"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
10-03-2016, 02:13 PM (This post was last modified: 10-03-2016, 02:15 PM by claymore.)
her memories died everyday with the light...but at night, her dreams were aflame with remembrance.
the air was hot, hotter than the warmth of her dam's sleek side, and drenched in a heady smoke that choked her down and kissed her hide in shades of gray. the air, alight with the dancing light of a thousand flickering flames, was also alight with the screams of those around her. her small ears pinned to the nape of her neck as the wails of the wounded mixed with the wild scream of a great dark beast - could it have been her father? - his hooves flailing out in a desperate attempt to free the bonds that held him fast. the cacophony was deafening and disorienting, striking an innate cord of fear that told her to run far and run fast, but there was nowhere left to go. it was a trap, a wooden trap, and it was on fire, burning whatever serenity she had recently known to ash.
and then she was falling.
she was dimly aware of the thunderous crack of splintering timbers as bubbling water engulfed her tiny hooves and suddenly she was plummeting nose-first into a suffocating night devoid of stars that flooded her nostrils and burned her eyes with a salty tang. she felt the heavy thump of a body and squealed as a hoof met the tender hollow between her hip and belly as others joined her in her depthless mire. driftwood slapped sharply against her cheeks and knees, leaving small red trails where they bit into flesh, and then she was dancing with them instead of falling through them, rising to the surface in a school of wooden fish.
and then there was air.
wind and rain were the first to assault her senses as she gulped life, glorious life, back into her lungs. her tiny limbs pumping furiously, she tried to peer into the womb of the storm raging about her and buffeting her ears, but there was nothing save for the crack of thunder and the rain in her eyes to blur whatever bearings she was hoping to find.
and then the weight of the world crashed down upon her shoulders.
her strength was beginning to wane, not that she could have done anything to fight the underbelly of the wave from spinning her head over heels as it continued to push down from above. the sea was beautiful in her wrath from the depths, blue flashes of lightning lighting up corridors of purest blue and the trails of whitest bubbles that frothed beneath the surface. looking about now, she could see the dancing bodies of those like her, drowning horses; nothing more than a herd of shadows scattering into the current.
beautiful dancing shapes, struggling against the downward pull of death.
her legs moved, weaker this time, though insistent, pushing against the vast blanket of water that roiled beneath her, feeling for all the world like she was stepping out of her demise on the backs of those who lay suffocating beneath her. the surface was nearing, but the more she struggled the farther it seemed, like a butterfly chased, flitting just out of her reach. one step. two steps. and her lungs burned with the embers of her life, fading until her steps faltered altogether, too heavy, too sluggish to keep drilling away against the inevitable. and as the world began to vignette into blackness, she felt weightless as she eventually ceased upward motion and began drifting down...down...a jellyfish glinting to her right in the growing dark. she wondered if this weightless feeling was what the fierce birds of prey felt, idling on the buffeting updrafts on lazy summer afternoons. summer. warm. she could almost taste the scent of honeysuckle on the back of her tongue. she was finally learning what peace comes when the struggle ends; all save for a sharp and insistent tug at the nape of her neck.
sleep. blissful endless sleep.
her eyes tossed and turned dreadfully beneath lids crusted shut with the salt of the sea. for hours they jerked erratically until the rose-red light of morning cast its fingers and scattered the long shadows from her face. she lay still for moments that stretched like hours, unwilling to greet what new horrors lay beyond the shade.
a shadow cast. a tickling sensation along her neck.
as a tiny crab dropped from the tangle of her fuzzy mohawk and scuttled across the warming sands, her eyes blink open, bleary and disoriented in the too-bright light. a figure stands before her, a halo of sunlight making any discernible features invisible to the filly with baby-fur still damp from the vomit of the ocean. her voice, when she finally manages to cough the remaining fluid from her lungs, is cracked and ugly, burnt from the salt of the sea.
"are...........you...............
are you death?"
for death is a horse is it not? a pale beast as cruel and cold as the waves whose fangs had clutched her and swallowed her whole. she distantly remembers someone close to her, someone dark and blotched like her, but the memory is already fading beyond the point her sluggish mind can retrieve. and so she forgets this thing that seems most important to her for now, feeling nothing but the numbness that comes from absolute shock to the system.
"what is this place?"
claymore
seal bay sabino tobiano example (CLICK)
6 months
filly
Lagertha snorts in amusement; she has been called many things, but death is not one of them. “No,” she says definitively. After a brief pause, she continues to her own amusement. “Once, I was. Years ago. No, death will never come looking for me. I must go to her.” She no longer held poison in her skin, which is probably for the best. There will be no wars any time soon- no raids, no risking of Beqanna’s displeasure. So it seems that the General is left with very little to do, and it’s starting to get under her skin; her time will come around again eventually, but the question is how long that will take. Lagertha has infinite time - and a very limited amount of patience.
The scarred gray mare lowers her head to get a closer look at this bedraggled little multi-colored heap that clearly washed up on their shores. The smell of salt and water drew her, and Lagertha’s first thought was that it might be another Sister wandering out and about (with nothing yet to do, it was easy to fill one’s days with wandering).
Instead, she finds a mess of a girl who is clearly in need of a bit of help. Her gray, whiskered lips purse in concern, noting the signs of sunburn, exhaustion, and dehydration. The filly must have been through quite an ordeal.
