"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 stared wide eyed as it fluttered across her brow, the colours catching in the autumn sunlight. Greens, blues, purples, too many to count and all entwined to create something so beautiful of the like she had not yet seen. It fluttered from stem to leaf, from one crinkled autumn leaf to the next. And whilst the dead leaves crunched underfoot from her weight, the little creature which fascinated her so made not a sound upon landing, its delicate wings fluttering open and closed, open and closed. “What are you?” she asked of it, lowering her muzzle towards the thing, her childish curiosity unstoppable. And as if in answer, the little creature took flight once more, tickling her nose with the flutter of its wings and Illae giggled. “No come back,” she called after it as she watched it flutter away beyond her reach.
With a childish scowl, Illae stole a sideways glance at her mother, and wondered if her mother would mind terribly if she followed the creature for a just a little. Too many times had she been scolded for wandering beyond the protective gaze of her mother’s watchful eye. If she asked, Illae knew her mother would tell her no, of course she would. ‘The world is too dangerous for one as young as yourself Illae to wander alone’ She would need to sneak away and return as if she had never been gone. As such, with her curious mind and her will for exploring, a lot of practise had almost made her perfect at sneaking away unnoticed. And so Illae slunk as slowly and as quietly as she could away from her mother’s flank. Her mother too consumed with foraging on the last sweet blades of grass to be found before the cold of winter turned everything dead. Tread slowly, tread carefully... She told herself, all the while searching for the creature which had fascinated her so only moments before.
“Found you.” She whispered, as she spied it fluttering between the branches and leaves amongst the first of the tree’s which marked the tree-line. There was no question in not following it, though Illae had not yet been beyond the tree-line on her own. Where the field was bright and full of sunshine, the forest was dark and heavy with shadow. But strangely enough, that did not deter her. And she stepped out of the sunshine and into the darkness, where the tall forest trees shielded her from her mother’s sight and her mother’s protection which always felt like iron chains. And free at last, if only for a small moment, for she could not be gone long before her mother would surely note her absence. Illae broke into a trot and gave wild chase to the winged creature which fluttered further and deeper into the forest.
Rhy was merely passing through the field, keeping an eye out for any mares that might be around, when the girl catches her eye. She’s off in the distance, barely in the field at all but rather one of the smaller forests that dot the edge of it. Rhy turns her attention to watch for a moment. She’s close enough to see the colored creature flying before the girl, and Rhy smiles slightly, watching the childish innocence and game.
Maybe not even childish innocence. Rhy was no child, but didn’t she spend her free time rolling in the dirt and underbrush with the younger cats of the jungle? Of course she did. Sometimes it was good to run, to play, to flex her claws (that are currently not visible, in her horse form).
She notices that the girl is coming toward her, and so she walks slowly in that direction, not planning to interrupt the game. But she wants to keep an eye on the girl, who is definitely young. Not necessarily too young to be in the field. It wasn’t impossible (though it was somewhat uncommon) for children to come here instead of the Den.
Eventually, Rhy is close enough to the girl to let out a nicker in greeting. There’s nothing intimidating about Rhy at the moment. She’s gold and white, delicate from her Arabian heritage. There’s no hint of the traits that lie beneath, and Rhy would never dream of using them to hurt anyone that didn’t pose a threat anyway. “Hello, I’m Rhy,” she says when the girl has come closer to her. “What are you up to?”
He found himself in the field more often than not lately. The Dale was ever quiet, but I suppose that you could say it was consistent. Too consistent if you asked him. So, as was usual, Weir paced to the herdless grounds. I slow, ambling walk, never one to be in a hurry for no particular reason. Perhaps today he would find a new member for the Kingdom, surely his King would be proud of that.
The roan had just skirted the borders, amber eyes catching a fleeting movement. Had that been a foal? He thought, squinting at the distance. A dark hind end was receding into the tree line, and to his concern, without supervision. For the first time in a long time, Weir broke into a run, closing in on the forest from across the fields.
He was a spray of russet, kicking up dried leaves in his wake. When he neared the foliage, he surrendered to a quick walk, auds flickering atop his dial. Surely, though not too far yet, he spied a young filly. A multicolored butterfly flying just out of her reach, he gave a gruff chuckle. " Hello young lady."He calls, announcing himself so as not to start the girl with his approach. "Best be careful with butterflies, they are quite fragile you know?"Perhaps she did, perhaps she didn't know, one thing was for sure, Weir knew.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, my name is Weir."He offers, a gentle hearted smile and a nod to follow. He takes note of the mare however, not catching what she had said. "Oh, is this one yours madam?"He is of course referring to the filly.
There was a wild excitement that came with the game she played. Zig zagging through the underbrush, chasing the little creature which fluttered always just a breath away beyond her reach. Each step trodden, carefree and wild taking her further and further from the protective guidance of her mother. Though whilst aware of this fact, young Illae did not care. Her mother would tell her she juggled with danger, but what was danger to a young filly who had never experienced fear, whose occasional night terrors consisted of her mother’s disproval or little green mushrooms with gnashing teeth. All Illae knew was that exploring was her thing, her curiosity unbound. And that now, her little world of swaying grass and boring grey rocks suddenly became that little bit bigger as she chased and giggled her way through new and uncharted territory.
