• Logout
  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    amet, anyone;
    #1
    Sylva has fallen.
     
    There had been a crashing of trees, a call ringing toward the residents, and a flurry of action that he never anticipated. Everything passed by in a whirling typhoon, all while Castile stood, dumbfounded and confused. Where was Ivar? Djinni? Amet? They had congregated briefly when he ignorantly pursued his friend into the cusp of a new land. He thought nothing of it then, but everyone dissipated. Their bodies melted into the shadows and so he wandered because there was nothing more he could do.
     
    But then he heard unfamiliar voices when Djinni’s faded into silence. It was a new band of horses taking control of the vacated forest. Castile almost - almost - investigated, but his stomach churned at the idea. His hooded eyes glimpsed the porcelain male before abandoning his post and venturing to the one place he recognized.
     
    Unfortunately, Castile isn’t aware of what has elapsed during his aimless ventures. When he arrives to Hyaline it’s with the same energetic step that he used in finding his friends. A smile almost finds its way across his velvety lips, but then he looks at what remains from the fire. There has been plenty of growth, yes, but there are remnants of where death laid waste. A chill cartwheels down the length of his spine as he takes pause for the memories to flash across the back of his eyelids when he slowly blinks. A breath catches in his throat. It had been catastrophic, but the kingdom is on the mend. It’s what any place could do: survive.
     
    Castile’s footsteps are mere whispers through the grass as he approaches the lake, drawn to its glistening surface just as he has always been. With his wings nestled against his sides, he peers into the water and observes the young stallion staring back at him. He is no longer a little colt.


    #2

    Ciri

    The other kingdoms are only foreign names to her. If she is told of a kingdom, there is no recognition that lights up her face. No scenery to recall or faces to remember. She hears rumors in her travels of whats going on when it comes to politics but she has never cared to listen before. It has never affected her, never mattered or been important. How could it to a vagabond like herself? Her only news came from the songs of birds, from the small groups she found on the sides of roads that warned her of whatever trouble lay before or behind her. Then again, that was before the Underneath.

    Now she was residing in Hyaline. Debating on leaving but her heart seems to tear every time she thinks of it. Of the kindness she’s been shown here. Of Amet. But she had never been meant for a quiet life. The stars had made her for other things, to be resilient in the face of oppression or trauma. To be a light in the darkness, she who was made of time and space.

    The white puckered scars are all that remains physically of the ordeal from below. There’s still a stain mentally but only time can heal such things. The long wide claw marks that ravaged her shoulder. The smaller ones that decorate her dark hide like the stars scattered in the night sky. Swilring silver iris’s watch over the peaceful lakeside with a swollen heart. Swelling with love and grief alike.

    How could she leave this place? How could she stay?

    A young stallion, maybe a year or so younger than herself, appears on the horizon. His frame is sturdy, wings are settled neatly on his backside. Lately Hyaline had been blossoming with activity. She liked to think she was the first of many, noticing how quiet it had been when she had been healing by the lake. With her strength finally back to capacity, she stretches her muscles by extending her gait to a rollicking canter. Black limbs striding down the hill as raven tendrils whip about her face and neck, her smokey tail trailed out like a banner behind her.

    It’s his eye that makes him slow, catch her breath as he gazes at his reflection in the still waters. The eye of silver, like her own. They do not swirl as her’s do though and the other iris is a fiery orange, reminding her of autumn leaves in the fall. A smile easily finds it’s way to her lips as she walks closer to him. ”Welcome to Hyaline. I’m Ciri.” A pause, unsure of the exact procedure on greeting visitors. ”Are you looking for someone in particular?”

    all of time and space, everywhere and anywhere, every star that ever was



    @[Castile]
    #3
    How does she do that? How does she carry herself so delicately across the foothills, her locks playing with the wind like ribbons? How does she embody beauty so effortlessly?

    The thrum of her stride awakens him from the lull of his thoughts. That’s when he looks over his shoulder to see her close the space between them. For a fleeting moment, she wonders where she came from, but the answer is moot. She is here now, drawing to a steady halt with her silver eyes tracing along him in a warm, welcoming manner. The light of her smile spreads across him, warming him far deeper than anything else has. It could very well be that the only woman – girl – he has really spoken to is mother. Isobel, his darling sister, spends most days wandering Nerine and he would watch her from the sky or from a distant sand dune. She is beautiful, too, but there is a difference when it’s familial.

