"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
It has been a relatively easy pregnancy. Perhaps, simply, because Beqanna has been quiet as of late. She should be upset by this, perhaps. The Chamber and the Valley have seen to it that Beqanna has a reason to be antsy. But really, she is perfectly fine with it all. The calm before the storm. Everyone needs that time. Time to prepare. Time to give birth. Whatever the case may be.
She disappears into the pine trees, knowing the signs this time better than she did with Erebor. It takes less time the second time around as well, and it isn’t so terribly long before there’s a black and white girl laying on the ground. Straia smiles, because it is impossible not to see how perfectly intertwined Weed and her are in the girl’s coloring.
This girl, unlike Erebor, doesn’t exist for a purpose. She exists simply because her parents wanted one another, and they both knew the result. No, it is not quite love. It’s something different, stronger, fiercer than love that brought this girl into the world. It is all together more beautiful, if you ask the Raven Queen.
She sits up and begins licking the girl clean, sending a raven off to find Weed, should he want to come meet his daughter. Should he not be too engrossed in causing chaos that he can slip away for a moment. She doesn’t expect that he’ll necessarily be free. But still, she should alert him. It seems like the appropriate thing to do.
The girl blinks, stirring on the ground though not getting up yet. “Weaver,” Straia says, and the girl turns at the sound. “I think we’ll call you Weaver.” No one else would remember Straia’s mother, but Straia did. Always would. And in this tiny, quiet way, she would live on.
It screams for him to come closer, begging for him to return.
The dark form crawls forward, slipping through the shadows and mist of the forest. It moves with frantic steps, muscles and bones working together as one, as the scent of decay trails behind the form. The devil peers through hooded eyes, dark and hollow. There is a glimpse of nutmeg in his eyes, but it mostly lost in the swirl of shadows and hunger. Its eyes search across the familiar pine forest quickly like a hellhound sent on a trail to hunt those that escaped hell.
He waves through the ancient pine trees with ease as the mist blinds him from the path in front of him. It did not matter though; the dark form knew exactly where he was heading. Despite being up in the mountains for so long he did not forget he once had been a native dweller of the Chamber. He had been something special to this place, a king once, but always a servant he would be chained to her.
THUMP, THUMP.
The sound is closer now. It beckons him like a temptress in the hours of the wolf. Oh, how he answers her without disagreement. A familiar hunger for blood fills his eyes, it is so strong, an instinct he cannot deny for much longer. However, another scent enters through the red stallion’s nostrils. It smells of fresh life, a much pleasanter meal than anything ever. It could never resist such an offering, not even when the fresh life lurked just beyond the pine trees.
As he approaches the duo, a repugnant smirk grows across his tattered lips. The scene before him is something much more than an offering, it is a blessing in a sick and twisted way. It is the birth of his granddaughter. The memories of his own foal’s birth are hidden far off in his mind, but a particular one, Straia’s own birth, flows forward freely. He recalls it all too well – the image he had for Straia’s future and killing the mare that carried and birthed her – but it is just a memory now. The memory was only a failed attempt at what he had planned, so he disregards it quickly. The devil does not dwell on such failures now. It was foolish to.
The beast steps forward, from the shadows and the mist that concealed him, and moves towards Straia slowly. “How beautiful,” he coos softly with a deep, raspy voice as he hears the name of his granddaughter. Weaver, such a distasteful name but a name that would serve as any other being just as Frostweaver had served her purpose to give life to Straia. However, at this moment, he thinks of the family he had when growing up in the jungle. It has been many years since then but it is a favorable memory of the devil’s – truly unlike him – that he clings onto feverishly to remember he once was something that could be loveable and caring. It is what he clings onto to keep him from falling into absolute darkness, to answer completely to the call of the night and the beast that made him into what he is now.
“Weaver,” he whispers so lightly as his eyes gaze at the young black and white girl. It seems so unnatural for the dying corpse to respond to a newborn. The beast naturally would be gnawing on the fresh life that blossomed deep within the core of the new filly. But he doesn’t, not this time. “I am Rodrik, your grandfather.” A name that perhaps means nothing now, but eventually, and with dim hope he has that someday it might. It is a strange feeling that fills his belly, a warm tingling sensation but Rodrik does not let it grow any further. It feels like poison, but it is a dangerous feeling that gives him relief. So, he harbors it closely, letting the small light within his core feel it against the darkness. It could possibly be happiness, but the devil would never admit to feeling such a thing.
