"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
01-17-2018, 08:45 PM (This post was last modified: 01-17-2018, 10:12 PM by Ygritte.)
BETTER BEWARE, I GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT DEVIL-MAY-CARE WITH A LUST FOR LIFE
The forests of Sylva had kept her sated. The mare had been gone for ages and thought dead surely but at least she had found Kreios and by the magic of Beqanna, had run through the hills with her wild cat mate.
They had lived peacefully till one day the magic -broke-.
Amber eyes slide open from a deep slumber...the world seemed brighter than usual today but it was bright, and white and-
Her eyes snap open as she moves to find her feet. The forest, Kreios...Beqanna! Gone! The flower crowned queen spins upon her hind limbs as she can only see white for as far as she can see except...there was something over there where ever there was. Salmon painted limbs move her east through the seamless milk white. It was terribly overwhelming but she attempts to keep her bearings...till she sees her own name. "My name starts with a 'Y'?" Her features turn up slightly as she is looking at the single word floating near her then out from the page in the truest confusion as to where she was but also that she had been spelling her own name wrong her whole life..."Ygritte with a 'Y'."
His friend has returned to kill him. Faulkor is surprised at how gentle his blue companion is - even as that terrible thrumming grows until their forest cave threatens to collapse. There is magic between them, raw and pure, too much for any mortal to control. And yet his friend wields it carefully, pulling it from his chest. It is as bright as moonlight, chasing the darkness into contained areas of writhing shadow that animate the ferocity of dripping stalactites and stalagmites. These are the teeth that will shred his body to ribbons, but Balto and his magic will be the priest to bring the darkness such an offering.
The light is too much for eyes accustomed to years spent in darkness, but Faulkor watches Balto through narrowed eyelids. He knows he is deserving of this fate. He has killed. He has lied. And now, he is too old to be of any use to either of them. From any other hands, Faulkor would have fought the fate they brought, but from Balto, he drinks willingly. From his friend, this is mercy.
The magic essence is reluctant to detach fully from the blue stallion, but as Balto touches his soft muzzle to the angular point of Faulkor’s shoulder, the essence flares brightly, and Faulkor’s knees buckle beneath him.
“It is yours, Faulkor. Can you feel it now?” says Balto.
A ragged gasp escapes the star-strewn stallion, perhaps a dying breath. The light is now within him, and it glows ever brighter, peering through his eyelids and nostrils. His lips empart one last word to his dearest and only friend.
“Balto…” and the old, black beast crumples to the wet floor of the forest cave. But death is much brighter than he had expected - much to his chagrin.
He is reluctant to open his eyes, for he can feel the heat of the light beyond his lids (as if he is facing into the sun). He ventures a tiny glimpse, only to be met with an aching pain in his head. For a time he stands on this pale plane with eyes clenched tightly, but a strange scent arouses his curiosity - ink, as black as he is. Again, he ventures a small glimpse, eyes narrowed into tiny slits. Beside him he reads a name.
OOC: I am not sure I am eligible for this, as I was in the writing quest before last, but I didn't remember that until after I wrote this, and I don't want to miss the deadline if I am eligible, so here have this.
He keeps falling.
A year old, and he hasn’t quite mastered the use of his wings. He’s getting better, in part due to his determined and resilient nature, but it’s not what anyone could call ‘good’. He’s nearly mastered the take-off bit, and he can mostly do the actual flying bit, but the landing? The landing is where he keeps falling out of the sky. Gansey has mastered enough control to keep from seriously injuring himself but the bumps and lumps and bruises are accumulation, and he is sore in a lot of places.
But he will never overcome it if he doesn’t work at it; so he has once again climbed up (and up and up and up and up) the winding paths of the semi-active volcano to find a good launch point. (Did he say he was good at take-offs? He’s actually mediocre at take-offs, and the height helps). He’s gotten used to the wind whipping at his mane and tail and feathers as he steps close to the edge, closing his eyes and leaning out into space, smiling for just a moment before concentration brings a frown to his face instead and then he steps out into empty air, air snapping into his open wings.
