"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're looking at an absolute zero; I'm not the devil but I won't be your hero.
Time had a way of being cruel and steadfast – it would wait for no one, and oftentimes, its unpredictability and ruthlessness is too much to bear. Alas, the closely held memories of a different time, a different place often soothed the quietly festering wound, though it could never dull the pain in its entirety. He, too, often dreamt of a time long ago when life had seemed so simple and pure, much more so in comparison to the tumultuous world that had tried more than a time or two to swallow him whole.
The memories were all that he had left, but even memories are flawed – it is so easy to reminiscence with awe and longing, forgetting the ragged and frayed edges in the process. Much of his life had been spent lingering on long forgotten, deeply buried experiences that had both whittled away at his wayward, restless soul, and built him up to be the man that he is – the man that he was, the man that he would be. Years ago, he had done little else with himself but wander aimlessly, permitting the worst of his recollection to envelope him in a thick covering of self-loathing and revulsion.
He had grown tired of it – but alas, he cannot always keep his mind from dithering away in the past. Such can be said of his contemplative, brooding mood, in which his crimson gaze is settled somewhere out towards the wild and raucous sea. He does not move toward it today - he is content to be beside the rumbling volcano, its warmth enveloping him and soothing the stoked fire within.
He is quiet and still, settled beneath a small copse of trees near a steaming spring of hot water - roiling with a soft, subtle bubbling that is telling of the heat within. His dark and thoughtful gaze is settled somewhere out into the vast grassland and off toward the fading horizon, where the once blinding and unyielding sun had already begun its descent, with nightfall close behind.
OFFSPRING
another zealot with the weight of the fucking world.
Keep a little fire burning; however small, however hidden.
Smoak, having returned from the playground unscathed and fatigued, roams the grassland of Tephra with a curiosity that does not quit. His small belly grumbles, yearning for dinner, but the bone-armored boy decides that he can explore for just a little bit longer before he has to go find Mom. With lanky, awkward legs, he forgets his fatigue momentarily and shoots through the long grasses, his lithe body nearly hidden in the long shoots.
Bounding over the occasional stream of glowing, molasses-like plasma, the young boy is mindful not to step too close to the lava. He moves nearer and nearer the volcano, lost in his own game until he recognizes the small copse of trees that he can usually find Dad hiding in, when Dahmer isn't poking at Ellyse's short fuse or venturing to the River. The young boy squeals loudly as he bolts towards the trees and over a small stream, tiny hooves planting heavily in the soft earth to block the path that Dad usually takes to come back out of the trees, as if preparing for a stand-off.
"Oh!" Smoak exclaims, suddenly face to face with a large black stallion who, most definitely, is not Dahmer. "I'm sorry, I thought my Dad might be in here. He usually is," the silver champagne boy offers by way of an explanation, his amber eyes looking up at the scarred stallion who seems to be... sizzling?
"Are, uh... are you okay, mister? You're on fire."
You're looking at an absolute zero; I'm not the devil but I won't be your hero.
His solitude is fleeting, stolen away by a gentle rustling of the thick and wavering tendrils of vegetation somewhere to his left – his gaze does not yet avert from the fading line of the hazy horizon yet; only a ear is cocked towards the sound. Less than a heartbeat later, the dense grain is parted by a spindly and gangly figure, youthful and wide-eyed and splayed out before him – and he can hardly conceal the amusement from tugging at the once stern stoicism of his hardened features. A smile has crept up, pulling at one corner of his dark mouth, while a deep and rumbling chuckle reverberates from the depth of his broad chest.
”No, I daresay that he is not. I have not seen him,” he utters, not needing a name – he knew him already as of the son of Dahmer and Ellyse (though he had never questioned it – an unexpected union, but nonetheless, he held his tongue, for it was not his place to ask). As the searing crimson his gaze traces the sharp line of sinew and bone upon his body, he quietly observes the speckling of bone armor covering various areas of his lithe and slender form, admiring how the bone-bending prowess of his mother had mutated into the genes of her son.
”I’m fine – Smoak, is it?” he murmurs, glancing away at last, observing the flame surfacing across his skin – he is alight with fire, literally and figuratively. ”As you are gifted with an armor of bone, I am gifted with fire.” He muses, momentarily lingering on the self-loathing and hatred he had felt for the festering flames mere months prior. Now, it felt as much a part of him as the marrow of his bone. ”My name is Offspring.”
