"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
It was the roar of the water that drew her unquestioningly towards the River. When the Fairies decreed that new lands had opened up to the inhabitants of Beqanna, Tyrna had used it as an excuse to get away. To explore the unseen and take her mind off of the recent changes in the Taiga. The thought of new sights and sounds, fresh lands ripe for the picking, tugged at her adventurer's heart and it wasn't long before her legs carried her from the safety of the Taiga out into the wilds beyond.
She walked for miles, soaking in the warm spring sun and humming tunelessly to herself. Birds swooped on unseen currents and the flowers were now starting to come out en masse blanketing the meadows and fields in color. Tyrna waded through the sea of swaying grasses and gem-like petals until the faintest tinkling sound reaches her ears. The sound of rushing water is so heart achingly familiar. Without question, without thought to her safety, or the possible presence of others, she ran. Long legs bedecked in blue and white tore at the earth until she reached the bank of the mighty river. It wasn't the Falls. It would never be the Falls, but the comfort of the sunlight refracted off the surface, and the roaring might of the water crashing against rock made her so homesick she could cry.
Tyrna waded out until the water reached her knees. She doesn't know how long she stood there as memories, like the rapids, filled her head and swept everything else out to sea.
now and then there's a light in the darkness; feel around 'til you find where your heart went.
The warmth of the sun is soothing, casting its bleak rays along the sharpened ridges of his broad frame, caressing the slope of his vertebrae along the length of his body with its pale light. The air is still frigid from the morning dew, weaving an icy thread through the finely preened feathers that line the hollowed bones of his wings, which lay tucked tightly against his rounded flank. His feathered appendages shield him from the prying grasp of winter, which still clutches at the frayed edge of morning where melting ice crystals become dew, clinging precariously to the blooming flora.
The tepid, blistering heat of summer has yet to touch the thicket of wiry, brittle vegetation, and it is not difficult to forget how the unforgiving scorch of the sun can be elsewhere. Alas, he cannot bathe beneath its glow much longer – his body flinches beneath its draping light, and soon the rolling muscles beneath his golden skin are moving and shifting, propelling him forward and away from the barren plateau. He is soon nestled along the border of the dense foliage, his feathers brushing against the dry, brittle bark as the water moves seamlessly next to him – powerful, unrelenting.
Further along, the water is less hostile, moving swiftly yet smoothly across tired old river stones, and there she is – a scent that he had not caught along the gentle breeze, but his eyes surely do not deceive him. She is vivid, bright and stark against the dark shadows of the roaring rapids, and a glimmer of curiosity lingers within the golden rim of his eyes. His own legs carry him into the frigid water, as it stains the pale gold of his skin into a darker bronze.
She is solemn, quiet, and tucked away within her own reverie, and gently (though not too much so – and as such, the whiskey-laced tone of his voice is not lost in the echo of the rushing river) he speaks.
”You like the water too, then?” he muses, a broad grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. ”I’m Canaan – and who are you?”
She doesn't notice the gold flash of his presence until his voice tugs her from her memories. As she shakes the daze from her eyes, she doesn't know if she should thank him or deck him at the interruption of the long gone memories playing on a reel in her head. Her glacial blue eyes flash to his and she hesitates before deciding on the former. A small smile pulls at the corners of her lips to match his own.
"Canaan," she rolls the name around like bourbon on her tongue before deciding it lacks a familiar flavor, "I'm Tyrna, it's a pleasure to meet you." She is guarded and the shadows of past haunts linger in the corner of her eyes and the planes of her lovely, baroque features, but she remains friendly. What good was it to linger on the pride in her mother's eyes when she returned home from her first excursion out of the Falls, or the lovely way the waterfall glinted like spun copper and gold in the setting autumn sun? They were good and beautiful memories, but bittersweet and painfully sharp, cutting her to pieces.
She pauses before responding to him further. He was a stranger, a calming presence, but a stranger none the less. She roves her gaze from the tips of his wings to the ends of his hooves, and deciding he isn't a threat for the moment, relaxes further into the cool waters swirling around her knees.
"What can I say? The river reminds me of home." Her smile threatens to grow a bit bigger at the thought. "What brings you out this way?"
now and then there's a light in the darkness; feel around 'til you find where your heart went.
