"I'll break you a hundred different ways,
and I'll make you remember my face."
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He is soundless as he soars above them.
Far enough above they cannot hear the occasional sound of his wings moving, the wind gliding easily across the silver-colored feathers. Darkness surrounds him, and he is silent. The clouds have hidden the moon and smothered the stars, and he is content to glide through the pitch black. Never goes he steal a glance downwards. He does not care what they are doing. He does not care if they are thriving or struggling, alive or dead, happy or distraught. His interest in them was nonexistent, and had been as such for as long as he could remember. Raised by an ever-doting mother, it had done little to change the stoniness that was naturally apart of him. As soon as he had no longer needed her milk, he was gone. And he had been that way ever since.
An ear flicks, and he can hear the sound of water running over rock. He knows he is above the river. Thrusting himself forward, he continues on, far away from where the residents of Beqanna typically gathered. Beyond the river lay the field and trees, a vast expanse that went until it reached the seaside. Within those fields there was a thicker copse of trees, one of the many hiding places he had chosen as a home for himself. He circles once, twice, gradually easing closer and observing it all the while. No disturbances, no sign that anyone else had decided to take the place for themselves. He lands, a hardy thud sounding as his hooves touch ground. The silver wings fold against his dapple gray side, and he shakes a dark forelock from his eyes. He surveys his surroundings, nostrils flaring, testing the air. With purposeful steps he moves towards the thickest part of the trees, ignoring the branches and briars that snag at his skin.
He settles in, for how long, he is not sure. But with one eye and one ear always paying attention, he does not sleep.
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NIGHTLOCK
carnage and ryatah
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Chippewa has never been so glad to lay eyes upon a river.
Her thirst is terrible, and she cannot even remember the last time she stopped to drink - all the rivers had dried up to dust, or brimmed with a poison that made them bloat and die. Countless others had sipped of water like that, only to be met by an agonizing end as she stood back, looking on, unable to help. She almost ran to the river but instinct held her back, made her cautious in her approach as she sniffed along it’s edge before putting her lips into the clear coldness of it. It tasted good! Cold and fresh, and she almost caught a pebble in her teeth from the bottom to toss about but could not bring herself to act so childish. It was enough that she slurped her fill of the river until it dribbled out of her mouth, down her whiskery chin and splashed onto her feet.
She looked up and realized that a great forest stretched out at her back, dark and dangerous, like the mouth of a hungering beast waiting to snatch her up. Chippewa gave a snort, as if to show she wasn’t afraid of such a beast but deep down, she had to admit she’d never seen so many trees and so close together in her entire life. She had passed by forests but stuck to the outskirts of them, picking her way through brambles and barren rock before chancing places that were as shadowy and mysterious as a forest could be. Her kind, they did not take well to not being able to see the sky above their heads and she could not help but instinctively balk at the chasm of trees yawning wide before her. But she realized, she’d have to go back the way she came or straight into the beast’s jaws…
But it was dark - pitch black, the kind of night in which no star can be seen and no one knows what happens to the moon except that it’s hiding, most likely behind the clouds that just so happen to be there. She looks up again, a frown settling on her face as she stares at the dark. A sigh builds in her throat and rolls up out of her mouth and over teeth and tongue before she can stop it; a sigh of resignation, because the forest is no darker than the night and danger is danger, whether here or there and at least in the forest, she could hear the branches snap and give before something attacked her or so she hoped. Cautiously, she crept closer and closer to the forest before barging into it in a breaking of branch and bush as she tore down the trail at a breakneck speed before coming to her senses and slowing down.
Chippewa talks aloud to herself, more to hear the sound of her own voice than anything else; “What’s there to be afraid of? Some sticks and leaves?” and she laughs, but it is a nervous laugh as the little medicine hat mare walks down what she hopes is a path (but is actually the gray stallion’s faint and fading trail).
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"I'll break you a hundred different ways,
and I'll make you remember my face."
_____________________________________________________________________________________________
He smells her before he hears her.
She smells of the wild, of the lands outside of Beqanna. Their forests had a different scent, like their leaves and trees came from a different planet. He had not been there often, but with wings it was impossible to keep himself confined to Beqanna’s borders. Her scent came on the wind, sweet and untamed. His silver nostrils flared as it reached him, and immediately his posture is erect. With dark eyes he stares into the abysmal darkness, and faintly he can hear the sounds of branches breaking and earth shaking. He does not move, and is instead is still as a statue. Whoever was coming towards him, he would be here waiting for them. His patience is unnerving, as he stands, stoic and statuesque. It’s not so much that he does not fear danger. It’s the fact that he doesn’t fear death. There was nothing to miss about being alive. Everyone was but a walking corpse, pretending to find meaning in their day to day lives, when in reality they would all one day decay into the earth.
Breathing, pulsing decay. That’s all they were.
A slender ear flicks at the sound of her voice, and he waits a moment for a response, from what he thinks would come from whoever her companion may be. Once he realizes she is merely talking to herself, he moves. His steps are slow and deliberate, keeping his wings tucked carefully at his sides. Even in the darkness, the white of her coat reflects what little light can be found behind the cloud cover. ”And what of the beasts that live amongst the sticks and leaves?” His voice is harsh and grating against the silence of the night, and there is a rasp to it from having not spoken in so long. The flatness of his tone makes it difficult to decipher whether or not there was sarcasm, but the way that he steps immediately into her space suggests there isn’t. ”You’re intruding,” he finishes coolly, walking past her and letting a sterling wing brush her side. ”But lucky for you I don’t bite.” Not usually, at least._____________________________________________________________________________________________
NIGHTLOCK
carnage and ryatah
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“Sticks and leaves,” she tells herself.
“There’s nothing to be afraid of sticks and leaves…” but she sounds unsure, and she is - Chippewa did not trust the thick dark forest. It felt like a mouth that had closed around her and swallowed her down the deeper she walked into it. Every tree became a rib, every shadow the cold press of fear against her pale side - she wanted to scream, it was oppressive in here! Why on earth did she decide to traipse through the forest of all places? She longed for a glimpse of blue ragged sky through the patchwork of leaf and branch overhead but they were so tightly woven together and too dense to give her that brief glimpse of hope.
“Sticks and leaves,” she mutters, less uncertain with each step she took.
“Oh yes, and the beasts!” Chippewa blinks in surprise, dumbfounded as a gray stallion materializes out of the forest. Maybe that is too strong of a word for it - he looked as if he had detached him from the forest in a place where he could not have possibly been before but how could she be certain? How could she be certain of anything in here? This place was too odd for the likes of her, but here he is - she ought to have noticed him, smelled him, but she was too fearful and could only hear the fretful rabbit-trip of her own heart as it hammered away in her breast. She is taken aback by his harsh tone, the way he mentions that she is intruding and how he pushes past her with a brush of feathers - wait, no, that can’t be right…
Feathers?
Yes, feathers! As in wings, and she can feel a shiver run down the length of her spine as she turns her head to follow him with her eyes. She might well as have turned her entire body to follow him, for all that she is staring in bewilderment at him. Chippewa gives a nervous laugh, “Lucky for me… hah!” Still, how does he have wings? She’s never seen such a thing, not in the canyons or out on the long grass. She has a small mind stuck in a small world though her feeble brain is starting to grasp that there is so much more to this world than meets the eye! “Y-you must be some kind of b-beast to have those!” she blurts out. Mustn’t he? And if not a beast… a god? Something else?
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ooc: sorry this is long overdue and ick <3
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