"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's a cool autumn evening with the sound of birds singing softly in the trees. It is as though they are calling the darkness forth, welcoming it with open arms. Yet it isn't just the darkness they bring with their sweet melody. It is also a new face, a different breed and fresh blood. With tall muscular legs, a stallion the color of light colored leather stepped into the field with confident steps.
With his entrance comes the rise of small american goldfinch's, their tiny yellow and black bodies lifting into the sky in one quick yet elegant movement as the sound of their wings travel across the open space of the field. With a soft snort, the stallion raises his large head, dark brown eyes following the flight pattern of the small birds as he comes to a stop. The soft breeze dances around his still frame, seemingly wrapping him in a gentle hug as his heart pounds slowly in his chest.
This is a new place, a new world, and he is their newest name. Yet unlike the rest he doesn't trot around the field causing a ruckus, pick at grass as though he is starving or act as though the world is out to get him or simply as though he is the angriest being. He wasn't here to act like he was different than them, instead he was here to simply find a place to live. Because strength and survival came in numbers and anyone smart enough knew just as much.
Quietly he watches the rest of the newcomers, patiently observing their obnoxious and sassy natures and with a soft sigh he tilts his head slightly in wonder. Why did they all seem so similar? It wasn't that he disliked sarcasm or sassy behavior, it was simply that he grew tired of seeing the same thing everywhere he went. Yet then again, he knew better than to assume that's what they all were. Similar. Because with each body came a difference that was either magical or physical. The same was true to him.
Yet unlike most, he didn't carry a trait beneath the surface or physically that could benefit him in life. The only difference he carried was the poodle tight curls that made up his tan colored coat and shirly temple curls that made up his thick mane and tail. While many had found his unusual "hair-do" as odd, he had grown quite fond of the difference as he had grown into a young stallion. While most hated their curls back home, he wasn't sure what he would do without them.
Turning his head he carefully glances back at his side, his eyes traces over the soft curls before facing forward once more. He knew it would take time for someone to come, so for now he would wait and nap. With a soft sigh, heavy eyelids close over his dark brown eyes before allowing his body to relax slightly as he begins to drift off.
all that we have amassed sits before us, shattered into ash
She leaves the Valley with a satisfied smile and a gentle swell already showing in her belly.
Autumn has dawned both bright and chilly, sweeping over Beqanna with a crisp new season. She had not expected to stray from the Valley so soon after her return, but duty calls, and it has been so long since she has attempted to recruit. Her skills are undoubtedly rusty, and if she wants to serve her kingdom dutifully, she has to brush up on her diplomacy as well as her fighting skills. And so she peels herself from Flamevein’s warmth with a sigh and a promise to return later—why had she ever left?—and forces herself to drag herself outside of the kingdom.
Her own coat is burnished copper, unmarked but for the dragon—scar? Tattoo?—upon her chest as well as the intermittent burn marks beneath her golden coat, but one would have to look hard to find the marks of her and her lover’s passion. She’s not afraid to admit that they had added a few more only weeks past, when their newest (she prays, prays to any god but the Dark One, for a daughter) was conceived. If her forelock were ever to be cut, one would see the hideous scar across her forehead that once exposed her skull, and of course, her missing ears are hard to miss. She is a battle-worn mare for one so young, but that is what the Valley life has won her. This life is what the Dark God has given her.
The journey from the Valley to the Field is a lengthy one, and she finds this pregnancy dragging at her already; she is exhausted by the time she reaches the outskirts of the field. There are plenty of homeless horses afoot (ahoof?); snorting and prancing and shaking their manes and being all manner of arrogant, trying to prove their worth, trying to show recruiters they have what it takes to belong in a kingdom, or trying to get a recruiter to convince them that their kingdom is so much better than their other options (and their other options are fairly slim—another kingdom, or a herd, and herds are dreadfully dull).
Frankly, Cress is exhausted just looking at them.
