"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
Hawthorn is an atlas bound; chained by the heavy yoke of a legacy he can never live up to. His fathers have both been kings in their own right - of bachelors and brothers, something that he will never know except in the oral tradition of history being passed down to him, mincemeat from a bird’s open throat thrown up into his. He is bound by this fact that he is nothing like either of them and somehow a composite blend of both of them that leaves him confounded.
There too, is the missing element - Element; her name once a balm to his ears is now an angry buzz of loss. Sister - twin; she had occupied so much of his existence and now, she is missing. One more burden for him to bear, he supposes with nothing short of his familiar brooding exterior. An exterior that has come to match a broiling mass of stormcloud dappling his once black flesh. To think of her is to think of the lost things like childhood and innocence, and Hawthorn has banished those things from his mind as much as he has thoughts of her.
The ground shakes beneath his step; Hawthorn is a large brute full of muscle and dense bone. He can feel the world slipping it’s yoke around his neck once more, drawing it tight and close - he is a king of nothing but he’ll make something of this nothing, by god he will! Except it is not god that he looks for beneath the old and new boughs of the redwoods, some still scarred from a drama that took place before he even came into this world (he’s still not even sure how that happened to be honest, a stallion cannot birth a colt - magic had been involved, like magic always is).
He looks for them - those few, that he had managed to plant nips on their hips and claim. If king he could be, then he’d ruled a kingdom of them, wild and different in their looks and personalities, and here was as good as anywhere for a kingdom of theirs to flourish. One eye is brown and the other, the telltale red that marks him as one of the unmistakable sons of a remarkable stallion (no - two, remarkable stallions, his love for them wars with his dislike of a lack of inheritance besides the history crammed down his throat) - mismatched eyes that search for the first of his beautiful ones.
Hawthorn, broody though he may be in look and tone, could still find appreciation inside himself for the flash of their eyes and the toss of their feminine heads. So he called to them with a thunderclap of a neigh to let them know that their king had come at last.
ooc: skipping claiming posts. so feel free to post your mare to him if you want her to be in his herd. otherwise, we can always work something out if you want to go through the actual claiming process. <3
He makes his way through this land with a kind of self-assured air that one might mistake for arrogance. She watches him and the way he walks, rolls through the Taiga with his broad shoulders and big feet... If he resembles kings, she does not recognise it. She has never had much need for kings.
She follows him through the Taiga, at a fair distance. She is not trying to stalk him and indeed, there is not enough coverage for her to hide within. The earth might as well be creaking beneath her with all the care she takes in placing her feet. She sees him place nips and nudges on mares he passes. She is equine enough to recognise it for what it is - claiming. Her head tilts and she frowns. This is a custom she is not very familiar with - she has had very limited interaction with men, and none of that variety. She does not think she is missing out on very much, but her curiosity is sparked and she finds herself shifting back into her horse form.
After all, she does not want to terrify the poor man away.
He calls then and the cream mare watches, for a moment, her ears twitching.
"Hello," she calls to him, walking closer. "Will you claim me, too?" It is not a request by any means. She is simply childlike in her curiosity, and her desire to learn and experience.
Hawthorn cranes his massive head around; he can feel eyes on him but attributes it to the strangeness of the redwoods as they strive to regrow here and regain their own massive right to this land. The stare might raise the hairs on the back of his neck momentarily and cause him to cast a wary look about but there is too much fog to sluice through, too much mystery that still hangs in the air and even a bit of a scent that smells like nothing else on this earth - magic, that is more a tingle in his blood than a scent he can actually smell. So he ignores it.
Perhaps not the wisest course for a stallion but Hawthorn senses no immediate threat from the forest and puffs up the feathers in his wings to appear bigger than whatever is watching him. Then he continues to move amongst those that start to gather which by the looks of it, is not much. So much for his idea of a decent herd. There is slim pickings here as he noses and nips his way through them but there are enough to satisfy his most basic urge as a stallion - to herd. Settled amongst them, only then does he permit himself time to graze, his mouth snatching absentmindedly at the stalks of grass that try to poke up through the dense carpet of pine needle and fallen leaf.
Not much to forage here, he thinks. But his choice has been made. The forest will shelter the herd for the time being until a much more suitable place makes itself available to them. If his fathers could thrive in the harsh grips of the famous Tundra, than he can make these few mares thrive on a few bits of grass tucked in amongst the redwoods. Hawthorn was nothing if not resolute even behind his brooding facade. Then a new scent reaches him, something sweet but tangled up in something dark and Hawthorn throws his head up sharply to hone in on the smell coming to him.
It is a mare. Of course it is! She is lovely to look at even as her ears twitch atop her head and she calls out to him. Hawthorn does not have to go to her because she comes closer and asks him the most ridiculous question he has ever heard a mare ask - to be claimed, by him! Her childlike nature is endearing just the slightest, making him think back to a time when he had known briefly what that was like before it had gone, blown away like bits of dust from an open hand. “Do you know what you ask?” he asks her, certain that she cannot possibly understand what this will mean for her but he moves to oblige her nonetheless.
His mouth cracks open and descends upon her tawny hip. Something in him tries to be gentle with the claiming bite as he delivers it to her skin. “You are mine now, do you understand that?” Hawthorn closes his mouth over the bitten skin, rubbing it with his lips just a little to ease the hurt before his mouth travels up her back to nestle in her mane, as he sucks in a great draught of her scent. She smells off, like something else that he cannot quite pinpoint at the moment but it bothers him little - a lot of them were like nothing they ever seemed to be, why should she be any different? Somehow, she was and he took a step back to eye her now.
He is even larger up close, she realises. He feels more massive than her father, even when she would shelter between his legs as a young filly. She is small, in comparison, but it does not intimidate her - it intrigues her. Excites her, even.
He inquires as to whether she knows what she is asking for and she shrugs her shoulders easily, a small smile on her face. ”No,” she says, moving a step closer. ”Perhaps not.” There is no hesitation in her voice though, the smile on her face unwavering, inquisitive. She has never been claimed before, never been owned… She wants to be. She wants to know what it is like for someone to want her. What it’s like to be wanted so much that nobody else is allowed you.
The nip is firm and it stings, despite his attempts to dampen it. It hurts, she discovers, but it’s not necessarily bad. Perhaps she even enjoys it a little. It had been so long since she had had physical contact with another; years and years and years. She had forgotten how nice and soft it feels. ‘You are mine now.’ he says, and Anastazja smiles, she can’t help it. Silly boy, one does not simply own a tiger. She says nothing, though. Let him believe it, let him think that it’s as simple as that. She wants him to bite her more, tell her how beautiful she is, hold her close.
He doesn’t though. He takes a step back and the silver mare is quick to close the gap again. Not touching, but almost.
”What will you have me do now?” she asks, tilting her head, looking up at him. Coyly. She takes a few steps away, light on her feet. Playfully she swishes her tail, an invitation to follow her, to chase her. Of course, she is not ignorant to the season that’s upon them. She doubts he will be either.
