"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
Beqanna had changed much since Sunday last stepped hoof on her shores. Yet - some things remain immortal, like the way Persephone leaves Hades to bring spring into the world once more. Sunday walks through the splendor of Her gifts, blessed by Demeter, and adds her own little flair to it. Sunday has changed, too. Once she didn't understand her gifts and what they meant or involved. Now? Now she walks through the fields and encourages the small flowers to bloom anew. Those with fledgling buds suddenly swell twice their initial size, exploding the meadow in a sea of color.
Sunday loves color.
All around her she sees color. The aura around each horse is easily readable, being blessed as she is. Her trait is strange, a mixture of a taste for empathy and a dash of elemental magic. No, she cannot bring rain forth nor can she create snow, but bloom a blossom? Heal minor wounds? See an aura? These are all minimalistic traits in comparison to the great dragons and beasts of Beqanna, but they suit her. For Sunday is loving and kind and wants only flowers and blossoms and sunshine.
Such a transition from her harrowed, deadly past.
And now she will walk serenely through the meadow, blessing each new bud with a kiss to help it grow and delighting in the new life.
SUNDAY
never put your faith in a prince. when you require a miracle, trust in a witch
09-24-2018, 10:58 PM (This post was last modified: 09-24-2018, 10:59 PM by Darrow.)
i'm the king of nothing at all
you're my queen of nothing at all
Darrow has not quite ceased roaming, even now that he has arrived in Beqanna. The wanderlust is in him, pumping through his veins, running rich in his blood and moving his body almost without his being conscious of it. There is no purpose or direction in today's foray, and he had zigged and zagged over the eastern part of the continent all through the long hours of the morning. He hasn't settled on a place, to make a home. He's strafed a few boundaries of course, testing the edges of unknown kingdoms like the pain in the ass bachelor he'd been before making landfall in this place. Never engaging with anyone this time, just taking a look and disappearing again.
In the meadow he pauses to drink his fill from a creek almost choking with the long spring grass that overgrows it's banks. All the while he minds his surroundings, though his body language remains relaxed, unconcerned. Something unusual inches into his periphery. Raising his head, muzzle dripping, Darrow's gaze alights on a little mystery going about the meadow molesting flowers. His ears flick, and he watches for a few moments. Watches the way the blossoms respond to her administrations. Looking away only to trace her path--the boulevard of bursting blooms lying in her wake. It made a rather romantic picture, and his expression tipped into amusement at the thought.
Deciding that he should introduce himself, the sturdy red beast crosses the grassy expanse that separates him from the woman blessing the flowers. Stopping in her path, a great sanguine roadblock, the stallion tilts his head just slightly and says, "Hello flower woman, I've been admiring your work." Very eloquent. What did you say to a strange lady going around turning rosebuds into double blooms? He tucked his head, a gesture acknowledging his failure of an introduction and added. "Darrow."
Darrow
@[Sunday] She loves color so I brought her my red pony.
Suddenly, Sunday finds herself no longer alone.
She knew it would happen eventually - she'd return to Beqanna and be greeted. While others find the entire task tedious Sunday finds it refreshing. She is always open to meeting new horses, making friends, making alliances. Her mind doesn't quite work the way of the latter - it's not in her nature to be manipulative. She thinks only of friendship, of lightness, of kindness. It's her response to the cruelty of her childhood and the world of Beqanna as a whole.
"Darrow, it is a pleasure. I'm Sunday." She turns to look over the trail of flowers in her wake, a smile sliding across her face in the process. "Isn't spring lovely?" she asked, sighing with the weight of it all. She takes a quick stock of the red horse in front of her, nodding an appreciative nod in his direction. "I rather love your color, I'm sure you hear it a lot. Beqanna is a wonderful place of variety, is it not?" She says it as though the bastardization of traits across time was something to be celebrated, not frowned on like the fairies do. Sunday celebrates in the magic of Beqanna in a way only a witch could - with open arms.
SUNDAY
never put your faith in a prince. when you require a miracle, trust in a witch
i'm the king of nothing at all
you're my queen of nothing at all
”Sunday. Pleased to meet you.” Replied the red stallion, charmed by the simple, strange sweetness of the bay arabian who he was still a bit puzzled by. He too admires her trail of flowers once more. ”It is. Made lovelier with your attention.” The words were kind and his tone was impressed rather than flirtatious, though that inflection would not have been unlike him. He doesn’t let his man brain detract from his genuine interest in her gift. Darrow hasn’t had much exposure to magics of any kind. He is just a strange red beast who has stumbled into a world where for once he is altogether average. Well, still incredibly striking and handsome, but not weird. ”Thank you, Sunday. I’m pretty fond of it myself. It wasn’t a usual shade where I came from.” Not that it had ever bothered him to be different, in fact it had served him well as a strutting youth eager to be a distracting pain in the ass. The chestnut eyed stallion studies Sunday again, flashing a smile. ”I’m new to Beqanna but I have already met some interesting folk. You seem like a native though. Have you always lived here?” He moves a little closer to inspect a black-eyed susan that bloomed brightly near her, but remains a polite conversational distance. A bumblebee wobbles over to bump against the bridge of his nose and Darrow shakes his head, snorting gently. Those damn bees had all these flowers and still had to check if he was one.
