"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
More often than not, they are bickering and their faces are pinched tight in frowns and anger at one another.
The meadow finds them downright tranquil.
His head rests on her back as she makes wishes on the puffy heads of dandelions, knowing they are the last of summer’s weeds and flowers because each of them had caught the change in the air that signals the next season is coming. Neither of them makes mention of it; they are grown into themselves, a stallion and a mare, but not a stallion and his mare - no, never that, for they are twins, of a kind since they look nothing like one another save for their eyes. Both share the mismatch of red and black, and his left eye is the red while her red eye is the right.
Besides that;
Nothing else is a clear-cut sign that they are brother and sister, twins even. Their paint patterns are separate and unique, bay overo and black medicine hat tovero, and even their shapes are different. He is bulkier in muscle and build like their father, and she is slimmer and smaller than even their mother is, almost a pony in size. Ah, but they do share feathers from fetlock to hoof that is a sure sign of their father’s draft influence. But there, the similarities end because in the next instant the feathers on her fetlocks have become fire and Spear lifts his head sleepily from her back to chastise her with his teeth.
The fire calms down and disappears after a moment or more, shocked back into submission by his teeth on the skin of her shoulder as he grasps it in a dutiful pinch that reminds her to mind herself and her newfound power. She sighs, and goes back to blowing the heads off the dandelions with her hot fiery breath and he goes back to laying his head lazily over the pale flat plain of her back. Sometimes, he tilts his head just so to grab a mouthful of mane and he gives it a little tug that makes her mutter “ow!” under her breath before shaking her mane out of his mouth’s grasp.
Spear chuckles;
Spark mutters something about incorrigible brothers, and for a while, they are both relatively happy like they always used to be.
06-18-2017, 12:47 PM (This post was last modified: 06-18-2017, 12:48 PM by Tangerine.)
tangerine
face to the sun
Tangerine is grazing, languidly following the timeless and unmarked trail of greener grasses. The Meadow produces some of her favorites and that is why she chose to rest here, the seeping wound in the white flesh of her left hock demands she travel at a slower pace this time. She is continuously dividing her time between Hyaline and Tephra – so the fall finders her wandering once again.
For most of her journey she had been completely alone. Avoiding the used that the residence of Beqanna most frequently traveled. But the meadow is open and the sun is bright, there is a peaceful breeze tumbling her mane, and she forgets to worry. She isn’t a worrier by nature, and even though only a few days have passed sense she was dealt a burn by a mysterious silhouette of a stallion, she is already forgetting the brunt of the trauma… during the day at least. Nights are another matter. But there is plenty of sunlight left in this one, and she draws her head up from the tall grasses which obscure her view of the world around her. Surprisingly close she spots a large form, two forms, tangled together in tranquility.
The mare puffs at dandelions idly, the stallion lays passive on his companion with a deep familiarity. She is drawn to the picture of tranquility they paint and finds herself grazing closer to them. But then she wonders if they are lovers who are looking for a quiet moment together and she almost turns her back to them. But before she does the stallion tugs at the mares mane unprovoked and the look on her face as she grumbles inaudible words is a look which only sisters wear… or at least not one of a lover.
She smiles and her heart reaches out to them. She nickers a greeting then, and takes a few steps in their direction, continuing to tear grass with her young white teeth. Her black forelock falls into her gold and cream face, but her amber eyes watch them to see if she should run or stay.
Their mother had told them stories of following in the buffalo’s footsteps, and being children, they’d been curious as to what a buffalo was and decided that one day, they’d see these mythical beings for themselves. She had mentioned too, about some kind of magical association with thunder and spirits that made them all the more intrigued. So, as all children do, they grew up a little bit and took to the plains to walk where the buffalo roamed.
Grazing had been rich and plentiful then; not unlike grazing here, though it is less pleasurable now and more necessity than anything else - they eat because they must, because that is how ponies live and breathe and get plump off good green grass. Well, Spear grew thicker with muscle and Spark remained slim and lithe from all the running she did, chasing after Spear and then outrunning him so that he had to try to catch the ends of her tail in his teeth. Each of them thinks of these things as he rests his head on her back and she continues to blow the heads off the dandelions, making idle wishes as she does.
He senses the mare nearing them first; his ears splay outwards then prick attentively as he lifts his head from his sister’s pale back. The mare is like them in color, painted but buckskin where he is bay and Spark is mostly white save for the black bonnet on her head and the black shield on her chest that makes her a medicine hat, or special medicine as their mother told them while fawning over both her foals. Like them, she is blissful and smiling and each of them smiles back; Spear neighs back, inviting her over and closer to them, always thinking there was room for more (probably a herd stallion’s instinct that he rarely indulged).
The stallion calls out to her in a friendly way and Tang is easily convinced that they are friends. She trots over the small distance separating them, her gold and cream legs stepping high in the sea of grasses. Before long, she stops in front of the pair, her look quizzical yet friendly. Their more and less painted coats remind her of the horses of her homeland, so simple and natural. But the scent of burning lingers, preventing her from fully relaxing, and there is no way for her to tell if the smoke is in the air or only her mind. As she nears she is distracted from the hint of acidity in the air by a more welcoming smell – a very familiar smell. The mare says hello, and it is not like Tang to not return a kindness. “Hi! are you guys from Tephra?” The salt and tropical scents hang heavily off them, in contrast to the crisp fall scent the rest of Beqanna is beginning to take on. She wonders is Warrick is in Tephra now, or if he is traveling… maybe these two are his friends. “I’m Tang, I’m coming from Hyaline.” She offers, her heavy black tail whisking away the insects which land on her burnt hock from time to time. She wants to ask about Warrick, but she refrains... it's only polite to let them answer her first question before bombarding them with more.
So, Tang reaches her muzzle out to the mare and then the stallion in greeting, hoping they don't mind company.
