"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
Life dealt him an odd set of cards. He had been given life, sure, but there had been a cost. Mother in the end lost hers while Fletchor gained his. By no means had it been intentional. The world was whirring around him and jostled him here and there it seemed. Everything went from warm and dark to bright and cold. It didn't seem right and so he retaliated without understanding how. Sand lifted and danced around them but while Fletchor remained sound and untouched, Myrina met her demise.
Right from the womb, Fletchor committed murder.
It has been a few years since then. No one has been around to remind him of his first minutes alive. At times the memory of it escapes him but there are those more dismal days where the dark images return to him like a movie. When that happens the images are fresh like he's experiencing it all over again. It wakes him with a jolt. Sand falls to the ground around him and the storm immediately dies away. During those nights Fletchor is somehow creating sandstorms in his sleep.
The boy is dangerous although he doesn't realize this. There are days when he is at ease, calm, accepting of his life; there are others, however, that he isn't quite himself. Something is just... different.
Having left the jungle behind him months ago Fletchor arrives here. The meadow is new to him. The Amazons are all he knew, all he has ever seen and smelled. Everything is different here including the change in scenery. There is no canopy dotting out the sunlight or dense undergrowth winding along the soil hoping to trip its next victim. No, the meadow seems less feral and more peaceful.
With a shake of his body - which sends grains of sand flying in every direction - he settles in a sunlit area with his eyes steadily focused on the new world surrounding him.
Zara was from the Dale, and as usual was out an about in the meadow curious to the new faces she could meet. She was a petite mare with a full stomach, ready to give birth any day now. It was a risky move fo be out and about so far along in here pregnancy; although she was fidgety and could not gallop like before her pregnancy. It was important to Zara to have socia interaction and she was happy to meet new horses.
As she wondered into the meadow, there were little horses around although one stood out to her, a buckskin paint. The horse looked younger than Zara, but not by much. She was curious to what brought him here, was he venturing out to create his own life? Or was he here running from a past. She gave a small nicker cautiously approaching him, her tail was flicked up in the air as she swayed it with the breeze. Winter was gone and it was now spring. The flowers were peaking out of the ground, trying to have a fresh start to life. It wasnt hot like a summer day, but it was warmer than the winter, the petite mare had a hard time with the cold weather. She was pleased with the summer heat, the wind was what brought the biggest chill. She approached the stag softly spoken "Hello! My name is Zaravich. What brings you to the meadow?" She was curious to his reasoning, as she grew closer she could tell he had a smell of another kingdom on him. She couldnt pin which kingdom but his scent was from around these lands.
The warmth of spring is actually welcomed because it's different from what he is accustomed to. There is some humidity, but it's minute in comparison to the Jungle where the excessive moisture chokes the air. This he can more readily handle. In some areas there is sand that he has access to, that he feels he can relate with. In this moment, however, he doesn't search for a patch to stand on. Instead he remains surrounded by grass as it licks his lower legs every time the wind blows. Such a strange change of surroundings this is, but he doesn't turn his back to the change. He tries to embrace it and to look forward instead of back. His past is darker than the sunlight overhead and far more lonely than the knots of horses nearby. While holding a secret tightly to his chest Fletchor tries to appear more optimistic and bright.
They don't need to know that he has already killed.
They don't need to know how dangerous he potentially is.
There is a noise carried toward him and so his head lifts in curiosity only to see the call addressed elsewhere. With hooded eyes he watches as a mare and stallion come together, embracing as lovers and smiling sweetly. He turns his back. Is there love for someone like him? He has never seen it before, never held it not even for a parent, so is it real? The questions linger in his consciousness until he is drawn from his thoughts by a far sweeter call than the former. When he rolls his eyes to see he notices the mare approaching him. Gulping sheepishly he tries to keep his composure. It has been quite some time since he has last really had a conversation. "Hello," the sound of his own voice is strange, alien, but he answers her nonetheless. "Boredom, I suppose." In reality Fletchor isn't sure why he came here of all places. It's a change of scenery and it's a way of running farther away from his bleak childhood.
His gold-flecked eyes catch sight of her pregnant belly and he shifts uncomfortably before meeting her gaze. "And you? What brings you here?
