"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
02-23-2017, 08:50 PM (This post was last modified: 02-23-2017, 09:18 PM by Djinni.)
djinni
The forest feels too much like Sylva.
The trees overhead are shades of red and gold, a reflection of her home’s eternal fall. It makes her uncomfortable: she cannot deny the season here. Never before has she been this careless.
She had not meant to come here. Rather, she had started walking and simply continued to do so. Only the water has stopped her, a merrily trickling creek that she stares into without expression. The face that looks back is a familiar one. She stomps it away with a single black hoof, and when it resettles she is something (and somewhere) else entirely.
The seal brown mare is unremarkable but for the rings in her ears and bangles at her feet. Her eyes are dark – somewhere between brown and black – and her mane hangs in waves that compliment her baroque figure. She has reappeared a half mile from the stream, somewhere less deep in the forest, where the midmorning sun dapples the ground more often than it is blocked by the trees overhead. Shaking her mealy muzzle, the mare looks out into the woods.
current appearance: baroque build seal brown mare dark eyes
He appeared to walk with purpose as he carefully picked his way through the forest, sunlight filtering through the heavy, brittle foliage above and casting golden light onto his auburn coat. He eventually found himself wandering a bit haphazardly, telling himself that it was his attempt at becoming familiar with the new shape and landscape of Beqanna - not the fact that if he stood still for a moment too long that he would be lost in the thoughts he constantly tries to block out of his mind.
Though he was slowly getting used to the unusual volcanic activity that surrounds Tephra, he desperately needed some time away from the open sky that left him feeling incredibly lonely. He would never admit it (though no one would ever ask) that he specifically sought out the forest’s trees so that they may block out whatever he could possibly look for in the atmosphere. It didn’t really matter though, because eventually the sun would set like it did every night, and he would inevitably find himself staring up at a yawning chasm of starlight and blackness – desperately searching.
But at the moment it was mid-day, with autumn’s cool sun playing through the tree’s foliage – so his stars and galaxies were well hidden from his sight (though they never truly left, even when he closed his eyes), and despite the heaviness that weighed on his mind, he did his best to enjoy it. Indigo nostrils flare as he inhaled the smell of the quiet, musky wood, dark eyes taking in his surroundings. He does not know how long he has been wandering the forest, but amidst the golden-brown world around him he notices that he is no longer alone.
Warrick slows his steady walk and soon the sound of his hooves crackling in the leaves stop. He snorts softly, blue-tipped ears flicking towards the mare in front of him. He doesn’t move towards her, but is in her sight if she cared to glance towards him. His curious gaze lingers on the sparkling gold around her feet and the glimmer of gold in her ears. Beyah would want me to talk to her, he muses to himself, for his long-lost sister was always more outgoing than him.
For a moment there is a gleam of something in his eye, like when you remember an old memory that once brought you such warmth and laughter that you wish you could return to it time and time again – but that spark was gone as soon as it had arrived, vanishing from his eyes and turning dark.
“Hello,” he says quietly, blue-tipped ears flicking backwards slightly in what seems like embarrassment, as if he had interrupted something.
He’s directly in front of her, but it takes a moment for her to see him. He doesn’t really blend in with the background – his blue is too blue for that – but she’s not as alert as she could be. The smile she gives him in return is a bit apologetic, accompanied by a soft laugh.
“Hi.” She says, “Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
That’s obvious enough, but she is still polite enough to apologize.
His colorful points had reminded her for a moment of Kladius, but he is blue where the colt she knows is purple. There are numerous colorful equines in Beqanna; she doubts the two are related. Shaking her thick, curling mane, she seems to refocus herself, returning her dark eyes to those of the stallion.
“What brings you to the Forest today?” She asks him rather than introducing herself. She doesn’t feel much like talking about herself, and distracting herself with a stranger’s story seems a good way to pass the time.
current appearance: baroque build seal brown mare dark eyes
The autumn chill was present in the air of the forest; its cold breath unfamiliar against Warrick’s auburn skin. He was becoming used to the humid climate of Tephra, and though not harsh or frigid, the wind here had a certain bite to it that makes his muscles feel taut underneath his skin. He welcomes the change in scenery, enjoying the way the cool air brushes his dark, tangled mane away from the musculature of his neck and withers, causing him to shiver slightly.
