"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's always the same, I'm running towards nothing again
He goes to do exactly what she expects. It’d been part of the arrangement, had it not? Hellbane isn’t one to really disappoint, either, not when there are others still out there, waiting. “The others…” He ponders, not exactly remembering their names but seeing them gathered around, looking up to him and Mortal with expectant eyes, “...what if I’ve come too late?”
He can’t think about that. Not now.
All he can think is to take one step at time, that same, lumbering pace he’s perfected with age while his bones settled into a frame that was clearly his sires. If they weren’t here, int he meadow, there would be someone who would be curious enough to ask what he was seeking. That was all that it would take. A spark had more than enough power to ignite a flame, and a flame had the ability to set the world on fire.
The lands of Beqanna changed again and he cringed at the magic. It hurt his bones, it hurt his soul - his head ached with the realization of all that errant magic just floating around. Anyone could grab it and abuse it the way his mother did countless times before. He hated it all, he hated the way the seasons changed in their abnormal ways. There was something that festered in the air whenever magic happened.
He hated it.
He hated it so much he'd taken to his hiding after the previous magic free herd went into hiding. Sure they all had some excuse why it all fell apart and sunk into nothingness. Surgery was included in this.
So he walks aimlessly, mostly by night, mostly in silence, away from it all.
Ahead a light shines, artificial, gifted by magic. It makes him angry to see. He fumes, his nostrils flare, he turns to the stallion at his side and says, "Ridiculous, this magicians. These traited. Thinking they're so much better because they abuse magic."
It's always the same, I'm running towards nothing again
The pointed declaration from the golden boy has Hellbane tilting his head, one shaded eye peering curiously at him as he spits venom over something as insignificant as a wavering light. There’s a familiarity about this one; something in those narrowed eyes and that curled lip that has the big bay’s mind churning. “And what can you do about it, Hmm?” He asks, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of that dark mouth. Hate and love are two sides of the same coin, violent in each turn, but forged to the same object. Doesn’t matter which side flips up, as long as you’re the one doing the flipping.
“Hellbane.” He tells the palomino, nodding softly before turning to face him. “Though I feel like we’ve met before.”
Regardless, he likes the vivacity the boy emanates, wishes that he could produce something as powerful to spur him through life. “You should put those feelings to good use.” He offers, wide ears tilting forward with eager interest. “Finally, there’s a place where we can raise a fist to slow the onslaught of Magic. Others like us are already gathering there, as we speak.” Hellbane tells him, eyes brightening beneath the hood of his green forelock.
“Come with me, see it for yourself.” He challenges, the light and its wielder forgotten. “You’re not alone in your thoughts.”
