"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
With powerful strokes the femme worked her way through the waves, the rhythm of her movements was in time with the beats of her heart. She was in a sort of trace - there was only the ocean swirling around her and she could go on swimming forever, there was no cold or exhaustion or fear of drowning. Imke knew where she was going, she had swum away from this place before, in fear, but now she was swimming toward it. There was no longer fear of this place as there had been when she left, no threat of disaster. She had heard whispers that the place of her birth had survived - in some form or other. If she kept her mind blank she could maintain her enduring trance.
A dark line appeared on the horizon and gradually came closer. The waves changed, smaller and more frequent as the water became gradually more shallow. Something brushed against her leg, an animal or plant, it did not matter. The trance was gone and Imke was aware of how much her legs were aching. Her nose and throat burned from all of the salt and water she had managed to inhale in her marathon swim. The waves grew taller around her, towering over and carrying her high before threatening to drown her. White foam began appearing, she was close to shore now. Just as her foot touched the sandy bottom a wave crashed over her, sending her unceremoniously toward shore. The petite lady managed to regain her feet before the waves washed her ashore.
Soaked and covered in sand the coal black mare emerged from the surf, her drenched pink tresses were plastered to her neck and face. It was spring time, and while the sun was warm, the ocean was not. She shook herself, attempting to dislodge the the water and sand that covered her. There was a strong breeze which promised to dry her quickly, though it caused her to shiver. That wind smelled of brine and organic matter.
She observed her surroundings with dark, judgemental eyes. This was not the place she had left as a young one; not the place she had frantically swum away from. She flicked her still sodden forelock from her vision to better observe her surroundings. The trees here were surprisingly new, and the undergrowth was not thick at all. The scent of horses was very faint here, though she could discern it. The waves crashing behind her prevented her from hearing anything useful. The lady stayed close to the beach, deciding to follow the coast and let the sun and brisk wind dry her off before she ventured into the woodlands. Herr hooves made no noise in the damp sand as she meandered along the waterfront. This was not the beach she had left from, the outline of the island was completely different from when she had fled in her childhood. But this was the right place, she could sense it, similar to how turtles returned to the beach they hatched on, it was instinct. Somehow, the earth beneath her was her home, though it looked nothing like how she had left it. The scent of other equine was growing stronger and more fresh now; though Imke's nostrils still burned from the brine and water.
Imke was young, petite and delicate looking; she did not have the most graceful lines or pleasant plumpness a female could possess, but neither was she unappealing. She was thin, not having found the best sustenance in places she had visited, the fact that she had managed the trip here would surprise anyone who set eyes on her. Despite her thinness - or perhaps because of it, it was possible to see that she was well muscled under her ebony coat. Her strides were sure as she moved along the beach, she wanted new of what had happened, she wanted to make certain this was her birth place, more than anything she wanted to be done running, she wanted to come home.
Imke
I'm a princess cut from marble, smoother than a storm
and the walls kept tumbling down in this city that we love
She walked through the valley in the shadow of death, and emerged—
Emerged into a world wild with scents and colors and darkness, a world with shadows that seem to cavort against her like living things, she imagines she can feel the pressure of them.
She emerged in a world that cracked and crumbled and rebuilt, a world that did not have need for her – though of course, she persists anyway.
She is Irisa, and she was born in a dream-world, until she wasn’t. Until she was crashed here like a comet, reborn, existing for the first time in her life as something living, something real, and she is still taking it all in.
She lost nothing in the catastrophe that hit, her wings remained unchanged. She’s white, and when the light catches her she shines like a rainbow. Of course, now, that white is mud-streaked and grass-stained, but she doesn’t mind. It’s different.
(It’s real.)
She sees the girl, pink-maned, and she likes the brightness of her. Other horses are still a bit strange to her – she knows her mother, and her sister, and the menagerie of fantastical creatures mother had created in their world, but she knows no one else, knows nothing else.
Still.
She feels little apprehension as she approaches the girl, she smiles, wings folded carefully against her back.
“Hello,” she says, and when she is closer she realizes the girl also smells like something else – like salt, like the sea. It’s a good scent, and Irisa inhales again.
A movement in her peripherals caught Imke's attention. She turned her well formed head to better see the individual approaching; a winged creature of a beautiful iridescent hue. The fae, for it is a female, continued her approach though she slows as she got closer; her manner was nonthreatening. When she initiated her conversation her voice was not unpleasant.
The snow coloured equine with wings fits well with Imke's memories of her home; full of magic and uniqueness that was not present elsewhere. As Imke recalled certain individuals even possessed magic on a level to rival the fairies themselves. The mere presence of such a singular individual as this mare helped make Imke more certain that she was in fact home, though the landscape surrounding them was still strange.
"Greetings." Imke responds, her voice is hoarse from exposure to the salt water. "I am Imke, and you are...?" She asked, her voice still rasping, though she tried to clear her throat to make regain her normal voice. The ebony mare shook herself, she was still damp but the sand was falling away bit by bit. After a moment her dark eyes turned to examine her surroundings; the water at her back, the other equine and the forest ahead and the beach stretching in either direction at her sides.
"This is Beqanna, is it not?" Deep down she is sure it is. "It has changed immensely since I was last on these shores...." Her rusty voice trailed off, she hoped the stranger would take the bate and give her some information about what had happened; the whispers she had heard were indistinct. From the look of the island Imke suspected the Fairies had done some redecorating, though to what extend she could not tell. The lady debated shaking her head to get rid of some of the liquid from her drenched tresses, but decided against it, she might splash her acquaintance and that would be a social faux pas.
Imke
I'm a princess cut from marble, smoother than a storm
and the walls kept tumbling down in this city that we love
Home is a strange word because what Irisa thinks of as home is not a real place. She was bogged in the dream-place, she grew up on the fantasy, on birds colored like rainbows as large as she was; on rivers made of diamonds; on trees bearing sparkling fruit that burst over the tongue.
She knows, now, that these are – were – dreams, creations made by her mother (and ah, her gut twists at the thought of her mother, a strangely broken, piteous woman) and foisted upon Irisa without her knowledge or consent.
She knows this, knows logically that this world now is the real one – isn’t it? – but when she thinks of home she still thinks of that dream-place.
The girl tells her name – Imke.
“Irisa,” she responds in kind. She pulls herself out of thoughts of home and into the now, where she stands near a girl with pink mane, a girl who is real.
“I…” she begins, and realizes she doesn’t know the name of the land she walks on. The name Imke offers – Beqanna – sounds familiar, but she couldn’t say for certain that’s where they are.
She’s spent far too much time in dreams to be entirely comfortable or confident with reality.
“I don’t know,” she confesses finally, “I came from….somewhere else.” Came from dreams and madness, she wants to say, but even lacking social graces Irisa knows not to say that.
So, she focuses on the sopping girl, who is strange but still likely knows more than Irisa.
“Where did you come from?”
