"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
The winter air conjurers thoughts of frigid wastelands, cracked lips and frozen hearts. The black stallion ventures to the meadow to appease the low rumble in his stomach, pangs that were sharp and ceaseless till the heavy male finds himself standing among the last bits of vegetation. Steely pools eye the bark of a few trees that stood naked and unafraid. If the temperatures were to drop further, he may have to resort to the dry tree skin for nourishment.
Black as night and shaggy from ear to hoof, he moves methodically over the frozen ground. Here and there, he would drop his skull to tug at the last few bits of grass. They taste cold and brittle against his tongue, the sharp teeth chewing slowly as he savors the last bit of his meal. Cold wind digs into the thickness of his inky mane, jostling and tangling it in a flirtatious caress. Lior finds a clear space to break the white covering of snow, nosing away with lips and heated air. This winter would prove to be harsh but he welcomes with calm (almost relaxed) features, his only challenge made by his presence in the nearly empty meadow.
Feathered limbs move Lior to where a small clump of conifer trees stood like a green sanctuary against the cold. Gray eyes find comfort in the way the fat snowflakes fall peacefully, sleepily to cover where his hooves once made their impression. The smell of pine sap and dry needles turn the edges of his lips upward in a slight smile as he finds peace in the solitude of being alone. Small tufts of frozen air roll from his nostrils like a sleeping dragon among his riches.
Frigid temperatures and frozen kisses curl around Nayl’s slender body. Her natural adaptation to the climate change has been sluggish, but her coat has finally thickened and her skin toughened. In these past few months she has bid farewell to the Jungle’s humidity and the thin, sleek coat that had been bred for the kingdom’s weather. It wasn’t easy to be tossed into the world, the brisk autumn, with a coat that was forged for tropical temperatures. It tested her adaptability and hardiness and toyed with her necessity to survive and flourish. Nothing would – could – stop her from rising from Beqanna’s ashes stronger and more adept.
Plumes of hot air coil from her nostrils with each long, relaxed exhalation. Her autumn eyes blink as snowflakes drift down onto her lashes while the meadow turns into a winter paradise. Everything is white – the ground, the groaning trees, the horses – and she tries to calmly digest the sight for the first time in her life. The Jungle never had this and she never strayed from its warmth during the winter months. Despite her years on this earth she has never before experienced snow.
She looks longingly at those better adapted such as the obsidian male trampling through the raised piles of powdery snow. Ice clings to his feathering and dances like chimes when he heavily trudges along. He is shaggy, armored in a coat that dares the wintry frost to sink into. From afar Nayl watches until he perches himself near her with his hooded eyes cast out. ”You look like you were built for the season,” a wry grin tampers with the tightness of her lips, her gaze slightly softened beneath her forelock. ”The name is Nayl,” an unexpected shudder runs down the length of her spine, ”and you?” Her head turns just enough to look at him, but her body remains unyielding.
Despite the thick insulation of ancestors and bloodlines woven into his coat, the male is not a lover of this bitter cold. He much preferred the spring with a blossom of life and greenery, a promise for something better than the bleak gray palette of the winter. The frosted plumes drift from his own split lips as he bears the cut of cold air with a low grunt and grimace.
From not far off stood a horse, splattered and colored like the very elements that surrounded her. Gray eyes are keen to her presence from beneath the blanket of his own brow when she calls out to him rather friendly-like. His hooves are slow anyway today and it wasn't like Lior had a real destination...and besides, opportunities to have some company are few and far in between during these frozen months. With a slight shrug to his own consideration, Lior deviates and turns a shoulder and face to the other.
Limbs draw his close but a respectable distance away. He notices the lack of her coat, she is smooth and sleek where he is matted and heavy. Concern should cross his features but instead he reserves it for after he gets to know the woman a bit. When your father insists upon tormenting you in all shapes and forms, it's understandable as to why suspicion just lurks beneath the surface of his stoic features. "Nayl." He speaks low but it seems amplified by the fat snowflakes that fall around them, muffling all other sounds. "I'm Lior." His retort is direct as he meets her gaze with his own 'matter-of fact' one. "Not from around here, I'm guessing?" And by that, he is prodding for whether she is of Beqanna even at all. The black stallion has not had many interactions since his own return to Beqanna but he was open to possibly making a few acquaintances. Lobes flicker forward in the nest of tangled hair.
If the mare should like to have an extended conversation, Lior would offer the warmth (well warmer than a frozen meadow) of his cave to the painted woman. She did appear rather chilly and Lior would consider it rude if he did not at least extend the offer to the other, after feeling her out a bit more, of course.
He says her name, his voice gruff, and she doesn’t resist the temptress smile stretching the corners of her lips. It isn’t often that she finds herself in the company of a male; she has always considered them a distraction to her wants and needs. They served no purpose to her because as an Amazon she didn’t need to bring them to the Jungle. Mother failed in the sisterhood because she was smitten so easily by stallions. Nayl, ever much like her grandmother, told herself that she wouldn’t fail as Myrina had.
She wonders now if she is falling short of her promise, or is her lust for conversation so great as to bring her across the self-imposed barrier she forged years ago?