She doesn’t seem particularly upset that he had crossed her path unintentionally, and though no name was offered to him, the bay stallion felt like he should stay momentarily. His dark eyes cannot help but linger on the bangles that clasp her forelegs and pierce her ears, glittering brilliantly in the dusty sunlight. He cannot help but think that he should know her, or at least know of her. She seems somehow important in this land that he was still trying to become familiar with. Because of this, Warrick carefully begins to take a few steps towards the mare. At her question (a polite attempt at small talk and quite basic, to be sure) the stallion halts abruptly. To her, the question was hardly even personal or prying and merely a question of politeness. However, for some reason it strikes a chord in the stallion. Warrick throws his head up stiffly and snorts uneasily. To answer her question truthfully would mean to speak his pain – and how could he ever verbalize the loss? The abandonment? How could he articulate that he knew he would never truly find his home or his family?
For a moment he thinks to lie to her. She’s merely a stranger and she would probably rather keep enjoying her quiet afternoon in the forest than to be bothered by a passerby’s troubles. Normally, Warrick would do this. He would mask the pain with a dashing smile and speak of things that he pretends he understands – such as happiness or love.
But for some reason, Warrick feels as if he should not lie to her - as if she would see past the façade anyways, and that lying would only offend her.
“I’m stupidly running away from something that I can never possibly outrun,” he admits softly, the words flowing from him heavily like a pile of bricks. He feels their weight as they spill from his indigo lips yet doesn’t feel the least bit unburdened.
The forest doesn’t seem quite as welcoming as it did before and it seems unsettlingly quiet, as if the trees were silently judging him. He cannot focus his gaze on anywhere but hers, dark meeting dark.
Her question seems to have perturbed him. Djinni's dark eyes flash curiously as he frets, forgetting her own reasons for coming here as she puzzles over his. This is why she had come, she realizes; she had needed a distraction. The woods of Sylva are large, but they are also predictable, filled with the same faces she sees each day, echoing with the same stories she has already heard.
Here, away from the evergold trees, there are still new things.
So she is hopeful when he finally speaks, desirous of an answer that might make her forget. Instead, she hears just what she might say were she asked the same question. Of course, Djinni would have lied. She does not share the shameful parts of herself; she does not let others know of her weaknesses. But his words are uncomfortably familiar, striking a chord she'd rather not hear.
Best to pretend then.
The brown mare had long ago mastered the facade of a wise woman (aided, of course, by the fact that she is wise - if wisdom is knowledge), and she dons it flawlessly at the bay stallion's confession. Nothing changes, not visibly, but she nods as though she understands. (She'll never admit she does.)
"Troubles always seems to be faster than we'd like." She tells him with a shadow of a smile. "Though there's nothing behind you that I can see." Djinni is glancing over his shoulder, though she suspects that whatever he is running away from might lack the physical form that her troubles have.
"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." She adds, but it seems very clear from warm eyes and soft smile that nothing he might tell her will surprise her or elicit any judgment. She's perfected that too, the art of a benevolent looking glass where nothing is too dark or too secret to be said aloud in her presence.
Midday was slowly turning in to afternoon, the sun’s light slowly moving though the thick trees as time ticked on. Despite the sun’s attempt to filter through to the forest floor, the coldness of winter’s breath is on the breeze and stops any warmth from reaching him. The cold is sharp and unfriendly against his russet skin, his jaw clenching tightly in discomfort. Whether the discomfort is from the unfamiliar bite of wintry air or from the pounding ache in his chest or his lack of sleep that he would never admit, he couldn’t tell. He almost didn’t care.
Warrick continues to watch her, eyes soft yet wary – though he had no reason to be cautious – as he listens, absorbing her presence and body language. She sounds cliché and he almost tells her so, but he remembers that he does still have some manners.
