"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
you give me something to think about that's not the shit in my head.
He’s becoming her red eyed shadow. If he only had his memories back, he would be disgusted with himself. When had No Crosses Count ever relied on anyone? He had been respected, feared, loved, hated. So many things that he can’t remember, that are lost in the abyss where he had escaped. Recalling nothing, he lives rather freely in this new world. No burdens to weigh him down, no regrets to brood over. Nobody to mourn for. He is truly free. How long will that last?
He’s content for now to follow the weird little group he had been thrusted into as he becomes familiar with Beqanna. There’s something lacking though, a stirring deep in his belly. A need for more but he can’t put his finger on exactly what it is he wants. Ebony whipcord snaps with irritation against scarred hindquarters as he meanders towards the bank of the river. A frown turns at the corner of his lips, eyeing his reflection on the bubbling surface. Why exactly did he have so many scars? They were littered about his youthful and muscular body but he can’t think of ever having a single fight with anyone. It seems like a natural thing, like he would be able to take care of himself. Flee or fight, he would stand and defend. Yes, that feels like something he would do.
But when had he done it before? The evidence is all over his body. It’s these things that do bother him, a tiny nagging in the back of his head. That he’s missing something, just a whisper of a suggestion. It happened when the old man greeted him with foul words and the suggestion that he had relations with his mother. Or when Noct casted him that uneasy stare when he didn’t recognize certain things. Perhaps something was off but for now he lives in denial, ignoring these little red flags. Embracing his ignorance.
The days are getting shorter and colder. Leaves, gold and burnt, fall gently to the forest floor. He walks amongst the silent trees, mud clinging to his hooves as he ambles quietly along the riverbank. He has no desire to ease himself into the freezing waters, not does he need to quench his thirst. He simply enjoys the silence as he explores this new place.
06-30-2017, 11:30 PM (This post was last modified: 06-30-2017, 11:31 PM by The Tin Man.)
Hearts will never be practical, until they can be unbreakable. (But I still want one.)
Beqanna was turning out a lot more normal than the Tin Man expected. It actually seemed like the various herds kept to themselves more than normal horses did, seeing as some of the natives were immortal and others had wings. And still other horses had that lurking "magic" smell despite looking perfectly normal, which meant they could probably shoot fireballs or some shit.
Although the lack of fighting might have also been because some Beqanna horses made vague references to the land being different a while back. Not just "different leaders are in charge," but the actual LAND used to be different. The hills weren't always there, and the islands weren't always settled, and the common areas like the river are the only things that are still the same...
It was lucky most of them didn't want to talk too much--nobody ever explains WHY things changed, but it's often said with the quiet, shameful tone of "mom got really, really mad at us," and the Tin Man gets a liiiiittle freaked out. He's not at the point where he can ask WHO made the land different, at least not yet.
So now the snowflake Appaloosa is wandering around the river, trying to get the creepy-crawlies away from the back of his head, when he spots a blessedly normal bay stallion and heads over.
"Hi!"
Crap, Normal Bay Stallion has the magic smell on him, so he's not actually normal! Also, he has a crapton of fight-scars and the Tin Man shakes his mane a little to fend off the creepy-crawly feeling yet again. Most horses had a few fight scars, the Tin Man included, but not enough to cover them like a blanket. Fuck, he has to say something before--
"You look like a mess."
...Someone kill him now.
"Okay, I really shouldn't have said that, but... you do."
you give me something to think about that's not the shit in my head.
The silence is soon broken, a simple hello splitting the air and he swings his head to find the source of the voice. His red eyes glimmer but his expression is not unpleasant. The Cross of old might have been broody and brash, demanding respect because he had damn well earned it. He had led more armies then he could remember, had once been crowned a King. This Cross though is oblivious to those things, having forgotten the accomplishments that he had tucked under his belt. He throws out his muzzle in a quick response as the appaloosa comes closer.