”Tyrna,” he murmurs aloud, willing the simple yet decidedly unusual name to memory, as his dark hazel eyes search the feminine slope of cheek and the mottled shadow of her skin, interrupted by the broad blaze that accentuates her searing gaze. Though her tone is mellow – calm – and her smile is one of benevolence, tension remains within his taut muscles, as wary of her as she is of him, though his carefree smile does not betray the uncertainty lingering in the back of his mind. ”the pleasure is my own.”
He can feel her glacial stare boring into him as her bright eyes (as vivid and as blue as the morning sky) search him, observing the ridges of bone beneath a golden canvas, analyzing him as he had done to her only moments ago. A glint of amusement soon flickers within his gold flecked gaze, but still, he examines the shadow in the hollow of her pupils, and soon he is stoic – the once warm smile falling away. There is a weariness within her rigid posture, within the darkness of her gaze – a weariness he has never known himself.
”Home,” he murmurs, as the rippling water presses powerfully against his legs. ”the only home I have known is surrounded by the ocean itself.” A pause, his words weighing heavily on his tongue as he rifles through his own thoughts, plucking out the precise wording that can convey his true meaning. ”The only home I have known came after the Reckoning. I grew restless and I have been a wanderer ever since, and when the mist lifted, well,” his smile returns. ”I found myself here. I think I might make it my own. A place to linger when wandering is no longer enough; without politics to taint it.”
The question stops her short. Her eyes narrowing in thought. Once upon a time, home would have meant the rush of waterfalls and quiet companions. Sunrises and sets from the clifftops unobstructed by the waiting trees below, fairytale forests, woodland friends, and safety among the rocky crags. That home only existed in her dreams now causing her to pause before answering.
"I suppose home is the Taiga now." She shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. It wasn't a lie, the Taiga did feel like a home and she did have a new family of sorts, but it wasn't the same. The love she felt for the towering redwoods and their taciturn leader was consuming and wonderful, it just wasn't the fever bright devotion she had for her Falls. "I'm a... newer resident to Beqanna after the, what did you call it? Reckoning? I knew a different version of the land, and admittedly haven't seen much since the recent renovations." She chuckles, this time letting her naturally jovial nature shine through. She didn't want to give too much of herself away to this stranger, but he had a calmness about him that she found refreshing. His ideas of freedom were in line with her own and she could respect anybody who knew how to take advantage of a good day.
"By your description I'm guessing you grew up in Ischia? What was it like there? I've never been one for oceans. Freshwater and raw power have always held more appeal to me." She looks down at the surface of the river, sunlight glinting blindingly off of the foaming rapids and swirling currents. She splashes water playfully at his legs and belly, a wide and devilishly charming smile brightening her own face in turn and chasing the shadows from her eyes.
now and then there's a light in the darkness; feel around 'til you find where your heart went.
His heavy stare watches as a darkness seems to descend over her strong features; the gold flecks of his eyes follow the slope of her jawline and the way her brow line seemingly creases in thought. Her eyes, as vivid and as deep as the seemingly endless river bottom he had found himself lost in more than once before, suddenly seem hollow and distant. Memories, undoubtedly filtering through her mind, recalling her to a different time – to a different place. He cheek turns slightly, and his two-toned forelock settles across the bridge of his nose.
A faint shrug of her shoulders is given, as if she is shaking away something heavy and burdensome, but soon there is a soft humor in her tone and he chooses to let it go. His own pale mouth retains the warm smile, teeth displayed only slightly as she confesses that she knew of a past he himself had never seen. ”The Taiga,” he muses softly, remembering another individual of emerald and sapphire who called Taiga her own. ”another woodland. You seem to have a type, though I daresay they lack a river as fine as this.”
A deep rumble of laughter emerges from the hearth of his chest, as his gaze stares out along the thick line of foliage bordering the riverbank. ”The Reckoning. I honestly have never known a time before it – I was born, quite literally, the night it happened.”
Change. He knew it as if it were an old friend.
”Ischia? No,” he says, finally meeting her gaze with his own again. ”I am from Tephra. My father led there; helped to build it up to what it is. It has the same amount of salty seawater, though.” His smile becomes a wide grin, following her eyes to the surface of the rippling water, which soon splashes and laps against the pillars of his legs – and he cannot stifle the laughter that ensues.
”I like water in any capacity,” he confesses, his eyes gleaming with a bit of mischief as he gives a simple toss of his head – provoking a sudden gust of wind by his sheer will alone, manipulating it to splash the icy water onto her in return.
