"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
She could feel the earth moving, sinking, under her hooves. Every now and again when she picked them up, they made a slurping, sucking noise and the mud clung to them, falling off in clumps back to the ground. Maybe, just maybe, the mud would help her look, or at least feel, more normal. She stopped for a moment, her head lowered and sniffing the ground. Rolling was an option, one that would make her less conspicuous to the others gathered here and there in small groups. She moved on, may as well get it over with.
Her fiery yellow-orange coat stood out from the vegetation and lake that made up her backdrop and the blood red markings flashed almost dangerously. The ghost green-white of her mane hid the almost black of her eyes from view, where it was long and tangled. Her head though, well, it was well camouflaged by the mask design that covered it. Browns and white blending with the mud, water and sky. She was odd, unusual, weird, different. and a whole host of other things besides. She knew this, she had been told this since she was a filly.
She sighed, sides expanding to their max, and exhaled heavily. Time to start again, maybe this time, someone would understand.
She plodded out of the mud and onto the grass in her dazzling glory.
Difference is a theme in Beqanna; it’s a way of life, to be unique. Even in his limited time alive, Castile has learned the ways of this strange world. He thrives in it knowing that he, too, belongs in this statistic despite clutching onto the fear of his prowess.
Had he known that she was self-conscious, he may have well approached her differently, but his curiosity has led him from the foothills to her as she weaves through the scattered knots of horses. The colorations that paint her briefly remind him of a sunset, of the fiery burst of light he often watches before night falls. It calls to him and lures him ever closer until he is in front of her, grinning crookedly. ”Hi,” he begins as his youthfulness seeps through the tone of his intrigue, ”You’re really cool looking.” His mismatched eyes – pewter and gold – fan across her in fascination, noting how her flame-licked body transitions into a mane most differently colored. ”I’m actually rather jealous,” he is plain to her – almost – if not for the broad wings clutched to his sides.
She can’t see what he truly is, or how dangerous he is.
With a roll of his shoulders, he inches a single step back. He levels his gaze on hers – it isn’t intense, he thinks (hopes) – and he searches the lines of her face and the darkness of her hooded eyes. ”I’m Castile,” another monster, he doesn’t say to her as a warm breeze kisses his flank and tousles his unruly locks. Another spring has reached their home and thawed the ice. Like her, mud has caked itself along his feathered legs and underbelly, but it doesn’t faze him. Few things seemingly do. What suction tries rooting him in place is minute in comparison to the level of curiosity he has for her already. It almost slips his mind that he comes with the scent of Loess clinging to his sides, a place yearning for more monsters.
The girl had been content to stay in Tephra, exploring the places around the volcano and in the tall grasses and strange-smelling waterways; but her twin had insisted that if they were going to take advantage of Tephra’s hospitality for nine months at the least, they needed to at least try to do something for the Kingdom in return. And so they had left the land of brimstone and sky, and come instead to the Field. Olivier had an idea that bringing home a real recruit would make up for Dagny and Olivier basically using the volcano as an incubator, and this was the place to find one.
He is only a little different – a natural all-over creamy gold that shimmers just faintly due to the hair’s own unique properties, and a simply horn spiraling from his head. He walks, ground-bound, stuck in the same mud and muck as everyone else as spring is upon them. She, on the other hand, is quite different. A chestnut base but marked with blue and yellow, and the wings that carry her above her twin are bold blues and yellows as well. And she does fly today – typically she would shed the wings and walk alongside her twin, but she is in disdain of getting that messy and gross today, so she spirals above the world.
So it is up to him to find a conversation and the gold twin settles on the duo seemingly at random – the winged boy and the colorful girl. He approaches slowly, plodding his way through the deep mud, and realizes he will be stuck speaking since she has yet to land. He doesn’t usually introduce them – the talkative twin is the one in the air. Still, he steels himself and offers a tiny little smile and a nod to each. “Hello, I’m Olivier.” At least without her, he doesn’t get introduced as ‘Ollie’. But in their typical inseparable way, she is only a moment behind him, landing as close as she dares and walking up with only a small mue of disgust at the mud present on her face.
When she comes up alongside she brushes against his side, leaning into her twin, and peers at the strangers out of a face that’s almost too intent in its curiosity. “I’m Dagny,” she says right away, grinning widely. “Curse all this mud, right? It’s so gross.” And she laughs, totally unselfconscious (unlike the rest of them).
It has always been Dagny the bold, and Olivier the cautious.
Dagny & Olivier
I won't let you go; so don't let go of me no one can ever follow; no one can ever know
Squelch, squelch, squelch, squelch, the sound of others approaching. Her ears flicker towards the sound and she turns her head. For a good moment she is taken aback, he has wings, big ones, that could carry him in flight. Her ears pricked forward.
She did not seem phased at his lively demeanour, she had spent many a time surrounded by enthusiastic youths who had marvelled at her colours until their elders told them better. She accepts his compliment, with a clear
"Thank you"
In response. Castile... An interesting name. She had heard tales of a country once, long ago and far away, by that name. She was about to give her own when again the slight squelch of an approach came across on the breeze.
She turned once more to the sound of another approach; a horn this time on a gold coat and her head tilted slightly in confusion and wonder. Then the downdraft of something in the air, and her head turned upwards. My what wings! Such bright colours. And she began to feel less like an outcast and more like she fitted with the norms of this place.
She took the introduction of the new two before she gave her response.
"Painted Mask, or just Mask for short." Her voice was soft but strong, it contained some of the steel of her core wrapped in her apathy of no ambition to move above her station. "I find the worst of the mud to be when you stand still too long and it tried to claim you. Sometimes though, a coating of it brings relief. I'd rather the mud than the horseflies."
She offered all three a smile.
It seemed like, here, her differences were attracting others. The part of her that clung to what others had said in her past screamed 'Freaks, we're all freaks here!'
“Nice to meet you, Mask,” the golden stallion answers in response, ears of both of the twins flicking forward to catch her words. He snorts and nods in agreement to her comment about horseflies, because they are certainly a nuisance – there were rarely horseflies in the Tundra, but he had experienced them traveling with their mother, and been less than thrilled. “That’s the one nice thing about mud,” he continues in his deep voice; “it discourages flies of all kinds.” The summer heat is upon them now, and he has noticed that there are few flies around his legs while he is covered in mud nearly to the knees.
“Are you looking for a home here, Mask?” Dagny speaks up then, bright blue gaze curious. “There are many to be had here, in Beqanna.” She flicks a gaze to the other stallion, wondering from where he hails; she does not know him, and he does not smell of her father’s Ischia or their own home of Tephra, but that leaves many places to tick off that she knows very little about. “Usually we refer to our lands as Kingdoms; there aren’t a lot of traditional herds here at all.” Actually, Dagny can’t remember the last real herd she heard of – they simply don’t split into groups that small anymore, and society has left the idea of a man and his women long behind.
“We could tell you about our homes, if you like,” he chimes back in, tilting his head. “We come from a place called Tephra.”
Dagny & Olivier
I won't let you go; so don't let go of me no one can ever follow; no one can ever know
HTML by Tiny
@[Painted Mask]
ooc; I'm SO sorry to keep you waiting. I just had no muse for these two at all!!