A brow raises in question as the look on Tin’s face falls slightly. Christ, he has that same look Nocturnal gives him. ”What?” He can’t help but snap and then sigh. It was useless. ”You look a mess.” Says the stallion, shaking his head. Slightly confused, Cross looks to the river, eyeing his reflection. Well… Maybe he had a point. ”Hmm. Yes. Not quite sure where those all came from.” There’s that red flag again, sprouting in his head. Poking at his brain, remember… remember…
He doesn’t. The scar that winds across his left eye is the most intriguing of all. Surely he would have felt that. He’s already forgetting the trip from the Afterlife, the one memory he has now chalked up as a weird dream. He had always been… somewhere. Not here, he is certain. This world was strange though the common lands seemed a little familiar. The magic that it’s inhabitants pertain is interesting to. He doesn’t share such traits (has never had them actually) and had always done fine without. It doesn’t bother him, just makes life a little more interesting.
”Where are you from?” He finally asks, turning his flaming gaze back to the spotted male. ”I’m No Crosses Count by the way, but I prefer Cross.”
Hearts will never be practical, until they can be unbreakable. (But I still want one.)
"My name is the Tin Man," he says. "You can leave out the 'the.'"
He remembers the stories that his human used to tell, either to him or her friends; a fairy-tale where the Tin Man used to be human, but he kept losing limbs and finally became metal. He went on a quest to get his heart back, but he kept crying and smiling and hugging his friends, so did he ever really lose it in the first place?
He relaxes since Cross is a lot less intimidating compared to his appearance, and he tests out the river-water.
"Oh fuck, it's cold." He stops drinking immediately with a displeased stamp of his foreleg. "Also, I live in Loess--the hills. There's not many around there, but we have a queen, so that's better than nothing."
you give me something to think about that's not the shit in my head.
The wariness leaves the stallions face, he’s apparently been declared as unthreatening. He’s not sure if he’s exactly pleased with that. Glancing down at his chest, eyeing the criss cross of scars. Surely he should be somewhat intimidating. Then again he could have gotten all this from some sort of bad accident. That doesn’t feel right though. His muscles are well defined beneath his dark bay coat. No, a fight. That seems correct. But when and how?
The spotted man has ambled closer, displeased with the chill of the water. His front legs step into the frigid river and he finds the cold doesn’t really bother him. Tin Man continues on, talking to him about a place called Loess. It doesn’t ring any bells and doesn;t sound particularly exciting either. ”Sounds rather dull…” He replies with a snort, red eyes glittering at him. ”Ever thought of going somewhere else?”
Hearts will never be practical, until they can be unbreakable. (But I still want one.)
"Of course it's boring, why do you think I'm here?" the Tin Man says. "But seeing as most of us don't have magic, I prefer boring at the moment. At least till the herd gets to... ten horses, maybe, instead of five."
He swishes his tail. There are no flies around now that it's cold, and the Tin Man is thankful for that, but a passing breeze is pretty nippy.
"Why ask if I want to leave, though? Have you fallen in love and do you want to help me escape from my horrible, horrible life?"
A whicker of amusement.
"It's not that bad, though. So where do you live, then? Are you new here?"
you give me something to think about that's not the shit in my head.
Tin responds and Cross merely snorts, scoffing with a hint of amusement. He thinks there is safety in boring. Nowhere is safe, nothing is held sacred. He is certain of this without knowing exactly how. He lifts a hoof, watches the way the water drips down his fetlock. Then drops it with a splash back into the cold stream. ”Surely you could find a more populated place to live…” He states with a shrug. He probably feels some sort of loyalty to the place he assumes. But still… Boring begets boring.
Cross snorts again, this time he is amused. ”You’re not my type. Hate to disappoint.” He grins, chuckling to himself at his own wit. His red gaze still on the water, making out the tiny flecks of fish beneath the surface. ”Merely making conversation. I would leave if there was nothing tying me there.” A ripple of muscles beneath his dark coat as he shrugs. He doesn’t care one way or another. It’s Tin’s life, not his.
”Nerine for now. Filled with women, not as great as it sounds.” He replies with a grunt, tossing his head to remove his damp forelock from his view. He doesn’t bother to answer the last part, if he’s new or not. It would simply lead to where he had come from and he didn’t have an answer for that. If he started thinking about it, he would suddenly become overcome with anxiety. Not worth all that trouble so he pushes it aside. Ignoring the obvious.
Hearts will never be practical, until they can be unbreakable. (But I still want one.)
"Aww. Who's gonna drag me into exciting adventures against my will now?" A snort, and he takes a mouthful of the browning grass. He chews: It's not quite dead, but it's still not that special after all the cold.
"You don't sound very tied to Nerine, if you're wandering around on your lonesome."
