"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
There is something about the new lands that is incredibly intriguing to the white-laced blue mare. Something indefinable that draws her every time. She had been here before, of course, but she had hardly been here to admire the scenery. Of course, she is not necessarily here to admire the scenery today either, but rather to see who else might have discovered these new lands for themselves.
For a time, she enjoys her solitude. She enjoys meandering through tall trees and ducking under low-slung branches. She enjoys the tickle of spring grass against her white hocks, the sweet scent of new leaves mingled with the sharper scent of pine and to cooling aroma of water overlaying everything. She enjoys the occasional ray of sunshine that touches her back, the sylph-like breeze that slips almost unnoticed through the intermingled trunks.
She continues on this way until she reaches the sentinel oak that stands alone, apart from the rest. Her gaze rests on that tree, slowly traveling the length of its trunk. Some days, she feels like the tree, alone and untouchable, the silent watcher of the world. She is not often given to maudlin thoughts, but perhaps recent events had stirred her equilibrium more than she cares to admit.
With a sigh, she turns, gaze scanning the copse of trees not too far off. She allows her sight to expand, to creep slowly through the trees unnoticed and untouchable. An invisible spy in this scurrying woodchuck or that fluttering robin. She allows the world to come to her in a way that has become almost more familiar to her than her own sight. She has nothing particular in mind for this hunt, merely a reconnaissance. A collection of information, some of which might potentially be useful.
This is her life after all - the silent sentinel. This is what she had made it, by choice. There is no turning back now.
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
06-03-2017, 10:39 PM (This post was last modified: 06-03-2017, 11:19 PM by Deimos.)
There was a light breeze that picked up and tousled his hair as it fell in front of his eyes. So much was gone from his world, and he found that for the first time in his rather extensive existence, that he held just a bit of regret that they had not gone a bit better. His heart rattled and pumped as he moved through the trees, silent like death, as his eyes drew an invisible line through the trees, an acidic breath escaping from him as his heavily knotted chest rose and fell with the exhale that told him he was still alive.
Pollock was gone. Bruise was gone.
Pangea was gone.
And even Ecco had withered and faded away, such that she did.
And he, the demon known as the War Machine, had remained. He always remained. And it was getting tiresome.
A grim look set upon his features as he saw a creature that was both hard and soft making her way to his location—where he lurked in the shadow. There was not much upon his mind today, except to say that his foul mood was not out of the ordinary. A gruff exterior set upon a massively scarred body; those characteristic leathery wings with membranes outstretched across a wingspan that could cast a shadow against a storm cloud. His talons pulsated angrily. He has not had a victim in so long… And he is itching… Itching.
Death is so permanent, its beautiful.
Except it wasn’t so beautiful, or perfect for him. He was a dead man walking.
And so when the curious looking female comes closer he admires her hardness… and her softness. He is after all, male.
Leather and lace. Bad and good.
So good.
And yet, he does not move from his place. His appreciation of her still does not propel his need to explore more about her. She like all of them, is beneath him. He could strip her meat from her bones if he wished…
He just can’t be bothered.
If she catches his presence… Well.
He quietly hoped she would, even if he would not admit it to himself.
It is the way of the world, the ebb and flow of time. Mountains rise and mountains crumble, and over it all, night after night, the sun sets, oblivious to the vagaries of the world it watches over. She too watches the world, but she is not oblivious. No, she lives in the midst of it, as much a part of it as the scarred magician hiding amongst the trees her sight has aimlessly struck upon.
Things are eternally changing. Sometimes they change faster than others, like these past few years, and sometimes they remain the same for eons. But inevitably it all falls. She has seen back to the dawn of Beqanna, and never has it remained still, stagnant. The change might slow, a rumbling that echoes through time and space until only those whose sight is broad and distant can see it, but still it changes.
He, of all creatures, should know. He is as impermanent as she. Perhaps he might linger, clinging to the skin of this earth longer than she would, but eventually even he would not be able to keep spider fingers dug forever into a disappearing world.
Still, she might see the past, but she cannot see the future. Who actually knows for certain what it holds. Too many lines stretching out before them, forking and branching into a million possibilities.
But in this time, in this space, he looms large, his presence almost sucking her in, drawing her sight inevitably towards him. He is familiar to her, in the way that all magicians are familiar. She had made a point of seeking those out with power, especially power like theirs. And unless they cared to look hard for it, the faint traces of herself in their history, seen through the eyes of others, her touch so light and insidious, they would never know she had even been.
But now it is too late for secrecy. He must know that she is there. She can certainly feel him peering at her through the trees. With the faintest trace of a humorless smile touching her lips, she draws back into herself, eyes focusing on the copse of trees. Abruptly, the leaves and branches surrounding him fall away, disintegrating into dust, leaving him exposed to her cool blue gaze.
“Hello.” The words, softly spoken with a bit of edge, are wry and vaguely amused while giving nothing away of her true motives.
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
He had not been around when Pangea had fallen. Where he had been—he did not know, and certainly did not care. He had not been a fan of the wasteland to begin with. It smelled too much like Carnage. He hated the way that bastard was now parading himself among the stars like a God. The evolution of power to surpass the bounds of magic… No rules even garnered by death, while Deimos himself is strapped down to the ground like mere mortal scratching out a living, carving his memories from the rocks that were bellowing out of the fires of Hell itself. It was disgusting.