Rodrik
angels banished from heaven have no choice but to become devils
Do you believe you're missin' out?
That everything good is happening somewhere else?
I haven’t forgotten everything in my old age.
Yes, the memory exists vividly behind my amber eyes: a beautiful son born of his beautiful mother. And nestled right inside the warm feeling of fatherhood sat the guilt: Bergamot never made a sound, nor will he ever. Yet with the carrying of muteness came the carrying of my coat, and therein lies the rescue of my happiness. For although my son will never speak the way most everyone does, the language which dances across his coat is far more beautiful than any language of the tongue shall ever be.
Alas, to my great distress, my son, illustrative coat and all, no longer walks these lands. Never far from my mind, but always unreachable in this reality. It pains me. And in my old age, though I have not forgotten, there is little more for me to think of. My family seems to be all that remains for me, though I shall soon be departing from it.
Straia, neice; I think of her often, being a vengeful queen and all. Not many as successful as her these days, especially not myself. No, I have resigned to the position of Executive Grandpa, as proven by the grey hairs lining my eyes and lips and the gentle sway of my back, though I try to maintain a good posture whenever possible. And hey, grey can be sexy, especially when taken care of the way I take care of myself.
Again with the rambling, and the vanity; age has done me no good, it would seem.
Having thought of Straia – momentary though the thought may have been – I rouse myself from the warmth of the flames and turn to find her. The air is heavy with birth, and I have an inkling that the smell may very well resonate from her, the queen. As I glide through the pine forest, I smile; my niece has already beat me, progeny wise.
Slipping through two closely grown pines, my attention flies many ways. Rodrik, my devil brother himself, coos to his patchwork granddaughter, who lays with her mother. The surge of aggression within me is startling, but it’s hard to remember that beneath all the grime and devilishness lays the sweet soul of my brother. My ears twitch melodically between forward-facing and pressed clean back, though I walk forward and speak as calmly and musically as ever.
“A pity that the girl’s first memory will be of something so hideous,” I joke softly, grinning down at Rodrik as he stoops over the filly. From my hooves, the rising of a sun appears, the beauty of which cannot be described in words (though it is easy to remember this sunrise, the one succeeding Bergamot’s conception; it has always been my favourite). Delicately leaning forward, I blow warm, friendly air towards my brother, though I do not broach the border of his skin. Best not to risk any rises from him just now.
Tearing my eyes away from the immortal man whom I have yearned to see again so avidly, I smile kindly upon my niece. “Another one, hey Straia? It seems like just yesterday you were telling me that children just ‘weren’t for you’.” Reaching down to the ground-born queen, I snuffle her forelock in an all too grandpa-like way. If I hadn’t known the raven-magician as a tiny girl, maybe I would be a little more hesitant; but now and again, I might as well exert my privileges as Executive Grandpa, and uncle.
Finally I look to the black-and-white filly, my smile blossoming further; the sun upon my skin has reached my bosom, and the colours splayed across my body are more vivid than the Chamber may ever reveal to her. I silently pray that she will remember the colours, and the man who was different from the other people who live here; there may not be much more time for her to get to know me. This may well have to be my first, and last impression upon the child.
Well well, what a family reunion this has become. They’re only missing Lu, and of course, Lu would never come. Not while Straia lived in this kingdom. The extent of her sister’s anger was astounding, truthfully, even to Straia. She had taken a few years too long to visit, but she had never abandoned the girl. Yes, she had also overthrown their father and all that, but she didn’t murder the bastard. That probably ought to count to sometime.
After all, the time, he had no powers. Straia imagines that the Chamber would have gladly accepted his blood.
Straia has simply come to accept her fate though. She’s always know that the Chamber would take and take and take from her. And she would always give. It would not take her life, not anymore, with the ravens constantly willing to give their own lives to restore hers. Instead, the Chamber took her family.
Maybe that’s why she had children now. They are the only family she has, though Erebor has been mostly absent after his quest. She’s never learned the details of what he went through, but to send her stoic son spiraling like that…she cannot really imagine what he went though. He was not an easily rattled child.
And Weaver? Well she had no idea what to except from the girl.