    A breath catches in his throat, mirroring how the soft gale hesitates. The lake ripples with a brief finality when she stops close to him. Everything seems to freeze.

    Welcome, she says, and he stifles a low chuckle. Has he been gone so long that he is a mere stranger again to Hyaline? His name has long since been forgotten on their tongues, in their minds. He was here when the land burned to ashes and he fled to retrieve Djinni, but he was lost after that. Ivar brought him back to Sylva, and that was all he remembered. How many weeks – months? – have passed? He’s afraid to ask. ”I’m Castile,” he resigns to say, suppressing the need to elaborate his life’s tale, ”and no, I’m not looking for anyone in particular.” In reality, he wasn’t. He doesn’t exactly know what to expect or who to see or what has changed. The brief clench of his jaw betrays his uncertainty. ”Is Amet still leading Hyaline?” The question slips from his lips before he can reign it in, trying to grasp one of the few things he can remember.

    #4
    if there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes

    His expression is taut, his mind's silent strife working him through the potential of Ciri leaving Hyaline. Amet isn't prepared for her to go, nor does he want her to leave him in the slightest, but the Dragon King cannot force her to remain within the sanctum of his home; it's not in his nature, it would defeat the purpose of Hyaline altogether if he tried to force her. And so he mulls in silence - he had distracted himself with a conversation with Sakir briefly, but nevertheless his thoughts return to the starry-eyed girl who'd washed up on the lake shore.

    A breathy sigh falls from his lips as he sees her, fleetingly, through the flowering boughs of his wisteria and red maple. She's on a mission, it would seem, and Amet spies an opportunity to play the part of the diplomat but also spend more time with the scarred mare. His lips twitch ever so slightly into a smile as he turns his gilded frame and weaves between the trees, pursuing Ciri at a comfortable pace. They move ever closer to the lake, the noontime sun speckling them with its rays as they move beneath the trees. He's uncertain if the mare knows that he follows, though he doesn't call to catch her attention, instead opting to have her greet the visitor before he arrives.

    When he breaks through the vibrant treeline and trots down the embankment towards the lake, his gold-flecked eyes catch sight of an old friend standing beside his akmar. A smile finds Amet's lips, the quandary of Ciri's residence thrust to the back of his mind so that she cannot see the worry that hands in the depths of his eyes, as he comes to a halt beside her, his muzzle resting briefly on her neck, and then cheek, and smiles merrily at the son of Nayl.

    "Castile! It's been far too long," he offers to the dragon-winged stallion as he tosses his forelock from his bright amber eyes. "How have you been, my friend?" Amet inquires curiously of the tobiano, who he hadn't seen since Ivar had stolen him back to Sylva. The leather-plated King turns his warm gaze to Ciri, searching her eyes for any inclination of her feelings towards him, before offering: "Castile was here the night of the attack. Hyaline would have been much more damaged, were it not for his help."
    Amet


    @[Ciri] @[Castile]
    #5

    Ciri

    There is something in the way he turns his head to her that makes the words catch in her throat. It’s the look he casts once his mismatched eyes fall on her, almost as if he approves of what he sees. Something raw. Something she’s not use to. For a second she forgets that she’s covered in a million scars, that she wears a ravaged dark coat. He knows not her story, he doesn’t see her flaws.

    That’s what it feels like for those few frozen seconds.

    And then he chuckles and the spell is broken. Her smile is still warm but uncertain. Had she said something funny? Done something silly? Since her time below, she had lost some of her stoicism. That hard nerve that had steeled her very core. The Underneath had shaken her and she was still scrambling for steady ground.

    Castile. Before she can feel the full weight of the name on her tongue, he asks about Amet. As if his ears had been burning, the dragon arrives. She hadn’t heard him behind her, hadn’t realized he had been watching. He moves to her side, his touch holding something that she hadn’t felt before. The way it travels to her cheek, a hardness to it. A possessiveness. It sends a shiver through her spine, stirring something primal within her. Her swirling gaze glances at him, curious. Could Amet possibly be… Jealous?