If Djinni had met Warrick a few weeks prior to this moment in the forest, she would notice that his temperament and demeanor had changed slightly. Slowly and sneakily, his grief (and his inability to deal with it) was breaking apart pieces of him, throwing small bits to the wayside as each day passes. Right now it’s the unimportant parts of him that are fading away – imperceptible, barely noticeable; his relaxed way he hangs his head, the dark eyes that once held more life to them if you had known him truly. Little things that a stranger wouldn’t care to see unless they had been looking for them.
No, Warrick won’t crumble fast – he won’t allow it. He is too proud for that. It will be a slow fade, a painful transformation that will recreate him from the inside out and that he can do nothing to stop.
He snorts, navy nostrils flaring as his breath leaves them in a cloud of vapor around his face. “Talking rarely solves problems.” He says this almost with a chuckle as if trying to take away from the severity of his situation (an unknown one, to her). He continues to move towards her now, his indigo legs easily moving through the dead brush of the forest’s floor. He comes to a halt beside her, shoulder-to-shoulder, but not close enough to be uncomfortable. He glances sideways at her through a long and tangled forelock that almost reaches the point where his auburn skin becomes blue on his tired face. “I really doubt you’re some kind of therapist,” he says to her with a lopsided smile, though it did not quite reach his eyes. “I'm Warrick.”
The brisk wind that chills him sends a marching shiver down Djinni's broad back and tosses the dark strands of her long tail. When Warrick fires back that talking rarely solves problems, it startles a laugh from the brown mare.
"Ah yes," She says with amusement clouding her voice, "Your method of running from them is a much safer bet."
She recognizes a topic off-limits, and even though she remains curious she allows herself to be distracted. The blue and mahogany stallion comes closer and introduces himself Warrick, a name she's never heard, but that's common these days), and Djinni does the same.
"I'm Djinni." She says in her brown-horse voice says.
"From Sylva." She finishes in her own voice, having changed from a baroque brown mare to a slender piebald mare. The transformation is instantaneous; there is no slow melding of colors and shapes. One moment she is one thing and the next she is another, with the only constant being the golden rings in her ears and anklets around her hooves.
"And you're right, I'm no therapist." She smiles, mischief in her sea green eyes, because she is obviously something much more interesting than a simple therapist. "And what are you, Warrick?"
He is beginning to feel different now. Whether it is the sharp, frigid air of the forest that made him feel thin (almost stretched) or if it was the slow and steady march of his grief, he couldn’t tell. Either way, it didn’t matter. All he knew was that he felt breakable, as if even the smallest of breezes would cause him to crumble. He ignores the feeling, as he has done since the beginning, unaware that he would eventually (and inevitably) crack.
But today was not that day. In fact, besides the pit in his stomach that never ceases gnawing, Warrick was rather enjoying his adventure away from Tephra and his conversation with the dark brown mare.
He tosses his head with chuckle, black tendrils falling haphazardly as they came to settle across his mahogany neck and face. Dark blue eyes peer curiously out from beneath the black heap of forelock that had just come to rest across his nose. “Everybody runs – it’s an innate response,” he responds coolly, “though I have a feeling you’re not one to run.” Here, a crack of a smile runs across navy lips.
Warrick finally has a name to put to the face, and though he was anticipating hearing her name, he was not anticipating what happens next. With a wild snort, the bay stallion throws his head up in shock, eyes widening slightly at the sight of what seems to be a completely different horse beside him. After the initial surprise wears off, Warrick’s eyes trace the lines and contours of a now two-toned Djinni. He cannot help but reach out and carefully brush his muzzle softly her shoulder, almost certain that she would fall away in a mist or fog if he made contact. When he was greeted with the warmth of her skin he laughs quietly, the heat of his breath against her as he spoke. “You are certainly much more than that,” he admits almost breathlessly, his dark eyes still taking in the now-vibrant colors of her coat.
Shifting his weight, Warrick’s touch against her skin leaves, but his warm breath still lingers in the cold, wintry air. He is considering her question as his brow furrows above dark, clouded eyes. He swallows hard, wondering if she knows that her question was one that he couldn’t answer. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he simply didn’t know.
“I’m no one.”