”Lior,” she tastes his name with intrigue, her autumn eyes aflame. She doesn’t yet search for questions to submerge them in idle talk. The brief pause is comforting as the snow falls around them, but his gravelly voice reaches her through the thick blanket of white. Somehow hearing him speak brings heat to her skin and warms her even as the frigid wind kisses her. ”Not from around this new Beqanna,” this is new to them all – the sights, the smells, the lands – but she understands the motive behind his question and idly adds, ”I was from the Jungle.” That explains why her coat is still fairly thin and not entirely adapting to freezing temperatures; it’s why she carries herself as a soldier would and with an air of fiery confidence. ”But now I’m living on the coast,” she doesn’t call it home because it doesn’t yet control a piece of her heart. It’s just a geographic location where she periodically sleeps and nothing more.
A bitterness seeps across her tongue when she mentions the coast. She doesn’t say its name or even mention it with a radiant smile. Her expression is coy and somewhat disinterested in her personal whereabouts. ”And you, burly Lior? Where are you from?” A brow lifts as she draws in his scent, ever curious to know more about him.
Pewter pools observe the crease of her lips as she smiles ever so slightly, like a light dusting of snow on a chilly night. Her voice is equally as cool as her smirk. She is glass. Smooth, fragile, and Lior can see the way her emotions seem to toil just underneath the surface. He does not return the smile but instead shows that she has gained his interest but simply keeping his attention trained to her painted form rather than trekking off to remain embraced by his cold and quiet solitude.
The mare is strong...forged by unseen fire and sweat. She does act like most women would. Proud and unrelentingly sexualized despite their sometimes unknowing actions. Warm air coils from his lips now as he washes over her form as any male would, noting her curves and crooks. Lior was not one to seek company on any occasion truthfully. He finds himself dreadfully dull and complicated so therefore others must as well, right?
Suddenly he is propelled into the presence of their conversation when the slender woman continues.
She is a coastal mare, salt and sand. Lior thought he could taste the wildness of the ocean in the air around her as she seemed to wear her home around her like an intoxicating perfume (whether she wants to or not). But the inquiry as to his own residence conjures up a small, flitting tug on his lips...the smile softening his stony features ever so slightly. A toss of his heavy head is directed just up the rocky mountain side to the open mouth of a cave...his home. "There." He says with a nod. "I come from no where real. I prefer the solitude that the meadow offers me." This is, after all, the truth as the large male could easily form up a herd with all the lost mares that seemed to wander in and out of his life but he much more preferred to let them ebb and flow like flower petals on the tide.
Nayl basks in the satisfaction of having broken his stony expression. There, with his face like onyx, a feeble grin forms. It seems brief and it’s much softer than the voice that follows. Brusque and masculine she drinks in the sound and sight of him before forcing herself to glance away idly. They both lack experience in conversation, nonetheless, they still remain here, hopeful that they will break their personal streaks. The meadow around them is busy, but she can still easily hear him above them all. At first, she turns her attention back to him and searches his eyes before following them toward the mountainside. Even after he has indicated it Nayl is still distantly staring and wondering how life must be feral and away from politics, away from any problems.
”I’ve found myself in solitude in Nerine,” she admits with a hint of sourness in her voice, Everyone that collaborated to help find the land have all disappeared. It has been just me wandering a long stretch of beach.” The way she says this makes it unclear whether she has hated or loved it. She isn’t particularly close to anyone who initially joined their band, but it doesn’t matter anymore since they have since disappeared. A mutiny could have been possible, but there is no way to gain support in an empty kingdom.
A drawn-out breath escapes her. A plume of white coils from her nostrils as she blinks away the few snowflakes from her eyelids. She contemplates their predicament, their different lifestyles. He enjoys his freedom and isolation so she doesn’t yet offer him Nerine. Instead, she delves for questions to know him better. ”Did the Mountain take anything from you?” It has stolen from her pieces of her soul, but she has since recovered and accepted that it is what it is. Perhaps one day those pieces will be restored.
Lids fall over the mercury tinted eyes as he watches her quietly. A scrutinizing eye catches the way her attention wisps casually away towards the direction he motions. She is fleeting like a dandelion seedling on the spring air, whimsical and lacking discretion where she may lay. Lobes remain toward the smaller woman as his expression does not shift from the wall that is built brick by brick from years of practice to keep the vulnerable parts in and the rest of the world out.
Lior, above all else, is at least polite. He listens to the name of her home, a brief description in flat tones and an even flatter expression. Lior wonders what sand and ocean must be like. He has heard of beaches but had never set foot upon sand...never tasted salt upon his tongue. He isn't entirely sure if he really wants to either judging by the painted woman's description and lack of enthusiasm.
The dark stallion witnesses the way warm air coils from the mare's nostrils like a sleeping dragon. He slowly draws and releases his own air without such effort. He can tell by her question that she wishes to change the subject and inquires as to if the mountain had robbed him of anything. Now it is his turn to sigh.
"No, it was not the mountain who stole from me." Lior instantly wishes he had not said that.
Lior cared to not speak of what was stolen from him or in which the way it was taken. "There was a time I was able to be whomever or whatever I wanted but no longer. Now I am the man who stands before you. Plain and simple." Why did he continue to speak? Lior silently sews the tears in his soul with thick and ugly black cord. He returns to the onyx statue and silently berates himself for his folly. "Perhaps...one day...I should like to see your Nerine." Like rocks crushing under foot, the rough tones of his voice vibrate from the depths of his chest as his gaze returns to Nayl in his best attempt to keep the conversation alive for the sake of sharing words with another living creature.
