"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
08-26-2016, 02:25 PM (This post was last modified: 08-26-2016, 02:45 PM by Longear.)
She bends toward home. Perhaps it is because she was born in one. A home defined by place, by smell and by sights familiar from birthing; defined by the intimacy of love, the soft whuffing of her mother in the night. It had been slow to occur to her how dangerous home had been. When she was a babe, she was separated from the second soul by an uncomfortable and disagreeable berth. It had taken them time to become accustomed to the feeling of each other’s invasion. It had taken them time to accept that it was no invasion at all. But the jungle had scared that other soul; it sent sharp, pleading stabs – like an electric spark on the tip of her nose – and screamed ‘hide’ and ‘find cover’.
But her screams were just whispers against the taut of the filly’s eardrum, and the sensation of electricity had impressed Longear only once or twice. Then she learned to ignore all the kit’s agitation.
Neither of them like to be ignored. The other soul sought to take its own liberties in revenge. And then, one day, the process of welding them together completed. They settled into each other’s skin and minds and control. Like home.
Home is many-faced and wide. She had left her home, wrecked and ravaged by war, because it lost something that could not be mended around. The roots had been pulled when her brother had failed his first breath and Vineine had been scorned by the Mother. She left, and from them – Fang, Fiero, Longear – she siphoned home.
They left the jungle. She had not been sad, that was for another day.
The next step was here. Where Fiero had met Vineine. Where Vineine had stopped by, in transit to the place she was certain was home. Where she had birthed Viera and conceived Tryst. Where footprints made swirls of history and destiny in the dust; the shades of Longear’s origination were scraped into the understory of the Amazons, by hoof and claw, but here also. Her father and mother; her grandparents, Magnus and Joelle; a long time ago, Elladora had loved a man who called this place home.
She comes in a slow lope, standing on her hind end now and then to sniff the air. She is lighter like this, keeping soft-footed on the surface of the snow. Even here, her wild, agouti coat is fuzzier than normal. Unlike normal, she bulges and rounds. It is all stranger still for the other soul. She would have dropped her kits months ago – the foals needed a much longer time to gestate. Soon, she would have to abandon this lapine and stay in her equine form until their birth – one of her babes complied itself to her phasing, the other was larger. No, not rabbit at all. Perhaps, more like its father, so that pup would be too big.
She stays around the perimeter, a common kind of etiquette. In a smooth, instantaneous reform, she changes to her more approachable form. Short and somewhat stocky, fuzzy and round. The grey mare peers around for the comfort of her father and brother (for her mother, always), her odd, over-large cottontail still.
@[Fiero]
“My heart has joined the Thousand,
for my friend stopped running today.”
They are coming. There are so many rushing to their border and Cerva doesn’t know what to do. There is still no one from here; they are all outsiders bearing the scent of distant kingdoms. The girl looks from one side to another as the snow airily descends and coats the ground in a layer of white. There is no King, not even a Queen, or a ranked member. There is just her as the weeks melt into months and as fall freezes into winter. She holds no authority here and yet she has to pretend she does. When they see her coming to meet them Cerva has to be confident and welcoming; she has to act as though as has the authority to usher them into a new home or to hear out political announcements. Having grown up in a kingdom alleviates the unfamiliarity of it, but her nerves are still wracking from the unexpected pressure.
Despite the world swirling with white and gray Cerva still can see the figures whenever they reach the Gate’s invisible doors. Her nostrils dilate and drink in the unfamiliar scents and her nutmeg eyes flicker until she finds them and closes the distance. With a more active post in the kingdom she is more readily available and quicker to reach the strangers, whether it’s one at a time or a group. The cost is that she is getting tired and her muscles quiver when she stops as they scream for a rest. Unfortunately, when only she is here, there is no time to rest. It will come soon enough, she tells herself, as she lurches forward to greet the newest at the wall.
”Hello,” her voice is sweet despite having to project it across the howling wind. The prominent winter hangs thickly between them. Snow clutches to her mane and dampens her mahogany coat. ”I’m Cerva,” she offers her name with a delicate grin creeping across her pretty face, ”is there anything I can help you with?” Assuming this is a customary greeting she takes pause and stands as still as a statue despite the tumbling wind whipping her locks back and forth.
I will run the streets and hostile lands, I will touch the rain with all I have
I will breathe the air, to scream it loud. My feet will never touch the ground.
Camelia tries. She came back to her homeland right before the chilled fall and frozen winter hit Beqanna. She had felt it in her bones, the sore ache the cold left in her joints, and she knew it would be a long winter. When the snow and ice formed over the land, Camelia felt it in her entire body. It pricked and jolted and burned at her body inside and out. Although she remained determined (as any wise, aging woman would be), her body did not agree with her mind.
It is the true reason why the dunskin finds her more or less inactive during the winter months. Her knees ache after walking a short distance and her lungs feel iced over when she inhales too deeply. Nonetheless, she grits her teeth during the finer days and patrols the borders. It’s an old habit of hers, a ghosting memory of the times she would do it to think or decide something during her time on the throne.
She scents a trail of rabbit crossing over the border. The long feet of the creature are imprinted on the fresh snow, leading deeper inside. Camelia runs with her bored mind and starts after the trail, allowing her neck to drop so she can sniff along the scent. With her eyes downcast, the once-queen doesn’t notice the horse in front of her. All she notes is the way the scent transforms into a horse and her nostrils quiver in confusion.
Then, there is a female voice. Camelia’s head rises abruptly and she knocks her head against a low-hanging branch. Snow topples to the ground, barely missing her slender form. The dunskin mare shuffles sideways before moving closer, her eyes drawn toward the two other mares. The one who spoke – a bay with a white bark blaze – smells strongly of the Gates yet Camelia has never seen her before. Stepping closer, the aging mare falls into her bright sunny smile. “You two are the first souls I’ve seen all winter.” A slow giggle rolls off her lips, sounding entirely well-worn and generously used.
Her eyes dance toward the mousy gray mare. “I’m Camelia,” she offers. She heard Cerva’s question and feels as though there is nothing more to say; at least until they get an answer.
08-30-2016, 05:34 AM (This post was last modified: 08-30-2016, 05:34 AM by Johnathen.)
The grayed stallion looked up, and smiled as he saw three mares. They were the first he had sceen so far. Well, except Becca. His heart panged as he remembered the kind, gentle mare. He wondered what had become of her. What happened to her and Magnus, the stallion she held dearly close to her heart. His thoughts traveled, and he walked, not really paying attention.
When he looked, he was, yet again, under the mother tree. This was the last place he had sceen her. He stared, long and hard, asthough if he looked long anough, she would apear. He smiled as he remembered his first memory with her, when he licked a frozen puddle. That was many moons ago. Before the war, before the Mother Tree had flourished again. Bafore he had grayed out. He looked down, realizing he would probably never see her again. "Good-bye, mom." he whispered, trying to console himself.
He had grown wiser, taller. He shook his head, trying to get the fog of mourning out. He wished he had seen her off, the day of that battle. He wished he had gone. Why did he stay, acting as though everything were fine? There were so many questions, and he couldn't ask the one who knew. Slowly, he made his way over to the trio, his head held perhaps a little to high, his eyes betraying the false look of glee he slapped on his face. When he got there, it took him several moments to get his voice to sound happy.
"My names Johnathen. he said, for that was all he could say.
