"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
He is drawn to all things powerful, like a moth pulled into an open flame. There is a gravity there, some type on unseen force like the draw the moon has on the ocean waves. It only makes sense, given his own self-assuredness and overall demeanor that he would seek out those who have something to offer him. Unfortunately, he doesn’t often find it. After all, the stallion made of fire and gasoline is almost in a class of his own.
Hopefully is fortunes are soon to turn.
He slips into the Meadow like smoke, winding his way through the trees quietly and efficiently. His hooves make little, if any, sound as he moves through the night. It is quiet here, too quiet for his liking. With a snort he creates fire, relishing the warmth of the flames as they spread across the dead and dying foliage. The flames lick along his legs and underbelly, long hot fingers twirling along in his tangled mane and tail. A contended sigh leaves his lips and as it does the flames push forward. He knows he should draw them back (it is fall, after all) before they get out of control. That’s laughable; he is their master and not vice versa. They go when and where he tells them. And so he stands there quite alone, surrounded by nothing but his beloved creation. What would someone think should they arrive? He doesn’t give a damn. He could find out if bodies burned as easily as dead leaves.
07-23-2015, 10:34 PM (This post was last modified: 07-23-2015, 10:34 PM by prague.)
I SHALL LIVE BY PASSION AND NOT BY LAW
Going home has been a false sense of accomplishment thus far. There was no epiphany, no magical force that returned all her memories and past, no faces registered truly. She was a hollowed shell of an individual regardless of what others knew her for.
When you are cursed to live forever, it's strange to not know who you are.
Prague shifted into the form of a silver lioness, something she's had both outside and inside of her since the beginning of time as an Amazon. It is the one thing that has not left her, she finds solace in shifting into it. Although the meadow as often quiet at night, just from recent observations - her cat-like self could slip even easier through the rolling fields. She flicks her tail and watches a few horses couple, another set perhaps planning a murder, it's all speculation at this point; her mind-reading has not yet returned. Then, she notices one figure alone, playing with fire.
They say curiosity killed the cat, this one has more than 9 lives though.
She assumes a downward stance as she nearly belly crawls towards the stallion, the flames crackling and vibrating her whiskers as she lifts onto the pads of her feet. Her tail quietly sways back and forth, retaining balance and finally she leaps from the tall grass and the hair stands up on her back; she begins to circle, unsure just what it is that causes such an uproar within her. A low growl emerges, "you're terrible at keeping yourself hidden, aren't you boy?" she sits just shy of his reach, her golden eyes dilating as she takes him in. "I'm Prague, besides attempting arsenic what exactly brings you here and who are you?"