    She’s unsure as he greets Castile warmly as usual, apparently another long lost friend returning to the fold. The bronzed stallion makes sure to include her, which she is thankful for so she doesn’t look a fool, and her easy smile returns as she comes to focus back on their visitor. ”Then we are all indebted to you.” The warmth back in her voice, as she looks between the two handsome stallions. ”Have you come back to stay Castile?”

    all of time and space, everywhere and anywhere, every star that ever was



    @[Castile] @[Amet]
    #6
    No, he did not see the scars that riddled her skin, or the dark tales that swirl in the cloudiness of her silver eyes. What Castile saw was beauty, and it captured him during the span of time it took for Ciri to reach him. A glance to the left, away from her, was forced as to not deter her. He stares at the lake, but her looming footsteps were far more interesting. Her scent – sweetened by the flower buds of spring – clings desperately to the pink lining of his nostrils. It stirs everything inside him, but he doesn’t yet move, letting her finish the approach with a curious eagerness in her step.

    It’s with his name that he turned to face her with a crooked, boyish grin on his face. He wants to say that it is a pleasure to meet her, to simply know her name, but the words catch his throat and recede far from his lips. Say something, he tells himself, but instead the two of them are locked in a brief silence that is broken only when someone else joins them.

    Amet’s voice is familiar, but Castile can’t yet break his gaze with Ciri, not until the king’s muzzle presses to her neck. He blinks then, slowly, thoughtfully, but his expression doesn’t falter. Nothing betrays the lurch inside him at seeing the gentle possessiveness portrayed. Castile still grins even as his head finally turns to look at the gilded boy – young man? – and nods. ”I’ve been well, and yourself?” In reality, he has been lost in a void for an amount of time he knows not. Enough months have passed that Amet – and Castile – are no longer gangly colts. They are growing into themselves, maturing. A breath or two is long enough for him to overlook the king and remember the scales that covered his skin, like Ivar, like Castile when his emotions reach beyond his control. Scaled friends. How funny it is, however, that Amet is a dragon king with that singular trait while Castile is truly a dragon (though he hasn’t yet unlocked his control of the shapeshift).

    The first time Castile realized what he was had coincidentally been the night that he now mentions to Ciri. Memories flash across the back of his eyelids when he blinks, remembering how horrific it had all been. The fire groped for him and yet he did not burn. He fled to Sylva for help and upon arrival, a greater part of him has shifted into a monster. Djinni’s eyes locked onto him curiously, but they returned to Hyaline swiftly and with minimal conversation. He realized only when he glanced down to see talons instead of hooves, scales instead of hair.

    But they never saw him like that here. They see him as he is now – large, yes, but a horse nonetheless, with lightly-feathered limbs and the leathery wings of his alternate persona.

    He is almost sheepish in the way he reacts to the recognition, his eyes cast down to the grass as he paws at it idly. They thank him and they praise him, but he still has the sinking feeling of failure weighing him down, drowning him. ”Was everyone okay? Has Tangerine healed?” He remembers her, albeit hardly, and how she had been injured during the ordeal. Amet fled to her, cradled her and adored her just as he almost does now with Ciri. ”Djinni and Nayl did the most. They were quick to arrive and try to mend the damage. I was just the messenger boy.” Another deviation from personal praise, slipping from their gratefulness like a snake in the grass despite quietly enjoying how it slips from Ciri’s tongue. She asks him then if he will stay. There had been a moment that he considered it, but he knows Hyaline to be a land of children. That’s what Amet promised once before. That’s what Castile remembers. And to replay the possessive touch between them is to sprinkle salt into a wound he didn’t realize he even had. Had he crossed a line by mistake? Had he engaged a woman he should not have? A breath is drawn into his lungs for the sake of his memories before rolling his shoulders almost in a shrug. ”I think I’m just visiting,” he doesn’t add that he’s homeless, that the field is his subsequent destination. He just lets the statement marinade with their own opinions and ideas, never bothering to elaborate.
    #7
    if there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes

    There is a brief moment after his gentle brush against Ciri's cheek that Amet realizes the action had been marginally out of character for himself, a thought that is reaffirmed by the curious glance that the smoky black mare bestows upon him. He quirks the side of his mouth up to smirk at her before his golden eyes turn back to Castile with a newfound lightness in his chest. She hadn't rebuffed his touch - that's all that matters.