Quietly she scans the Field, her eyes finally settling on a buckskin stallion standing alone. She picks her way towards him, curiously taking in his tightly-curled mane and tail; even the hair on his body is curled. How curious! “Excuse me, do you mind if I join you?” she asks when she is within hearing distance. Despite being heavy-framed, she knows she looks harmless enough, missing ears and all. She is beginning to swell with child and her brown eyes have always made her look kind. Besides, when has Cress ever been a mean girl?
“I am Cress. I can offer you a home in the Valley, if you would like. It is a kingdom southeast of here.”
She will describe to him the finer points of the kingdom, if he’s curious, but she won’t press the point until he speaks. If he is curious, he will ask for more.
BUT HOW COULD YOU KNOW THE SWEETEST SUFFERING OF MOVING ON
The field is beginning to swarm, but many a mares are scampering to and fro with their hormones clutched tightly to their chests. Stallions are heeding them and whisking them away to a new life where their closeness could sprout and flourish. From afar Tiphon has been watching them, but his attention never lingers. It roams here and there as he tries to distract himself from the typical sounds and scents of breeding season. No children, he told himself, not after the twins and Elaria, the poor, cursed foals. His stomach wrenches when he thinks of them and how similar they are to his father (a dark creature meant for the grave). Naturally, he loves them because they are his children, but he also pities them. Their bodies look to be decaying and yet they are so alive and so very vibrant; and Estela, whose hooves have developed into talons that he can’t bring himself to look at.
No, they alone are enough incentive for Tiphon to elude the natural instincts berthed in his mind.
His eyes flicker across the faces to watch the others. They are a blur. They move quickly, bustling through the field as though in a hurry, but there is one who stands out. What’s funny is that the figure contrasts against the background of horses for the simple fact that he is still and not calling for attention. A low chuckle rumbles from Tiphon’s throat and his eyes beam with curiosity and amusement. ”Hello,” he finally says after having approached at a casual walk. His head nods to both in attendance. A sideways glance searches Cress’ scars and additionally notes her lack of ears. The stories she has could be interesting or perhaps disinteresting depending on perspective. She suggests the Valley and Tiphon says and does nothing, his expression masked by a soldier’s stone-like façade. His grandfather is king there, but he isn’t aware of this, not yet.
”There is also the Dale, if you’re interested.” A sudden breeze blows from the east and tousles his molten locks, the air carrying scents of pines and mountains. A feeble grin begins to crack across his lips and his head inclines just slightly. ”I’m Tiphon, by the way.”
08-24-2016, 04:17 PM (This post was last modified: 08-24-2016, 06:32 PM by eskil.)
i'm struggling to breathe in the dark;
It is the sweet melody of the golden mare’s voice that draws the poodle curled stallion from his peaceful rest. Slowly Eskil’s dark brown eyes blink open as he turns his large head towards her. “Cress,” her name slips through her lips with a soft hiss amongst the hums of his low toned voice. It is a simple name, one that he enjoyed having dance across his tongue. Slowly his eyes trace over the battle worn scars that carved their way elegantly across her coat and deep into her skin. It is only when his sight lands on the missing pair of ears that his lips tilt upward in a small smile. “You are quite different, aren’t you?”
As the tan stallion’s voice trails off into the surrounding air, a chuckle draws him away from Cress’s attention. Slowly he turns his head towards the porcelain colored equine stepping towards them and nods slightly in greeting. “Hello Tiphon,” his voice is just as fluid as when he speaks to the fair haired mare and for a moment he changes glances in-between the pair. He gives it just enough time for them to think he may have ignored their inquiries about his following home before taking a step back and rolling his shoulders in a slight shrug.
“It seems you both had the same idea when you approached,” his eyes linger a moment longer on Tiphon’s shining face before Eskil looks to Cress. “I know these recruitment situations probably go a certain way,” a small chuckle slips from between his lips. “But I must say, I am not one to follow the rules of society quite well. So, rather than ask a typical question of why, how about I ask why not, instead?”