Straia gets to her feet when the stretch of death hits her. She knows all too well who that is, and she isn’t sure she’s pleased to see him. But she doesn’t fret overly much about it, instead letting Weaver make up her own mind. The girl scrunches her nose for a moment and then stops, amber eyes focusing on her corpse of a grandfather. “Father,” Straia says, her greeting cool and always. Once, she had dreamed of his love and affection. He had never given it, and eventually, she had stopped caring. Stopped expecting it.
She’d turned out better for it anyway.
Weaver starts to fidget, an obvious attempt to get her feet beneath her, though she, like any child, does not succeed right away. Straia doesn’t coo as the girl falls to the ground, but turns and gives her a small nod of encouragement. She’ll figure it out all on her own, but Weaver won’t learn a thing if Straia is always there to catch her. And then Kavi arrives, and for a moment Weaver settles, eyes on the colors blossoming on his feet.
Now she’s anxious, clearly, trying to get those feet beneath her. Straia can’t help but laugh slightly as Kavi greets her, tousling her mane. No one else gets away with that except Kavi. “Uncle,” she says pleasantly. He’d always been good to her, even when no one else had. “I believe you said I’d have a brood. I don’t see myself swimming in children yet.”
Though possibly, there would be another. How could she not leave the world with just a few children created by her and Weed. If they turned out as any combination of their parents, well, they’d be terribly magnificent.
The world might not agree, but that’s never bothered Straia.
At this point, Weaver’s on her feet. Unsteady, but up. Kavi’s coat is awash with color and the girl makes her way toward him, poking at his skin in interest. When she seems content with that, she turns to Rodrik, making her way toward him. Straia lets her, though she’s keeping her eye on the girl and really, her father at this point. Weaver doesn’t touch, clearly uncertain if he’s in fact touch-able. But she doesn’t shy away from him either. She starts walking around, examining his rotting flesh, stumbling a few times but mostly keeping her balance. Her head tilts as she gets back to his face, and then she finally retreats to her mother. Not necessarily scared, Straia thinks, but rather just done with her examination for now.
“She doesn’t seem to mind him,” Straia says with a grin to Kavi as Weaver figures out where the food is. “She might be the only one.”
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
Family had always meant something to the creature of the night when he was just a young colt in the jungle. He loved his parents and siblings with a strength that could never be destroyed. It was such a destructive nature for Rodrik that it nearly costed him his life when his parents passed away. Rodrik recalls the depression and ruling a kingdom - a bitter memory to some degree. It was a moment he wishes to not dwell on when he thinks of his ruling as one of the Chamber's kings. Yet, he knows he played a vital role in bringing something good out of the Chamber. Mistakes were made - personal issues - but in the end there had been success and the desires of the Chamber had been answered with sacrifices.
The idea of a family when he was king seemed plausible. Rodrik could've loved his first born daughter, somehow he thinks he could've; however, the events of what he planned had ended up differently. There was no love for the girl, not a fatherly love. He could say he was proud of the girl and what she has become, but Rodrik doesn't admit to such confessions easily. The devil does not take lightly to having been thrown aside when she became a queen. And that is when he had slumped into the darkness when he was taken to the Valley. The call of the dark world won him over and he has become what he is now - the devil.
Yet, he clings to the light. Just a little bit of the light to feel something of what he used to be. It is the idea of family that does. And somewhere in his dark twisted mind, cold and manipulative heart, he wants to make it work this time. He had failed with Straia, Oksana, and Lucrezia. Maybe he wouldn't with his newly born granddaughter.
Straia is not overly friendly in her greeting towards him, but he has never expected it when it came to how their relationship turned out. Eventually, it seemed they came to just accept what they were and tolerant of it. Rodrik isn't here for his daughter, his eyes are only for the two colored filly – unfortunately, his daughter's offspring. He watches Weaver as she struggles to get up. Straia letting her figure out the whole ordeal herself. He remembers when his mother encouraged him with love and a gentle push. Straia would be an entirely different mother than what her grandmother was. And he wonders how Weaver will turn out with that sort of parenting she is doing now. Will she love the child or will it be another relationship just as his is with Straia? He isn't sure yet. And maybe he will be the one to love her, spoil her in ways that her mother might not. After all he was the grandfather and able to do so.
