared into the shadows. Maybe a few would dare to speak up. Some might even try to rival the hatred and passify the younglings into peace, but there would never be peace. Living in beqanna, peace was a term for lulls in the storms. Where the dead went silent and the young slept in their mothers wombs. until they wakened in the cold, motherless, and fathers bloody with battle. The dead crying out and shaking the earth with their tormented woes.

When the magicians awake and the world is turned upside down. That is when the peace is over, that is when the souls of beqanna grow restless. That is when the truth of their nature rings and the pacification no longer works. The peace loving mongrels would always loose int he end. Always they would find themselves on the bottom of the ladder. Weak, undesirable, sucluded.

Her lips quirk into a smile at his dry humor. Perhaps, or possibly Gallows would tell me... She stops, finding the phrase akward to say the least. After all she was the person that had kicked this man off his throne. With her mind reading ability the mare had weaved her way into Hestia's heart as a dear friend, and guide. She knew herself and knew that without Gallows, she would have never been able to raise the children properly. Quickly the subject changes and she hopes the strain is gone. She had not meant to say that, not in the least, but it was to late now.

Yes that is true. I do know you. She reaches her soft muzzle out to him in sympathy. I am not one to apologize to. I myself find that I lack in attentiveness. Often getting more lost in my own thoughts and world then I should. She bites her lip. It isn't often that she confesses her faults to others, but he needed to know that he wasn't the only one falling short. They had loved him as king, regardless of faults.

She pauses a moment, age taking her mind, and sending her away, when his voice brings her back to the present. The Valley fares well. Considering, there has not been much activity. I think they are all waiting for the war to begin. You know you are always welcome back. They have replaced the wall. I guess that it was frightening the diplomats, and such. There was talk of a wolf pack. I guess they are using the magic of the wall to create one? I am not sure my memory blurrs. She chortles at this. Then he asks about her.

Her features shadow over, she was feeling her age, she could feel the change taking over her body. Being a mother has taken its toll, she quips. It is worrisome to her, how much longer would she have? Would she even get to watch the war? She honestly couldn't be sure. The only joy she had in life, watching the suffering, and toil of others; and here she was feeling to old to even watch. She could even see a few strands of grey in her coat. She could at least now say that she had held a wonderful life.

You could even go as far as saying that she was READY to pass on. She could feel it in her bones, her body didn't want to stay, the broken tired soul wanted to rest. She shakes her mane, loosing the thoughts for a moment. What about yourself? How have you been? She twitched her tail hearing the distant howl of a wolf pack.

At that moment, a squeal could be heard Eeep! A small black frame tumbling out of the bushes. Kryten! Hestia gasps, slightly embarrased by her sons entrance. He blinks up at them a little wide eyed.

I.. I.... who's that moma she blushes, looking between Demian, and her son. Well this is Damien, Damien this is Kryten, Fennicks and my son. Just her luck, she had to bring up Gallows, now she had her son trailing after her? She could only guess that his worrisome father would be tagging along shortly. Unless of course Eona was keeping him so busy that his head would be twisted into his own butt when they got back. I guess you get to meet the family after all. She smiles hoping that she hadn't made a complete fool of herself in her short meeting of the king.

After all, she still respected him, and in a way loved him, just as she loved all the Valley.

Hestia

The living dead

[Pollock]

A FEAST OF FREINDS.

He knows how to be unnoticeable.
When you grow up in a beast’s lair, you learn.
He is a well oiled machine, a supremely trained predator. He had grown full and mighty on the stalk; he had found something beyond the intimations of her maltreatment – himself, in that invisibility. He had been introduced to power there; and with it on him, like a king’s clock, he had found all manner of brutality on which to feast himself fat. It sated his aching rancor like nothing else could. 
It seemed to him that he walked in a rift removed from everyone else. And in that passageway, Pollock could imagine himself with deliverance at his feet like pools of blood.

The broken boy became a bitter man. His transparency had made him wicked, but her milk had made him weak. And these things came together like tar and feathers to cover the golden inches of his body in cowardice and anger; hate, held in abeyance by the fear she let grow between his ribs from a childhood of sown seeds.
When it had been Phina’s time to go, it had not also been his time to take her, it seemed.
He had so wanted it to be theirs to share. Such a shame.

He knows how to be unnoticeable.
It is not enough to just be unseen, of course, when a predator is dealing with finely tuned prey. He must be unheard, stand downwind and be unscented. He had mastered all this quite fast.
So very fast, in that piney glade of darkness where he lay ungainly, shivering and alone, waiting for his mother to come back and snuggle around him and… in that press of utter darkness, he tucked his coltish body away in the rift and learned to protect himself. Fear is the wellspring of his newly birthed demi-godliness. He had not known it then, when it battered him like waves on a wharf, but it all made sense now.
Or parts of it made sense, and the rest was the undertow, working to unravel all that had been built overnight.

No sense in dwelling on it now.
He runs his tongue across his dark lips, and takes a few slow steps forward, cursing the drag of his wing in the dust. It is his only token of that shameful time; and worse still, the only thing that provokes much sound, if he is at his best and most cautious. It is like his calling card, one he begrudges fully – that uneasy, snake-belly shift of his tattered wingtip long the ground. He is a thing designed for chaos, imperfectly so, and as he looks upon the couple exchanging their asinine little pleasantries, he is stirred by that compulsion to discord. By the inborn animus.
He is close. Close enough for them to curse not having felt him there when they whisper of it later.

She seems happy.

He moves with sickening speed. Still wrapped in his anonymity, but the rapid pound of his feet disrupt that carefully manufactured quiet. It is no matter, he closes in on her too fast for her to react. Or for her near-blind companion, or scrawny, yearling whelp. He can consider this a little gift. A glimpse into the recesses of life. He’ll learn from this.

Pollock does not reveal himself until it is over. Until he squares his great, curved headgear into the pretty side of her skull.
Mass and velocity. It is a physics equation. But to him it is simply brutality.

There is a loud crack, the caving of bone; and the smell of blood. He inhales sharply, the thrill taking him a few strides more before he turns on the spot and moves in again. From behind the blind of his invisibility, he flickers into sight. Sweat dampens his golden neck and shoulders and haunches. His chest and ribs heave, and he looks the young stallion in the eye, a frenzied smile on his lips. Gross arrogance and adrenaline; he was a coward once, now he allows the boy to see him unhindered. He stays for as long as he can hold the shivering excitation of his body back. 
Blood smears the curves of his great horns.

He does not look at her again. She may still be alive, in a clutched by braindeath sort of way. If she is, it is by the measures of oxygen still left in her, and that slow way a body can capitulate. Cell by cell.
That is, not for much longer. And he is gone, unseen and away, unconcerned with what comes next.

POLLOCK, THE GIFT-GIVER

sorry for the drive-by! he likes to let his work speak for itself sometimes :P