Gently he flicks his tail back against his haunches, temporarily chasing away the few pesky horse flies that had decided to stop for a moment to bother and nip at his sensitive skin. “What would you say your kingdom’s largest cons are… to you? What do you think is the one thing that would keep most away from remaining inside its borders?”
For a moment he pauses, allowing the silence to stretch between them before sighing softly and allowing a smirk to tug at the corners of his lips. "So instead of trying to recruit me, try to deter me." It is then he finally grows silent, leaving room for them to take their turns. He would not speak until they were both done. He knew his different approach may throw them, yet why not make their trip worth both their time by adding in a different twist to the whole "bringing someone home" charade?
BUT HOW COULD YOU KNOW THE SWEETEST SUFFERING OF MOVING ON
A frigid breeze claws their skins, reminding them of the bitter season that is harboring in Beqanna. Tiphon peers up at the gray skies briefly before his molten eyes find the stallion. Occasionally, they flicker to the mare and he wonders how, exactly, she has ended up without ears. He says nothing of this, clutching the silence rather comfortably. There is nothing urgent in the way he stands with a back leg tilted and with his head slightly lowered as his mane whips around his neck wildly. Tiphon’s distaste for winter is masked behind a face of stone. In this long pause, when it seems as though their offers will be disregarded, the stallion diverts them in a direction not often seen among horses new to Beqanna. It sparks Tiphon’s intrigue and his eyes brighten in curiosity, a crooked grin tipping up the corner of his mouth.
”Eskil,” he murmurs in a modulated voice, ”Nice to meet you.” Rarely does he see stallions in the field and so he seizes this opportunity with an iron grip, but he has the humor and light-heartedness to respond to such an unconventional request. A low hum seems to vibrate the air among them as the angel considers it carefully and reflects on the Dale with meticulous scrutiny. He doesn’t ramble or beat around the bush when the ideas do trickle to mind like a choked creek. ”The Dale lacks numbers,” it could also be a strength because it offers indefinite growth and promotion. ”It needs new blood,” because his bloodlines are what firmly grip the lands and has been for decades. They need more faces, more opinions, and more interest. ”And we need outside thinkers,” like you, he doesn’t say, but implies as his eyes flash toward Eskil.
That’s all that comes to mind that would have some weight behind it versus anything so moot as history, future, or landscape. Eskil wanted to be deterred, to be warned about the shortcomings, and so Tiphon delivers with confidence still armoring his voice and his stance. There is no denying his love and loyalty to the kingdom because while those may be the flaws of the Dale they are also the things Tiphon is trying to alleviate and improve.
all that we have amassed sits before us, shattered into ash
Cress has never thought of herself has being different; where she is from, she simply fits in. She is from a kingdom that has been torn asunder again and again by war after war and she is not the only one to have earned her fair share of battle scars, even though most of hers are from fighting the Dark God himself. Perhaps her stories are interesting ones, but she has never been possessed a silver tongue, and she has never had anyone to spill her secrets to. There is nary a soul who knows the torture she has endured at the hands of the darkest magician.
The curly-haired stallion is certain to make note of her differences, and she cannot help but chuckle at that. “I suppose I am,” she replies easily, her pale tail flicking gently over her hocks. “You are quite different yourself, no? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen another horse with hair like yours.”
They are joined by a third, a stallion who introduces himself as Tiphon. Cress dips her head at him politely before she turns her attention back to the buckskin stallion, who wants them to describe the things that would deter him from the kingdom. Tiphon speaks first, saying they need more members and fresh blood, and Cress cannot help but nod. “The Valley has a severe lack of diplomats,” she tells Eskil. “In times like these, where the relations between the kingdoms are so tense, diplomats are desperately needed.”
With a smile, she continues. “And the winters nearly deter me every year. Living in a valley between mountains, we get strong winds and snow blowing off of the mountains constantly. I admit that it is worse than standing out here in the field, but with a thick coat you get used to it quickly enough… but there is no doubt about it: the winters are long, hard, and above all else, cold.” She laughs then. “You asked for the truth of it.”