Darrow
@[Sunday] She loves color so I brought her my red pony.
Sunday already approves of her new friend - though it is not hard to get in Sunday's good graces. She is perpetually smiling, perpetually friendly, and she can read auras just as quick as you can dream up a thought. Darrow, for being red on his exterior, is a cool blue to purple. There's something reliable and steady about him that Sunday immediately likes, something that makes her feel comfortable in his presence. Like Darrow she could be confused for a flirt, but truly Sunday is just friendly. She tilts her head at his confession of not being from Beqanna, for Sunday is suddenly reminded of her own past.
But, just like that, she swipes the thought away.
"Very few realize there is more than just Beqanna," she offers, almost in agreement to his statement. Though with the shifting tides it's harder to come on and off the island, it's not impossible. There are frosts and melts, there are moving tides, there are abilities that allow one to travel great distances in the blink of an eye. She's seen them all and finds them all equally fascinating.
"Yes, I was born here quite some time ago. I left for a time, then returned. There's no place like home, isn't that true?" she asks, not realizing until she says it that he must miss his home. "I'm sorry, I'm sure you get homesick from time to time." Her smile is apologetic, and she offers a slight tilt of her head to solidify her apology.
SUNDAY
never put your faith in a prince. when you require a miracle, trust in a witch
i'm the king of nothing at all
you're my queen of nothing at all
Home was an idea to Darrow but not a place. He knew only perpetual motion for the first few years of his life. In the next few he’d been in motion because he wanted to be, traveling ever towards some indeterminate point and making what trouble he could along the way. Wasn’t that they way of all young stallions finding their feet in the world? Maybe not.
”No home really, so I wouldn’t know.” Something like a half shrug. Her apology is appreciated even though he took no offense. He looks skyward, judging the position of the sun with a squint before returning his attention to the little mare. ”What are your plans now that you’re back home?” He is genuinely interested, not knowing himself what one does when they go back to a place they’ve left behind because he’s never done it himself. She must have family, old friends, old haunts that call to her.
Home was a foreign concept to Sunday, too, though for different reasons. When she returned to Beqanna - chased, really - she was recruited to the Amazons. The Amazons are no longer - she trekked there first, looking upon the shoreline to where the jungle once sat. Or, at least, where she thought the jungle once sat. Beqanna had shifted in a way that only the island could, moving its borders and sinking some lands. She saw the edges of a mountain range she swore she remembered, but it was fractured, split down the middle, tossed about like it never existed in one piece.
Beqanna was home, in a way that only Beqanna could be. Fractured, piece-meal and incomplete. Sunday feels that way sometimes, like drifting from place to place, unsure exactly where to land.
"I have no plans, as it were," she says with honesty. Sunday doesn't know any other way to respond, really, than to be sometimes painfully honest. "You see, Beqanna was ... different ... last time I was here. Other kingdoms, other lands...it's strange how She does that, don't you think? A land that can be there one minute and gone the next." She pauses, tilting her head at him. "I don't even know what kingdoms or lands exist right now, do you?"
SUNDAY
never put your faith in a prince. when you require a miracle, trust in a witch
Home was an idea to Darrow but not a place. He knew only perpetual motion for the first few years of his life. In the next few he’d been in motion because he wanted to be, traveling ever towards some indeterminate point and making what trouble he could along the way. Wasn’t that they way of all young stallions finding their feet in the world? Maybe not.
”No home really, so I wouldn’t know.” Something like a half shrug. Her apology is appreciated even though he took no offense. He looks skyward, judging the position of the sun with a squint before returning his attention to the little mare. ”What are your plans now that you’re back home?” He is genuinely interested, not knowing himself what one does when they go back to a place they’ve left behind because he’s never done it himself. She must have family, old friends, old haunts that call to her. But perhaps Beqanna is much changed from the place where “some time ago” she was born and the people and places are gone and she looks now only for the feelings of them.
Darrow
i've been a teacher and a student of hurt
i've kept my word for whatever that's worth
never been last but I've never been first
no, I may not be the best but I'm far from the worst
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