The creature fluttered beneath a low lying branch and around the next tree, the underbrush far too dense to barge recklessly through lest she become covered in scratches and forest muck. Illae paused dead still in her tracks, the fluttering thing of wonder vanishing from her sight. Adventure and dirt went together, just like the sun in the sky. But Illae also knew that if she returned to her mother looking like a filly who had been in the forest, well, she would get into terrible trouble. The game would be up, and no amount of sneaking would free her from the iron clasp of her mother’s watchful eye in the future. For freedoms sake, she had no choice but to remain as clean as possible and go around.
“Hello young lady. Best be careful with butterflies, they are quite fragile you know?"
Illae whirled around. Away from the underbrush and the flutter creature and towards the voice. It was a voice she did not recognise and it belonged to a stallion she was relieved she did not know. She had pursued the flutter creature for too long and too far only to be dragged back to the herd now. And her apprehensive expression faded into relief.
“Butterflies?” she questioned him, is that what it was, what she gave chase too? Butterflies, flutter creature, whatever it was, with every moment it fluttered onwards beyond her sight it was gaining a head start that could possibly become too big to rectify, she couldn’t tarry. “It’s getting away!” she exclaimed to him. And with gangly legs Illae spun back around and raced around the underbrush, and then the next tree.
But beyond the next tree the flutter creature was gone, and yet strangely, Illae’s child-like demeanour did not sour with disappointment, instead what she found made her eyes grow big with a wide eyed awe. “Wow,” she breathed out, as her wild imagination pieced together two completely separate entities into one. For where she had assumed the flutter creature should be instead stood a mare. With the flutter creature no longer within sight, to Illae there was no question, here stood her flutter creature rematerialized. “I’m Illae,” she responded in turn, before reaching out tentatively with her muzzle to touch Rhy’s skin. “and I caught you” she giggled…
"Oh, is this one yours madam?"
For a moment she had almost forgotten about him. He had almost disrupted her play, had almost hindered her wonderful new discovery. “Didn’t you see?” she asked the stallion incredulously, not understanding why his outlook on the situation didn’t quite match her own. “She’s the butterflies!” she told him, using the term he had used to describe the colourful flutter creature before it had transformed into Rhy.
When Rhy catches sight of the stallion following the girl as well, she’s immediately on guard. It’s not until he’s closer, not until she can smell the Dale, and hear his words, that she relaxes. He’s nearby, but she’s focused on the girl for the moment. The girl doesn’t come crashing into her, but Rhy realizes what’s going on somewhat quickly. The butterfly had disappeared behind her, and the girl thinks that Rhy is the butterfly. She confirms this too, in response to the stallion’s question.
Rhy looks up at the stallion and simply shakes her head. A quite, no, she’s not mine,” and a slight look of uncertainty in her eyes. Because this girl doesn’t seem homeless, doesn’t seem like a child who even really understands where she is. Did she come from a home? Could she get back? Rhy would take her, if she wanted to return, but the girl is too focused on butterflies.
On Rhy as well, whom she thinks is a butterfly.
“No. I am many things, but I am nothing so wonderful as a butterfly.” No, the things Rhy could be were terrible things, wielded at least by good hands. She was electric, could stop a heart in the blink of an eye with that electric. She was a lioness, with claws and teeth and a taste for flesh. She was a ghost, invisible and silent and immortal. She was many terrible things. She was nothing lovely at all. Only in horse form was she lovely, gold and white with kind eyes and an easy smile.
“Illae,” she begins, trying to catch the girl’s attention. “Did you come from somewhere? Or are you looking for a home?” Because she still thinks that this girl has a home, has some place she’s supposed to go back to. But still, here they are, in the field. Her and this stallion watching out for a girl in a place full of monsters.
Children, such lovely, vivid imaginations. The young black girl was a firecracker of exuberance, bounding about the forest. At his approach, she appeared rather suspicious until she had gotten a good look at him. Her little features seemed to ease in regards to his form, a question brimming on her lips. 'Butterflies?' she had asked him uncertainly.
He shook his russet his in a nod to confirm, a chuckle rising in his throat. "Why yes, Rhopalocera,"he said humored, before the filly was again animated.'It's getting away' she crowed before setting off after the winged creature once again. Weir's ears dialing in on her exclamations before he too steadily followed. He did enjoy games, and from the looks of it he had been in the middle of one. "Quite right,"he confirmed, "tally-ho!"
The chase was short lived, the youngling curling around the next tree, he himself rounding it shortly after. The child has concluded that the painted woman is in fact the butterfly. She quickly dismisses the comparison, informing the girl she was not quite a butterfly. A small shake of her dial to Weir's own words puzzles him. The child must belong to someone.
"Smells of cat, "he comments passively, conversationaly even. Before the mare inquires of the girls residence, he too was just as curious.
