"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
what I gotta do to show these girls that I own them
Winter was a bore. It's gray, and soggy and rather unbecoming in her pale green eye. The dark mare moves through the field with delicate steps, avoiding the wettest parts of the drowned land. On occasion, she would wrinkle her nose, turn away her pretty face, and side step whatever puddle may be in her path.
Long white hair drapes down her neck in a snowy waterfall, glinting dramatically against her black hide. She knows why she is here and does not pretend to otherwise. The young woman manages to find a relatively dry spot in which to pick at a few of the early spring grass shards.
The winter has not touched her lovely skin where others it has ravished. She simply banishes the cold. It was hard to disrupt the perfection. The slim mare figures it would be a matter of time before she is approached and allows it to happen naturally. She was in no rush to hurry home.
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
Bruise cannot say that he is a particularly large fan of winter.
He does not like the cold that sinks into his bones or the ache that it brings to his muscle. He does not like the way it wraps the world in lethargy—the way everything slows down to a simmer, molasses rolling around. It is boring and gross and he pulls his lip back in disgust of it all. It does, however, have its perks. If you can call it that. It is so boring that he finds himself here, of all places. He has never visited the field before—never really cared to—but with so little else to do, there were few other ideas to amuse him.
The pickings were slim (and, if he was being honest, mostly disgusting) but she struck his fancy. He tilted his handsome head, shark eyes evaluating her from beneath his sooty forelock. His lips spread into a wide, flat smile as he makes his way over to her. He was faster than normal, more agile too, and he did not bother to hide it from her. Instead, he simply skimmed over the snow and came to an abrupt stop.
Bruise tossed his heavy-horned head and gave her a grin, the act charming but ultimately disingenuous. “Were you looking for me?” he asked rakishly, the snow drifting down to rest upon the curve of his hips. “We all know why you’re here, so why don’t we cut the bullshit.” Recruiting was a bore, and he really didn’t have any desire to draw it out. “My name is Bruise, and I’m from Pangea.” If she didn’t know what that was or what they stood for then she wasn’t worth his time. “Who are you?”
And then, for the first time in his life, he waited.
what I gotta do to show these girls that I own them
The sound of hooves are loud when all you can hear is the small splatter of snowflakes and your own heartbeat. Perfect lifts her head with a knowing smile to see she had attracted some company.
Lovely.
Immortality had it's perks, a fine line of cockiness and confidence, that Perfect promptly stomped that into the ground. She stands somewhere between youthful girl and marehood, trapped at the age where she is able to reap the benefits of both. Forever pretty but mature of mind (one day). And now in this moment, pale green eyes drink in the other. He seems close to her age but the horns at his head make him seem older, grittier, dirtier. A smile blooms across her lips as she watches him approach with as much disdain for the field as she.
"Bruise of Pangea, you say?" She echoes casually, noting the information, his face, and those horns on his handsome blessed head. She knows exactly why she is here and appreciates that he does not screw around. She likes to keep company with those who know what they want and rather than try to coat her in sticky sweet words. She may have all eternity but she does not want to squander it with meaningless chit chat.
Pretty little ears rotate away when he asks for her name. Perfect passes her gaze to the sky for a moment as she lets the white flakes stick to her mane and eyelashes. "My father named me Perfect." The words tip toe from her tapered lips as she returns her focus to the odd stallion with his charming demeanor though Perfect imagines it was only a matter of time before his pretty porcelain mask slid off.
She knows of Pangea. He father had made the land. He had also made her immortal. Perfect decides to not divulge the information to Bruise so instead she lets her own name sit on her lips, smirking at him and tossing the length of her forelock from her eyes so she may see him better, noting the notches and curves of his healthy form.
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin (and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
She repeated his introduction and for a fleeting moment he bit back the desire to ask whether she was stupid. He had just said that he was Bruise of Pangea, hadn’t he? Instead he gave her a cold smile, unable to shake the thought that this had been a mistake. People came to the field because they cared about their home or because they cared about making sure people found the right place to live. Bruise did not care about either of those things and it was truly a wonder that he had managed to find his way here at all.
The only thing he could hope for in this moment was that she would be brief.
Or at least actually be stupid so he had a decent enough reason to leave.
“Your father has an odd sense of humor,” he said, smile cruel as he considered her. “Or perhaps you are indeed perfect.” Just a hint of charm again, enough to soften his angular face, to make it easy to note that he was indeed handsome, that he was indeed easy on the eyes. “Either way, it doesn’t really matter to me.” She could be the prettiest damn thing he ever saw, but he only cared about what she looked like when her eyes were rolled back in her head, when terror claimed her face. Until then, she was just another zombie wandering Beqanna and sucking it dry of life. He just didn’t have the patience for it all.
Shrugging, restlessness clear in every line of his lithe body, he glanced back to the border. “I really don’t have all day, Perfect,” her name rolled sardonically off his tongue as he brought his flat shark gaze back to her. “Do you want to come live in Pangea or do you want to wait for some bottom-feeder to sweep you off your feet and take you to your happily ever after?” At this point, he really didn’t care.
03-16-2017, 05:05 PM (This post was last modified: 03-16-2017, 05:08 PM by Perfect.)
what I gotta do to show these girls that I own them
The woman watches at the goat man as he gives her an eerie smile. She quirks one non existent brow at his odd behavior. Since the man was half goat then she could only suspect his brain was as well. Perfect wonders if she should slow down her speech or enunciate her words more clearly for the damaged man.
Poor guy. His brain must be broke.
Pale glass eyes watch him cynically as she quietly debates how to continue with his company. But her name on his lips draws her away from her mind so she may look more clearly upon him. He is moody, broody and strange but Perfect figures 'what the hell?' Going home with a strange land that her daddy once made can't be so bad right? "Yes, Pan-ge-uh, will be fine Bruise." The dark mare speaks slowly, a bit loudly, so the poor social awkward, scatter brained man may understand that she has accepted his invitation. "Let us go then. The field is bor-ing." A flicker of a flame's smile pulls at her pretty lips before she starts off.
perfect
((don't mind her, laura. she is regina george of beqanna lmao))