The familiar scent of his brother drifts his attention away from Weaver as she struggles to work her way to stand. A smile manages to cover his features, as much as any undead and soul hungry devil could. “Kavi, so good to see you.” He looks over his younger brother for a moment. Old age has surely caught up with Kavi and he wonders how much time he has left. Has it really been that long since they were children? Rodrik still feels young, but he knows that he isn't so young as he used to be. Maybe being immortal gave him that benefit of feeling such. However, he knows it is a gift from the darkness since he is the devil himself. And death surely never dies.
“Even the most hideous of things can be quite charming, little brother.” He replies back to the coat illusionist brother of his. Rodrik pretends to bite at him angrily when he blows warm air towards him, but a playful grin crosses over his lips. It is a familiar manner of play that Rodrik does with his brother, one from their childhood when they played games in the Amazons. The once blood king watches as his daughter and little brother interact. Their relationship is vastly different than his with Straia. He does not feel jealous for it at all, but perhaps it is had done Straia some good to have someone around for like Kavi. Kavi never seemed to have a dark spot in his soul, and most of the time was quite peppy. His brother’s sparkling personality had even brought some happy moments to Rodrik after their parents died.
Rodrik’s hollowed eyes, with a hint of nutmeg coloring, focus back onto the two toned filly. He smiles proudly when he sees the girl stand up on her own feet and then makes her way curiously around Kavi and him. The devil doesn’t let his eyes drift away from Weaver, but he feels the weight of Straia’s gaze on him. Rodrik would love to comment on a couple things about Straia being so overbearing. Maybe his daughter has a couple things to worry about, but not for her daughter. He would never do anything to hurt his own family. It has always been to lift them up in life, and maybe for selfish reasons as well, but he has always thought of their well-being in the end.
As Weaver circles around him, he lowers his head and sticks out his decaying muzzle to her. He doesn’t touch the girl. “Hello Weaver,” his raspy voice erupts from his throat when she finishes examining him. Rodrik didn’t want to frighten her away. Indeed, he was a hideous mess to look upon but the thing with Weaver is that she was newly born. She did not yet have an idea of the world – its wicked and happy ways – and what it was filled of. In time she would, Straia would fill her mind with ideas and maybe a couple others would, but Weaver ultimately would draw her own path. At least he hopes he will. He is skeptical of where Straia may draw the line, especially involving his relationship with his granddaughter.
Weaver then returns to her mother. Rodrik’s eyes then finally glance up to look at Straia. Naturally, his ear flickers in her direction when she makes a comment to Kavi. “You have always been full of jokes, Straia.” He says with a snort and then a small grin. The grin does not remain long though. He has never been one to hold a smile for more than a second on his lips with his first daughter. Truly, Rodrik has been uncertain of her and it has not changed since he was taken as a prisoner to the Valley (maybe not a prisoner but when you are taken from a home and your kingdom it truly feels like it). “We are quite the family, aren’t we?” He says with a malicious grin in a rather playful manner.
Rodrik
angels banished from heaven have no choice but to become devils
01-28-2016, 09:58 PM (This post was last modified: 01-28-2016, 10:00 PM by Kavi.)
Do you believe you're missin' out?
That everything good is happening somewhere else?
For once in her life, her laugh is pleasant: no iron fist summons the sound, nor a cruelty I’ve never truly understood. Her laugh is pleasant, and I wish it could be more often. I wish that Straia would never have to have the worries of the crown, and no, not because she’s a woman; I might be old, but I’m not a prejudiced asshole. I wish that she could laugh pleasantly every day because then maybe there would be no wars, or hate, or devilish fathers, or dead parents.
I just wish it could always be this simple.
The lids of my amber eyes duck hastily when Straia addresses me. My smile broadens almost too much at Straia’s joking, but the chuckle that follows is genuine and very Grandpa-esque. “You’ve got time yet for that, sweetie.” Winking slyly, I snap my chocolate-grey tail in Straia’s direction.
My swings head towards Rodrik, a roguish glint in my eyes. “The only time I remember you being charming is when you sucked up to mom whenever you played too rough with me,” I retort smugly, and with a snap of my teeth towards his – our noses bump together roughly, and I chuckle, relaxing. For a split second, or maybe a heartbeat longer, I press my forehead against his, brother to brother, perhaps for the last time – and then I am disrupted.
Straightening when a tiny nose begins poking my skin, I become distracted and can only grin proudly at my courageous grand-niece. I make a star appear on my skin with every dab of her precious nose. Every child deserves to watch an amazing sunrise. I just hope she’ll remember. I just hope she’ll remember that it can always be this simple.
