"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
The heartbeat of Beqanna is always thriving (pulsating among the maggots and bones in the ground, screaming in the cry of a mother in labor, pushing among the sway of the trees and force of the waterfalls). The trickster has been around long enough to see the rise and fall of kingdoms (along with the gore of fallen soldiers, the voting for new kings and queens, the quiet inactive slumber of a kingdom gone dormant) and he knows it is an intricate piece of Beqanna’s body. Kingdoms bring some sort of order to the way life swirls around them aside from the pull of their lungs, the beating of their hearts, and the aches of their emotions.
After the fall of Gryffen’s Sylva (the trickster knows it will be different as the heroes and heroines make themselves cozy), he’d retreated to the corners of the well-traveled pieces of Beqanna. Thoughts have been stirring in his head as the once-mighty scientist has disappeared into the shadow. He isn’t quite ready to unveil their delicious potential, but word has reached him of the bay and green mare’s ascension.
It’s funny, she hadn’t seemed to be that special when they first met (perhaps that’s rude of him to think, but when has he ever cared for manners or decency).
He’s bored (on a day that is caught between the transition of summer into autumn) and so he decides to visit Ischia. The new kingdoms in Beqanna are curiosities to him, feeble compared to the solid foundations of the old kingdoms (of the Valley and the Gates, of the Chamber and the Deserts). The trickster pays little mind to the borders as he reaches Ischia, rather he steps across them with a flick of his tail and finds a stream to drink from in the meantime.
He will hide his location from any who happen to pass (shielding their senses from his presence with a few slimy tricks) until she arrives, whenever that might be. And then he will make his presence obvious to her, with a clearing of his throat.
Autumn has arrived, and she is well aware of it. It does not come in a flurry of colors or the chill of a bitter wind, rather, it reveals itself much more stealthily on her island home. The weather stays warm, the plants do not change. However, there is that subtle cool breeze from the mainland, the way the water becomes almost lukewarm...among other things.
The sensitivity around her stomach is hard to ignore, or the way she holds her tail in an almost uncomfortable way. Sometimes she feels as though she can smell the aroma of estrus on herself, and she becomes agitated at this fact. She loathes fall (in particular, the way it makes her feel), and cannot wait for it to be over with).
Krone moves across Ischia's white sand beaches, taking each hour one step at a time. She doesn't like leading when she feels like shit, but she didn't have much of a choice. She mutters "hello"s to the residents who pass her, and tries not to mouth off at stallion's whose eyes linger too long on her hips.
That's when she catches it. A familiar smell that contrasts harshly with the salty sea air...she knows who is there, although their interaction had been short-lived. "Lokiiiii," She calls with a soft chuckle. "Come out, come out wherever you are."
Autumn is one of his favorite seasons. There are many things he enjoys about it (the decay of life around him, the undoing of personalities, the wild chaos the world becomes for a few months) and he thrives in the cooler season. He does loathe the way winter should follow (with its bitter temperatures, deep and chilled snow-banks, and general mood of lethargy) but he holds autumn to high standards before the frozen season comes.
She saunters by, all hips (which are altogether lustfully appealing to any stallion who is led by their balls even slightly) and estrogen (her scent swathes him in a bath of delicious intention and he must be careful that it does not remove his mind of thought). He is pleased when she calls his name, so he easily slides from his hiding place to greet her. His steps are long and rhythmic as he ambles forward, a hint of a smirk twitching at his lips.
“Queen of Ischia, so I’ve heard.” He’s never been one to beat around the bush unless he’s looking to play a game. The trickster lowers his neck toward the ground, allowing his head to sweep down in a grand (condescending, playful, sarcastic) gesture to acknowledge her authority. As his raises his silvery head, his bruised eyes meet her own gaze. “Thrones and royalty never did suit me, but I gotta admit, you look sexy as hell.” Maybe it’s just the season or maybe he’s always though it and just never spoken aloud.
“So tell me about Ischia… I’ve never been here before.”
Lokii reveals himself, stepping confidently from his hiding spot in the trees to find a place in front of her watchful eyes. "Queen of Ischia, so I've heard." He says with a sarcastic bow of respect, and she finds herself laughing at him - he's as funny as he is wicked, all things she enjoys in a person, even if she herself isn't. "Thrones and royalty never did suit me, but I gotta admit, you look sexy as hell." She let's her eyes roll over (he was a flirtatious brute, wasn't he?).
"A compliment, Lokii? I never thought I'd see the day." She jests, gesturing for him to follow her. Her hips sway as she moves towards the vast expanse of beach before them. He inquires about Ischia, and she grins.
"There is a large main island, surrounding by other smaller chains," She tells him, eyes towards the sky. She misses flying, she hasn't done it in quite a awhile (too long). "The amount of residents was tiny, but has grown in the past few months. There's something for everyone here. The ocean for water dwellers, the beach for those who enjoy basking in the sun, the forest for the more secluded groups..." Her mind wanders to Deathwish, her living dead girl. Her stomach tingles. "I've been fond of it since I first discovered it...it reminds me of the good parts of my childhood in Silver Cover." She remembers the cove, of the family unit her father (while she wasn't quite fond of him) had built. It reminds her of how Ischia was becoming (or possibly had always been), a home for the previous Covelings. "It's a home for everyone, even old farts like you." She side eyes him with a burst of laughter, one eye winking playfully at him.
Krone
you could be the King (but watch the Queen conquer)
She jests with him (rolling eyes and laughing lips and craning neck) and he is not offended. He hadn’t realized, truth be told, that the words he had spoken were the words of a compliment until she pointed them out. His shoulders roll into an uncaring shrug (bruised eyes twinkling with similar amusement at the situation).
They move deeper into the territory and the trickster takes it in with one ear craning in her direction. Although his eyes follow the lay of the land, he occasionally finds his gaze trailing back to the sloping curves of her body (the swell of her back, the crest of her neck, the curve of her ass). He listens to her introduction with mild interest. Although the beach-fronts and scattered islands are beautiful, they are not what he finds comforting (they are not the foggy dips of the Valley, they are not tightly-packed forests, they are not creeping shadows and thick undergrowth).
She speaks of Silver Cove and his ears prick. The herdland had been under the reign of the Valley (perhaps the only place he would consider a home) before Beqanna had ripped apart the world beneath their feet and sewn it back together hazardously. “You grew up under the eye of the Valley?” There’s a lilt of unnatural curiosity to his voice (a sort of interest that hadn’t otherwise been heard from him in decades).
She calls him an old fart and his thoughts drastically shift. He had ripped out and eaten the heart of an immortal to absorb her beauty and agelessness into her own. It had stopped the deceleration of his body from the whims of time, but did not age him back years either. He’s dashingly handsome still (angular cheeks and bruised eyes and scarred pelt) but he is not without the signs of years (graying around his muzzle and eyes and thinness to his body and joints that ache come winter).
“Watch your mouth,” he croons (there’s no sign of amusement but also no indication that he would attack). She would do well to learn who he is and what he’s capable of, if she weren’t so caught up in the illusion of their supposed friendship. “You might be a queen, but you hold no power over me.”