Falling, falling, and something clenches in his stomach: he should have caught the thermal by now, be soaring out across Tephra, not still falling. Gansey gives it a breath, one more breath, and then opens his green eyes to watch the ground come up, deadly fast, and for a moment the world is a blur of green and blue and brown but then it’s – not.
He still has the sensation of falling, but the world around him is just barely a shade off of true white, almost but not quite white, and then even the sensation of falling is gone and there is nothing. No firm rocks or soft grass beneath his hooves, no sulfurous air in his nostrils, no wind rushing around his grey body. All there is, is Gansey – and in a strong, bold hand beside him, his name. He takes a couple of no-feeling steps and it follows, like a shadow that isn’t his shape but is him all the same.
Is this death? the boy wonders; is this the end of falling from the sky?
I'll tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
She was alone when it happened.
The expanse of Loess before her had been especially captivating today - the rocky canyons and breathtaking mountain tops lulling her into a kind of stupor. For once, her need to scheme and be busy left her completely - no trace of Ivar or Torture occupied her mind, nor pressing thoughts of recruiting, and the field. Despite her duties as a new diplomat, Trissy found herself in a daze - black eyes both entranced and looking beyond the physical world, seeing, but not.
In this way (seeing, but not), the woman passed from one realm to the other. As when the snow falls upon the grass, so did the scenery around her change - gradually, in a kind of mystical way that left her mind blank and her eyes wide. As again to the snow, the ground under hoof slowly became white and firm, and around her, the details of Loess faded into a forgotten time, a disappeared land.
Trissy, the paper read; a wild, strong-willed scrawl.
Her nostrils flared; that ink stank! Her lips peeled back and bit at the pen-yielding hand, but it retreated too quickly. Then, as she fluffed out her mane in a show of disregard, the realization came:
Paper. Scrawl. Ink. Hand.
How did she know these words?
Ears pressing back angrily, the fiesty Arabian reared up and smashed her hooves into her written name, smudging the ink but ultimately not removing its existence. Squealing at her failure, she ran as if to escape that which labelled her so blatantly, leaving little inky hoof-prints in her wake. The name, however, glided along easily next to her, as if to say: you can't hide from me!
Realizing the impossibility of escape from this strange, stinky and stale place, Trissy pulled up short and looked around her. Other horses were milling about here, too, looking as irritated as she, though some were curious and exploring. Skin twitching in utter discomfort, the little mare squared her legs and raised her head high, sending a sharp look to any who came too near.
She’s been spending her days in an innocent child’s world, a close-knit family cozy and caring. Doting on her every need/whim. Time is a funny thing in this way, it has no comprehensible beginning and no end. Yet the most common phrase is that I am running out of time. How can one run out of time when it is endless in its existence? She herself can’t remember her beginning, its just as if one day she is there. The black roan girl notices it more when days blur together and she can’t remember if it was yesterday that Gansey took his first flight, or if that was Wilding shifting for the first time.
It’s all just pure bliss, days run together moments wash into one giant feeling of warm-fuzzy, and it doesn’t take long from the world to shift out of focus. Like when you day dream. How first the grass leaves, then the trees fade into ghosts, slowly the sounds drift away growing further and further away in their echoes until all that is left is the white sun that eats up the sky. Wait… she furrows her brows trying to bring the world back into focus, but all there is now is white. She gets up, huffing her indignant frustration the filly surprises herself with the soundless stomp of her hoof. Wasn’t she just lazing about, waiting for mother and father to return? Black is slowly forming before her eyes, and strangely she can understand what it is that it say’s V.A.L.E.N.S.I.A., she can’t help the puckered frown. That’s her name.
The black roan can’t remember NOT being here, but she also remembers a family, laughter, and bliss. All those ideas seem so far away, so far from her existence here. Which one is a dream? She ponders out loud. Confused, she patiently waits for someone to rescue her. Father would be along, or one of her brothers, maybe it would be mother this time. But she trusts that someone, somewhere would do something to get her back. But that’s the funny thing about time. It has a way of messing with one’s head.
“And there was you - your fair self, always delicately dressed, with white firm fingers sure of touch in delicate true work. I loved you then.” - Charlotte Gilman
Ygritte