Lagertha is very familiar with recent ordeals.
The former Warrior Queen’s voice softens around the edges, and she adopts the sort of tone she once used for her children. The mare’s dark gray eyes try to determine if the filly is sporting any sort of serious injury, but she cannot see beneath the salt of the sea and the thin layer of sand that seems to cover her multi-colored coat. “This is Beqanna, child. You look like you’ve been to hell and back. Don’t worry, you’ll be quite safe here. Now, do you have a name?” And that is the truth - there are few who would dare to challenge Lagertha. Even without her gifts.
10-24-2016, 03:54 PM (This post was last modified: 10-25-2016, 05:13 PM by claymore.)
OOC || attempting a new style of posting...
should you desire to sit for a time and listen, i would tell you a story. perhaps not a story of valiant knights and mythical creatures, but yet a tale still with a hint of magic and plenty of obstacles to overcome. as all stories must go, this one shall write of a beginning and an end, as all things must eventually fade away to memory. but i speak now of a woman, no, not a woman, for she is not so bold or wise or grown yet. as she is now, she is yet an idea...a spark of potential...a kindling of something yet to be. and, as all children are, she is wild and free and wide-eyed in a way that only the very young and unjaded can be. without disappointment or guile or barely concealed rage when ruminating about the audacities of the world. and it would be, if we could capture this moment in a bottle, that perhaps she would remain innocent and carefree of the shadows and tempests that are destined to follow in the wake of pleasanter things. perhaps she would remain young and unchanged forever, but nay, it is not to be, for this is not a faerie-woven yarn. this is the account of a life lived and love lost, of blood spilt and alliances forged. these words could have been swept clean, as the sand-tracks upon the tumultuous coast, had not a fortunate encounter taken place, one of a thousand yet to come, but perhaps the most significant of all, as it was the the very first of them all.
and so it begins.
to know the woman now, it tugs at the corners of the mouth to watch as her child-self watches the shield maiden approach, not the least ill-at-ease, though her very life is easily cupped by the whim of the other. children know naught of such things. instead she watches and waits with palpable energy, dropping her chin to the tiny dunes of sand and huffing a cloud of dust, fidgeting, as her eyes peer wonderingly at the mare opposite. she wants to giggle and point out that the mare swears, a most auspicious-sounding word to one so young and, therefore, the most exciting of all the jumble of words. however, in a rare moment of more accidental, rather than intentional, composure, the girl-child refrains from her initial impulses and instead grins widely and tosses her tiny head.
"i'm claymore."
the young filly may have shied somewhat as the mare turned a critical eye on her, ducking her nose to her chest slightly in uncertainty- for as sure as the sun rises the woman before her was none other than a warrior marked and scalded by the heat of battle. her eyes seem to have a depth and darkness that might swallow the girl whole if she is not careful. but then the small, splashed hindquarters are gathering beneath her and hefting her rump aloft while her front-quarters are struggling to catch up to get the girl's feet under her. she spares a glance around at her surroundings, a tiny frown of concern marring the line of her mouth but for a moment.
"i'm not sure where the others are, i think i maybe got left behind."
but there is no room in the mind of a child for the uncertainty and grief that accompanies the notion of death, and so, in another moment the girl turns back to lagertha, no worse for wear. she comes closer with a spring in her step, her eyes wide and wondering as she takes in the jagged lines of old scars that seem to catch the light of the sun and flash liquid-silver across her skin.
"whoa... those are so cool!.... how did you get those marks?..... how many are there? ....... do they hurt?"
she speaks in the language of children, not aware of the personal implications or potentially offensive nature of her questions- nor the staggering number she fires off in the span of a single breath. such things are without equal in the mind of a child, a marvel of sorts. and so her hooves tear little divots into the sand of the beach as she dances around her elder and she imprints the canvas of her skin into her mind. eventually she comes to a fleeting halt back at her original place, facing the soldier before her once more.
"who are you?"
for surely someone who is undeterred by death is someone very important indeed.
OOC || Shucks....I had to be away unexpectedly and, after speaking with Sarah, Lagertha must also take a turn away. If anyone would like to jump in with Claymore in this thread, feel more than welcomed! I know I'm quite rusty rping, but I'd like to try to save this if possible :-)
It is Lagertha that she sees first, iron grey against the bright autumn sky. Djinni knows that the Field is not a place for their kind to travel in pairs but she comes anyway, because her flippancy with tradition is unshakeable, and she wonders why she cannot see whoever it is that her Sister is speaking with.
Closer, she can tell they are small, and when she's beside Lagertha, pressing a muzzle to her shoulder in a friendly greeting, she can see it is a child. Djiini has never been especially fond of children - their is no room in her personality for maternal warmth - but she is already here and there is no need to leave too quickly.
"I'm Djinni", replies the grullo mare to the question asked of Lagertha. "She's Lagertha." The General can speak for herself, but Djinni makes an effort to be polite, fairly certain that the grey mare will understand. The questions about her companion's scars she does not answer, instead turning the questions back to the filly.
"Where'd you get your colors from?" Djinni, who has been each shade of the rainbow, finds the blur of greys and browns intriguing, pied together as they are in a pattern she'd never thought to replicate. She does so now of course, and the soft grey and black of her coat ripples until she is a mirror image of Claymore (albeit taller and in infinitely better shape).