OFFSPRING
another zealot with the weight of the fucking world.
Keep a little fire burning; however small, however hidden.
"He must be out in the Field, then," the young colt states matter-of-factly, bouncing back quickly from his embarrassment and turning his attention instead to the black stallion's smoldering skin. He had seen Mom's polar bear friend (though not as a polar bear - he's pretty sure Mom wouldn't be happy if he did, but it had been mentioned), but he hadn't come across anyone yet that looked like they were on fire. Cool. He nods his tiny head in affirmation of his name, tiny ears pressed forward with interest as he stares up at the large, dark Offspring.
"It's like you were born in the volcano," Smoak muses in amazement as he extends his thin neck towards the stallion to further inspect his frame before turning his hazel eyes but to him. "Offspring. My Mom told me about you," he offers up easily, with little regard for what should and shouldn't be shared, "She said that I have to always respect you and that you're a very important person to listen to."
Smoak cocks his head to the side, suddenly quite inquisitive. The armored colt lowers his voice slightly and allows his hazel eyes to scan their immediate surroundings before asking Offspring, in a hushed voice, "What do you do to people who don't respect you?"
You're looking at an absolute zero; I'm not the devil but I won't be your hero.
The factual way the young boy replies is enough to draw out a glimmer of amusement within the darkness of his scarlet gaze – while his usually thin-lipped, straight mouth is drawn into a faint smile, with a low and rumbling chuckle disrupting his usual stoic façade. He so often forgot the simplicity and innocence of youth – he, himself, had not been young in what must be nearing two hundred years – but the awe and veneration shining in the golden flecks of his eyes cannot be found anywhere else. In time, it would fade, and wisdom and knowledge would take its place – one day, Smoak would not be so easily fascinated, nor entertained by a towering figure with his burning, crimson eyes, or the way his skin blisters like the sun with each shifting movement.
In time, it would be a distant memory, of a different time – a different place, and he would see so much more that lay beyond the raucous sea surrounding the volcanic isle (both good and evil). His innocence would be lost – but for now, for the moment, Offspring is content to be within the presence of virtue – it is a reminder to him of how much he has come to know and see, and it stirs a yearning to see the world as he does, without the heavy scarring of experience and heartbreak to blind him.
He can hardly stifle his laughter when Smoak speaks of Ellyse – he and the Head of War rarely spoke; rarely had the necessity for it. He had trusted Magnus’ judgment, and she had fought for her post fairly long ago – he knew one day she would tire of it and leave, as he had once, but she seemed to be a force to be reckoned with. Unyielding, despite any fatigue she might feel as General. Alas, he doubted she would like for the Overseer to know of the warning she had given her son – but he would not be the one to tell.
Quietly, he lowers his heavy and broad skull, while his crimson gaze peers out toward the distant horizon, where vegetation sways to and fro with the gentle caress of the ocean breeze – a smirk settled upon his dark lips.
”What do you think I do to those who don’t respect me?”
OFFSPRING
another zealot with the weight of the fucking world.
Keep a little fire burning; however small, however hidden.
Despite his parents' best efforts to teach him subtle arts like secrecy and diplomacy, Smoak has yet to learn when it is best to speak and when it is best to keep his mouth closed - though, unquestionably, he hasn't given it his best effort. He's grown to enjoy the amused smirks and widened eyes whenever he speaks, and Offspring's reaction does not disappoint. The bone-armored colt smirks proudly at his own version of an accomplishment before his young face morphs into something more contemplative as the King of Tephra returns his question to him.
It takes the champagne colt a moment or two before he returns his mischievous hazel eyes to the scarred, fiery stallion. "I bet you feed them to the volcano," he says without question or concern, a small terse nod following the statement to reaffirm his thoughts. "You have to, right? Because of the magic in the volcano that protects Tephra? Svedka told me so."
There's a chance that his young blue-accented friend hadn't said it exactly like that during their game of Kingdom, but Smoak had no doubt that there was something powerful inside the volcano, otherwise it would not spew the molten magma that he had come to enjoy leaping over and following whenever he was in the mood to explore.