    "I can't complain," he offers cordially in return to the leather-winged stallion (stallion feels so odd when the last time they had seen each other, they'd both been gangly-legged and awkward) before their conversation turns to the Lost Boys' attack. A heavy feeling settles in Amet's stomach at the memory of it all but his smile remains as he nods that yes, everyone had been okay. "Yes, Tangerine healed. She spends much of her time in Tephra now, with Warrick and their children." He can't recall whether or not Castile had ever bonded with the painted seer, but he appreciates the kindness behind the tobiano's inquiry nonetheless. He chuckles as Castile distances himself from their praise, as if he hadn't had as much part in saving the territory as Nayl and Djinni, though doesn't press the issue. "I wish you could have remained here longer, after it all happened. Though I'm sure you enjoyed Sylva with Ivar."

    His ear flicks to the side as Ciri inquires of Castile's intentions. Amet keeps his golden eyes on the other stallion, curious of his answer and (mostly) hopeful that he will agree to stay. When the tobiano answers flatly, the gilded King furrows his brow briefly in confusion but can't help the small inkling of relief that blossoms in his chest. There's a grace about Castile that Amet has yet to master, one that he could see others flocking to when Amet's awkwardness gets the best of him. Despite the mixture of emotions, the dragon-scaled stallion snorts quietly and smiles at Castile. "You're more than welcome to stay, Castile, if you'd like. We could use more adults to train the children," he offers warmly, "but please don't feel obligated, if you had intended to go elsewhere."
    Amet


    @[Ciri] @[Castile]
    #8

    Ciri

    It was a strange feeling that flutters deep within her. Not unlike that which Amet seems to stir but lacking familiarity. It makes the surge of butterflies all more exotic and exciting. This stranger, Castile, with his boyish charm and rugged good looks. Tugging at something deep within her that she had not expected or even known existed. They are both so different, her gilded Dragon-King and the leather bound visitor. So different and yet hold similarities of masculine attractiveness. Amet was handsome in his kindness, in his scales, in his contentment of his land and himself. And Castile….

    It had only been a few silent moments. But there had been something in that look that had made her think twice. Was it common for the stars to be drawn to dragons? Perhaps it had something to do with the interlocked passion of sky and beast. All she knows now is that she feels slightly confused by the boiling mix of feelings in her breast. There is no lack of doubt for the way her King (for he is the only one worthy of such a title in her eyes) makes her breath catch when he touches her so. This new assured way he reaches for her, she covets it although her expression never wavers. Only a curious expression exchanged but his mischievous smirk only sends the warmth to grow within her. There is still so much uncharted territory between them, would it ever truly be explored?

    Although Castile continues to show her the same courtesy as before, there is a shift in the air. A thoughtful reflection in his eyes when he looks to her. It makes her own heart drop slightly though she’s not sure exactly why. It’s what keeps her from reaching to Amet although she does not pull from his touch. Not realizing she may be a Guinevere now stuck between her Kingly Arthur and devoted Lancelot.

    Castile is chaste when praise is fanned his way and she finds his humbleness appealing. Doing what needed to be done, not expecting anything in return. She can respect that.  They speak of Tang and it leaves a sour taste on her tongue. It seems she had been the damsel in distress long before she had washed up on Hyaline’s shores. For a moment, she wonders if Castile also found Tang as enchanting as Amet does. The moment is fleeting, However,  for when he states he is only visiting it causes her features to lightly trace into disappointment. One she doesn’t bother to hide. And when Amet encourages him to stay, she sees no reason to object. ”You must stay for awhile. Old friends that haven’t seen each other for so long can’t catch up in only a few days.” She grins slowly, the metallic swirling strands glinting as she looks to them both. ”Besides… I insist.”

