"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
I tried to sell my soul last night. Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
Fuck!
It’s the first thought in his mind when his eyes snap open. The first word that spews from new lips when realization dawns. “Not fucking again,” he grumbles in a low pitched voice as he jerks upright. A voice he barely recognizes. A child’s voice.
Sure enough, as he glances down, back, it is not his body that greets him. Or rather, his body, but too fucking new! God damn, this was getting fucking ridiculous. He couldn’t believe it. Again. Bloody fucking again!
A low growl (or rather, a childish keening that should have been a growl) escapes his throat as he makes his first attempt to scramble to new feet. New feet that struggle to support his weight. A few more stumbling attempts and he has made it. A suddenly youthful body propped upon four spindly legs. The scruffy, dull black of his coat stands in stark contrast to the formerly pale hue, reminding him constantly of his state. Of his bloody fucking curse.
Every time, every damn time, a new body. Or rather, his body reverted to its once youthful state. It doesn’t feel like his, though he should damn well recognize it by now. Fresh and new, no scars or markings, nothing to tell of what had occurred during this last round.
He hates being a child. Hates it. So fucking useless.
With a sigh, he stumbles forward, heaving his young body into a tree, a solid trunk that easily supports his slight weight. With a scowl upon his dark lips (somehow entirely adorable rather than thoroughly menacing as it should be), he glances about the small clearing, attempting to discern his whereabouts. After a few moments of fruitless searching, memory slowly begins trickling back in.
The no man’s lands that I travelled through to get from my wooded home to the common lands are familiar. The woods are half evergreen and half everred, and when I reached the wide river I had known exactly where to ford. The forests of the Taiga had changed since I last travelled, and I’d given the odd thorny barrier a wide berth as I passed it this morning.
My pale legs are still damp as I make my way through the woods, craning my head up now and again to look at the spindly branches overhead. They are starting to lose their fiery colors. Each step I takes is fragrant and loud, and I expects the same would be true of anyone else making their way through the woods.
I am startled then, when my blue grey eyes catch a flicker of motion that is not accompanied by sound. It’s a child, one that looks to be a few months younger than I am. He does not look especially pleased with his current circumstances, and as I scent the clearing I can’t say I blame him. There’s no lactating mare anywhere nearby, nor has there been one in some time. Most foals are well-weaned this late into fall. Perhaps he’s not really a foal, I think, recalling my Mother’s story of the child-guardian of the Desert.
Eager, and hopeful that this small child might provide some excitement on a chilly autumn day, I approach with a smile.
“Hey. What’s your name?” I ask. There is nothing threatening in my posture, and I’ve kept a comfortable distance between us. I am far from intimidating anyway, a six month old filly that is still mostly legs and eyes. “I’m Starlin.”
I tried to sell my soul last night. Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
It takes him a little while to get his bearings in his rather useless, fragile state. First his body, flimsy and wobbly, not quite newborn but damn well close enough. Then the ground beneath his small feet, firm and thick with leaves of curling yellows and browns and reds. His brown gaze travels up, catching upon the rough bark of the trees surrounding him, the branches reaching overhead, brightly colored leaves still stubbornly clinging to the limbs being rapidly denuded by the chilly weather.
The crunch of leaves beneath feet, the flash of movement draw his attention to something nearing his location through the trees. Brown eyes focus as he attempts to discern what danger the approaching creature might present. Not that he can do much of anything about it in his current state. Bloody fucking hell.
As luck would have it however, the newcomer happens to be a child not much older than himself.
Well, shit. He never has been much good with children. Even if he is a fucking child himself. Just his goddamned luck.
A scowl tugs at his dark lips as his gaze follows her approach. She seems too damned happy for someone for someone almost as frail and useless as he is. He straightens from his position leaning against the tree, thinking perhaps he can cut this short before the damned little thing gets too attached. His luck, as shitty as it has been today, proves its continued worthlessness. His legs are too damned wobbly, barely able to support his weight yet, much less allow him to take off into the trees. His scowl deepens, his fierce(ly adorable) gaze darkening as it shifts back to the now chattering little filly.
What had she asked. Fuck.
His name, right. Well, what the hell. Not like he’s going anywhere.
“Ashhal,” he grunts noncommittally. He stares at her silently for a moment before adding, “If you’re looking for a friend, I’m a shitty option.”
Wait, probably shouldn’t be swearing around the kid. Impressionable little beasts they are. Nevermind that he is one himself at the moment.