So when the scar on the lands had fallen, it was with a curled lip and a good riddance that Deimos turned tail and descended back into the bowels of the Black Forest. Once again homeless, but while he had searched for Ecco—and found himself unable to find her—he was reacquainted with the peace and solitude that comes from remaining in the company of one.
Until the blue and white laced woman comes and tears down his little leaf cave.
Deimos audibly huffs. A knee-jerk sound that starts as a rumble from the center of his chest. It emanates as puffs of black smoke protruding from his nostrils, and with a blink, the leaves are back in place, as if they’d never been. So the woman he’d been watching has power, does she? His chest heaves, and he steps out of the bushes—which immediately burn up the moment he is gone from their camouflage. Narrowing, angry eyes are set on her now, and those black wings are pulsing with the urge to strike. “Hello.”
He sees into her mind—sees her for what she is. Silence is set upon his stony features as recognition sets in, but he lets nothing out slip by. Simple words come from him then, short and staccato—a voice that was deep and fiery. Dangerous.
“You have my attention.”
DEIMOS
cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
HTML by Call
I dont' know what is wrong with me. These are terrible words. I sorry. :/
She had watched the wasteland fall into the sea. It was with no small amount of satisfaction that she had watched the waters surge forward, claiming that desolate stretch of earth foot by foot, until nothing had remained but the lapping of the waves. Some had died. Many more had not. She had even welcomed one into the midst of her home.
Her objection to the land had not been the land itself (though certainly that had been bad enough), but rather those who had deigned to call themselves its leaders.
Unfortunately her satisfaction had not lasted. It had given her nemesis the opportunity to disappear, even from her prying sight. And now she can only stare at that empty expanse of ocean, her sight futilely seeking out that one face in a sea of thousands, the disgust and unrest only growing in her breast.
So it is with some satisfaction that she had torn down those trees, exposing the magician hidden there, even if he had nothing to do with her disgruntlement.
It does not surprise her when, with a huff, he builds back up what she has torn down. She is certain he could not have been pleased to be so rudely exposed. Even so, he steps from his poorly chosen den before sending it up in flames. An act that only serves to increase her amusement. His rumbled response, low and filled with a note of danger, does nothing to dampen it.
Instead, she quirks one equine brow, the cool blue of her gaze lifting to find his darker one. There is no fear there, no alarm, nor even much sense of self-preservation. Instead she murmurs a softly humored, “Actually, I do not believe it is I who wanted your attention, but rather you who wanted mine.”
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
06-16-2017, 12:43 PM (This post was last modified: 06-16-2017, 12:44 PM by Deimos.)
The days had grown dark for the man who had come into his own moment. Long and bewildering, time stretched slowly as the days turned into weeks and months. Immortality and the stink of never dying, and yet ever decaying, is one that Deimos knows well. And in the moment that Heartfire makes herself known to him, his red gaze settles upon her blue eyes, he knows he has seen those eyes before. One cannot live as long as he has without viewing the same eyes more than once. A bristling heat from him causes a small twitch in his upper lip as he settles his weight, looking at her.
That she was not afraid of him did not surprise him. Not many were left who remembered the old days. The blood and the gore and the glory that came with the scent of bathing in the viscera of a defeated enemy. War, and the taking of power, did not exist in this new gentler Beqanna, and those with any sense of the old days were without a purpose—floundering… he ached to kill again. To feel her throat under his hoof as he pushed her into the ground. Would she crack? Would she like it as much he would?
She accuses him; He stands, a dark look of humorous irony settling upon his face. “You mistake lust for intrigue. You know you are beautiful, and you have the power to prove it. I was content to watch. You were content to content to make yourself known to me by demonstrating that power.” His voice is thick, his heavy-lidded gaze heavy as he looks down at her, his wings pulsing their fingers hungrily. “You are not afraid of me, and yet you do not know what manner of man you have stumbled across.”
Then, a hiss.
“You are either very brave, or very foolish. Both I find to be…most appealing”
Oh, the river of misassumption is astounding, and she nearly laughs aloud at it.
Beqanna had changed, shifting and folding, buckling into something entirely new, but some things never change. This man is one of those things. He is stuck in the past, grinding on through life and floundering with its new purposes. It truly is ironic that she had stumbled across him, that she had drawn his interest and him hers.
She is a keeper of time in a way few others could ever hope to be.
Those blue eyes fix upon him, blue eyes he may have seen before, but never like hers. There has never been anyone like her before. She is the first of her kind. And she, of all creatures, would know it.
He might not care for it, but she knows of him, knows him, with far more intimacy than he would likely be comfortable with. She has seen his past, long and checkered. He is infamous, even if no one remembers him anymore. She knows and she remembers. She would surprise him, perhaps in ways he never has been before.
He might wish her beneath his heel, but he would never have her there. She is both harder and more pliable than he gives her credit for. So when he accuses her, she simply smiles, a faint upturn of her lips that remains as deeply mysterious as she herself is. Slipping forward, she nears him, no hint of fear or reservation in her graceful movements. Her velvety muzzle reaches out, touches, traces a light line up his neck to his cheek. Finally, she whispers in a barely audible tone, “And perhaps I know far more than you would care to have me know.”
Abruptly she withdraws, pulling just out of reach, pale gaze once more fixing upon him, a bold, daring fire hidden just within their depths. Finally, after an eternal moment, she adds, “I think I will allow you to decide for yourself whether I am brave or foolish.”
i filled up my senses with thoughts from the ghosts