Here his eyes flick to hers, dark blue meeting brilliant green, in almost astonishment – as if he hadn’t meant to let the words tumble from his mouth. It was true – he was no one worth knowing, no one worth saving, and no one worth staying behind for. His muscles grow taut beneath his auburn skin, though it was not from the cold.
“But you,” he says quickly (but genuinely, and almost in wonder), “are most definitely someone.”
With a sigh he straightens, a chilled breeze filtering between the tall trees and rustling them softly. His eyes are still on Djinni, unable to decide if he should look in her eyes, at her new appearance, or at the enchanting gold bangles that glimmer on her ankles and ears.
It’s not even been twelve hours since her dalliance in the woods, but it had taken less than half the time for the purpose of it to come rushing back. She can still taste Charlemange in the back of her throat, but it has been dampened by the same thoughts that had guided her hooves away from Sylva, the same thoughts that had her being a small brown someone for a while rather than herself.
Warrick is a better distraction, she finds, and the irony that she advises him on a situation that is eerie similar to her own does not escape her. Or perhaps it does and she is peacefully oblivious.
“You’d be surprised,” she replies with a crooked grin, but there is a finalty in her voice that suggests she does not wish to go farther on the subject. She doesn’t have to, not with her own penchant for spontaneity. The surprise in his eyes does not go unappreciated; Djiini has always been a natural at preening. She doesn’t move away from his curious touch, only nips playfully at the empty air he leaves behind when he pulls away.
His admission leaves her frowning; she cannot believe him. They might not all be titled and magnificent, but she’s yet to find anyone that is not important in some way. Still, she is not inclined to argue with the blue haired stranger, not when his admiring gaze keeps her occupied. “Maybe,” she says as she tosses her head and causes her golden earrings to shatter, “Maybe not. Maybe just in Sylva.” She shrugs, falsely modest. “And where are you from, where they let you think you are not someone too?”
current appearance: slim build smoky grullo tobiano sea green eyes
So much pain is fraught between the two horses, still practically strangers, but both are unwillingly to delve deeper. Instead, they cover their ache with little hints that you couldn’t decipher, small smiles, and distractions of the eye. Of course, Warrick wasn’t as good at it seeing as his affliction was his first – it was still fresh and new, pouring freely from an open wound. He has been trying frantically to cover it, though the fact remains that any attempts at bandaging were futile. Time was really his only friend and once healed, a hardened, twisted scar will remain.
He likes Djinni. He likes that she is interesting and mysterious, so unlike himself. He has nothing to offer her, really. He enjoys the fact that despite this, she stays. She seems important – as if he should have known her just by laying eyes on her to begin with – and emulates significance. He likes her attention to him, and he thinks that maybe – just maybe – someone finds him interesting, too.
“What is Sylva like?” He is still getting acquainted with the new names of the lands around Beqanna, but this one seems familiar. He thinks about where he is from, though now it is irrelevant. The Gates are no longer what they were when he was just a colt, and the name of his mother, Orani, was barely on other’s lips. Perhaps there was a chance that someone would remember her, or even his twin sister, Beyah. But even then, he knows that the Gates is not where he is from. He is from wherever Beyah and Orani are now, without him.
No one has to say it, he wants to tell her, his mind drifting back to his moment of despair when he was left behind on the mountain as they ascended into the stars, breathing in thin air with large gasps, heart pounding wildly inside his ribcage. His family abandoning him was all that needed to be said about who Warrick truly was: no one.
He tosses his head, as if tossing away the painful memory (of course it is still there, choking him). A hint of a smile, soft yet forlorn, finds his indigo lips. “I live in Tephra, if that’s what you mean. Though even you know that an actual place is not truly where you are from.” Again with the subtle hints, desperate in his attempt to keep his pain hidden yet frantically wanting to share with someone at the same time. He continues to tiptoe around the truth, as if he could walk by quietly and not awaken it. He wonders if she will press him further about it, and he had half of a mind to let her.
“Is this really you, then?” he asks curiously, referring to what he now knew as her new appearance. He wonders about the bangles, if they held some sort of magic in them or if her chameleon-like powers came from her own entity. “Or is that for you to know and for me to find out?” He laughs gently, bumping her shoulder with his muzzle in jest.