Of course, Weaver is nothing like me and everything like Straia. Without so much as a word, the filly flies to investigate Rodrik, absolutely fearless in the face of the devil.
Surprise, surprise.
Glancing to Rodrik at Straia’s last remark, I grin until my eyes almost shut. “He’s not so bad, you know.” If only things were always this simple.
And then he pulls the family card, and tears spring into my eyes.
“Quite the family, that’s undeniable.”
Straia’s gaze feels suddenly leaden upon me, and it is all I can do not to spill my tears when my eyes latch on to Rodrik’s. He understands.
He understands.
KAVI
Kagerou x Rhaego
I am having a mope so this is why this is so mope but I really tried hard to reply Im sorry it's so late
There has always been some part of her that wishes her family had turned out differently. She has always wondered what it would have been like to be loved by Rodrik the same way he loved Oksana and Lu. Maybe they both would have gotten what they wanted, if they’d only ever seen eye to eye. But they never really had, and never would. And it doesn’t do her any good to dwell on the past, to mourn all the things she’s given for the Chamber.
Maybe no one else realized how much she has given. Maybe no one else saw things the way she did. But she’s given everything for this kingdom. As Atrox had warned her so many years ago, when she was just a girl, and he told her the story of his heart. She has always known the Chamber would demand so much of her, and she has always given it willingly.
That had meant Rodrik and Lucrezia. That had meant putting her family second. But look how the Chamber thrived. Was it worth the cost? Of course.
But Straia loves her children fiercely. That much she makes sure they know. She doesn’t coddle, isn’t overly protective. She’ll always let her children figure out the world on their own. She’ll always let them forge their own path, be in the Chamber or the Amazons or hell, even the Gates. It is their life, after all. But when they fall and they cannot get up, she will be there. When something threatens them, she will give her life in exchange. Erebor had always known this, and Straia will be certain Weaver knows it as well.
Though she will never trust Rodrik. Not even with his grandchildren. But of course, she knows much of what he has done, and suspects even more. But in the end, even that decision is Weaver’s. She will never forbid the girl from seeing him, though she may discourage it. Though she hopes her daughter will have time to spend with Kavi. He has been the only light in Straia’s family. And his gray hair and tired eyes are not lost on her. But for once, she does not like the idea of death. His death is one she does not want to face, for the world will be far worse without him in it.
Not that Straia’s ever listened to him. If she doesn’t lead the war, someone else would. So it might as well be her, because she was far from fool hearty. She didn’t want to kill, she wanted to instill fear. They were very different things, and didn’t require a bloodbath to summon a vicious god. Didn’t require the murder of so many innocents. One or two, perhaps. Someone always died, after all. But she wasn’t slaughtering in order to simply have a party of it. She was giving Beqanna what they wanted. Nothing more. Everyone could deny it, but they were all bored. They were looking for a reason to fight, to wake up, and so, she will provide exactly what they ask for.
Weaver grins as the stars appear on her coat, those amber eyes (so much like her grandfather’s) turning around in fascination. I suspect she would keep them, if she could. But eventually, it will be scars that mar her coat. Even if she chooses a life of peace, the scars always come.
Weaver comes back to Straia after her rounds, and it’s Kavi’s next words that draw Straia’s gaze away from the child. He’s not so bad, you know. “Ah, but he always was to me,” she says softly, and terribly honestly. She remembers, briefly, the day her mother died. Remembers scuttling up to his side, scared and alone and mostly just sad. Looking for comfort from him. And he had given it, but there’s something about her memory that’s tainted there. Some gleam in his eye that makes her believe it was all for show, all for her mother’s sister’s and not at all for Straia. And maybe her memory has just morphed over the years. It’s entirely possible, she knows. But in truth, she doesn’t believe her father ever cared for her at all.
And she wants to ask how they ended up here. How so much has ruined them, has pulled them apart piece by piece. But she already knows the answer. Rodrik served himself, and Straia served the Chamber. And in the end, they tore each other apart for the things they cared most about. And they had never cared most about one either, even though they should have. So instead, she doesn’t say anything more. It was going to be Weaver’s world soon anyway. Another generation in Beqanna was on the rise. They’d inherit the ashes of what their parents left behind.
And Straia would lead the destruction.
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
![[Image: lRJZ7qE.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/lRJZ7qE.gif)