    all of time and space, everywhere and anywhere, every star that ever was

    #9
    Castile nods his head slowly as the sour taste in his mouth begins to subside with the conclusion of his memories of Hyaline’s burning. The flash of face illuminated by the fire are forever tattooed in his mind, but he cannot hold a grudge for long, not like mother. What good can come of being angry for his former home being laid waste upon? Amet has seemingly moved past it, water under the bridge. It’s in the lightness that his voice still carries even as he reflects back on Tangerine. Castile knew only a name and nothing more, but he notices the double-edged smile creeping along Ciri’s lips at the mention of another woman. ”I’m happy to hear that,” he says, ”she seemed nice although I was never really able to know her well.” They merely lived here together, a loose bond that strung them together but was cut immediately when Castile left for Sylva. Now, she is a mere figment of his memory.

    But he does remember Djinni’s home, its name resounding as Amet brings it to their conversation. Castile nonchalantly shrugs. ”Way too many trees for my liking,” a half-hearted grin softens the edges of his face, ”they got in the way of flight.” The dragon-like appendages extend in that moment, stretching idly and away from Amet and Ciri. He shakes as well, a cloud of dust materializing around him before the wind carries it away.

    And then he looks at Ciri again, unable to continue diverting and focusing on the gilded stallion. Disappointment furrows her brow in the subtlest of ways, but something in Castile grasps onto her reaction and finds pleasure in it. His forelock isn’t long enough to hide the reactive softening of his gaze. Her insistence makes him consider the offer more than Amet’s. ”I, uh,” he begins but hesitates as he finally breaks eye contact with her to glance between both of them, mulling over the prospect of it. It’s tempting to come back, to stay among others he already knows, and to further learn about Ciri, but something draws him away. To hide the disappointment in himself Castile lightly chuckles. ”Perhaps, when I have experience to share, I would be of more use to the youngsters.” Because as of yet, his only time spent fighting was those brief hours in the gladiator pen mother had forged. That wasn’t enough teaching for him. He needs more.

    ”Hell,” he continues in a light jest, ”I haven’t even mastered my complete shifting.” It’s more embarrassing to admit with Ciri’s eyes on him, but it provides an excuse for him not to stay. At times, Castile wonders if he will always be a nomad. He has never had a home for long, after all. ”I don’t think I ever told you that I can shift,” and he blinks slowly now and wonders if this admission would shake Amet’s title, ”into a dragon.” It’s a project of his to learn, to finesse. ”I also caught wind of my sister at the river. I will have to visit her soon. I’ve missed her.”

    But despite mentioning Isobell, his eyes can't help but drift to Ciri in hopes that in the cloak of darkness, they would meet there.

    #10
    if there's a light at the end, it's just the sun in your eyes

    Ciri's tone changes so very little but the gilded stallion has grown to know her quite well. His ears twitch at the change and he finds that he can't keep his amber eyes from sliding towards her, to watch the way her brow furrows at Castile's response. Heat rises objectionably in his narrow chest and his smile loses its efficacy but he still attempts to push it down, down, down. He is not her keeper, nor her father, and she can make company with whoever she wants, but the thought of Ciri meeting elsewhere with Castile leaves him feeling dejected and inferior.

    He has tuned out the other stallion's responses in light of Ciri's disappointment, but what he does not fail to see is the way Castile's own expression has changed and softened, welcoming the way his starry-eyed girl insists on his remaining within Hyaline. Amet's own amber eyes have grown hard and his lips twitch downward briefly, but he is mostly able to retain his politely diplomatic expression as the son of Nayl admits to his powers of shifting. The young King had seen Castile shift in the darkness that horrifying night, had seen the sweep of dark scales where his black coat had been and the talons that gleamed overhead, reflecting the glow of the burning trees - but, alas, it had been too dark to see the whole transformation. Amet had always suspected, though, and it tucks the information away.

    "Perhaps in the future, then, you can teach the children something worthwhile," he offers with a small smile before tilting his head to the side at the mention of Castile's sister. "Isobell, yes?" he inquires as the other stallion's gaze drifts to Ciri once again. Amet keeps himself from bristling, instead turning his golden frame in the direction of the river. "I'd love to accompany you. You and I can catch up. And I haven't seen Isobell since she was a newborn."
    Amet


    @[Ciri]
    @[Castile]




    Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)