"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
Wound hadn’t realized creating a new life was so easy. She’d been taught that the world was a cruel place from the very beginning of her life, that it was only full of hatred and destruction. She’d kept her walls about her as she entered the field, and yet this woman had extended her hand before they had even exchanged names.
Their walk does not take long. Wound never was much of a talker in any situation, preferring to keep her thoughts to herself. She had that tendency, even in the presence of her siblings, to close herself off into a private corner of her mind. The words she might vocalize were often spoken depending on the situation, not so much as how she felt personally.
However, she keeps to herself as they walk. Her head is still raised high, sure that the fanged mare would twist around every so often and inspect her limping gait as she followed. The air grows several degrees warmer over the course of their trip, and soon Wound can see a looming mountain in the near distance. Her curiosity piques as they continue to near it.
“I never did get your name,” she says finally. Her coffee eyes find the golden woman’s face. “I’m Wound.” She figures she should probably know the name of her recruiter before she goes galavanting through the lands.
Femur knows firsthand the world is a cruel place, having been reared on the sorry destitute tit that was Pangea. Knowing that her father was the king there had not spared her from a rather lean upbringing. Only her mother had shown her any kindness and that was because Sinew loved her sons and daughters but she also raised them on handfuls of ancestral stories, stern looks, and a bevy of nips and kicks. Sinew taught them discipline and obedience to Pollock and herself, that family mattered, but life was cruel and no path in life could be walked easy or cheerfully. Femur was taught that one had to make their own way in life or let life beat them up and toss them around.
Wound did not look like the type to continue to let life beat her up. Hence, why Femur had been so quick to offer her a place to live and make a name for herself. Beneath the soft exterior and the bum leg, there was determination and enough sand in the mare’s craw for Femur to take an instant shine to her and that was rare for Femur to do in the first place. Wound had ignored the sour sad looks of those around her and let them fall off her thick skin like water on a duck’s back. She had answered Femur’s questions in a manner that pleased the ghost-girl enough to think she had a backbone despite first appearances. Remember, appearances can be deceiving and that was a lesson learned well at her mother’s flank.
Femur keeps the walk short and deliberate. Unlike her mate who indulged in a swim that produced sore muscles, she opts for them to cross the tidal flats once the tide has gone out. This little bit of thoughtfulness for Wound is not common to the ghost-girl but she takes it in stride, making no mention of how she timed their sojourn to Tephra at the right moment to coincide with the low tide. She also makes the trip in silence, seeming to sense that this newfound comrade doesn’t talk much and what is there to talk about? The tide being out? The tepid climate that is characteristic of Tephra in any season? Too banal, silence was the better option to mindless chatter.
She does look back now and then, to make sure that Wound still trails her. Femur does not set a fast pace nor does she slow to a crawl to ensure that the limping mare can follow her. That seems rather unwise to cater to what is obvious - the malformed leg but Femur sees no reason to bring further attention to it. Wound grew up somehow, survived this long, and well… life was cruel and Femur, showing small kindnesses as best as she can, is no less cruel or concise in her actions. The pace is set, the walk is done, the air is warmer and she is home. Odd to think this place is home but she catches snippets of her shiny blue mate’s scent on the air and that makes this place seem like home to her, because of him. He’ll be so proud of her for doing something productive, she thinks, the hint of a smile coming to her lips.
“Oh,” she comes to an abrupt halt. Names, like manners, seemed not to occur to her much. It had taken days for her mate to find her name out but that was because he’d named her and she preferred his name to her own, sometimes. Now she was finding out that she liked how her original name sounded in his mouth, dark, dirty, and desired. She shook her head momentarily, not quite apologetic but as close as Femur is like to get to it. “I’m Femur.”
Wound. Their names are similar but she does not think the silver bay is apt to be easily wounded, spiritually or mentally at least. She seems rather, durable. “Welcome to Tephra, Wound.” She notes the curiosity in the mare’s eyes. “Eager to explore?” it is a general question, Femur can show her around. There are so many delicious haunts here to poke one’s nose into.
11-21-2017, 04:06 PM (This post was last modified: 11-21-2017, 04:06 PM by wound.)
Wound can remember lusting after the perfect, dreamy homes some children got. She would picture the scene in her mind with a soft smile on her face. Although she loves her brothers — for their dedication, for their love, for their protection — they are not the soft embrace or the playful grins of a mother and father. Wound had once watched from the shadows as a pair of twins were chased around a glade by their laughing father. The mother gazed on with amused eyes, eventually joining in to tackle the father in a moment of childish behavior.
Wound remembers feeling their warmth of their love reaching her, even as she peeked from between underbrush.
After that, Wound longed for that very scenario. In her childish years, she wished to be one of the twins — racing gleefully away from her endearing father, knowing that at the end of the day she would be nestled against his strong chest. Eventually, those thoughts matured into wishing to be the mother — with twins of her own born from a deep love for the man who caught and threw them up with his strong arms. Wound was subject to a childhood of hiding in the shadows, of sleeping in a heap among her older brothers, of dreaming for a mother and father who cherished her.
She still doesn’t know who her father is. Although she remembers her mother (a faint, blurry outline of a silver face and a few gruff words called when it was time to eat or sleep or leave), neither of her brothers would mention their sire. Wound often fell asleep dreaming of strong arms wrapping around her and a low, masculine voice singing her to sleep.
The silver bay knows she won’t be sleeping quite so easily tonight. The sun is dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the unfamiliar landscape. Her eyes glance back at the fanged mare as she introduces herself. Femur. It seems to fit the mare’s personality well, from what Wound can tell.
The official introduction sends a half-smile to dance across her lips. Wound won’t deny there are tendrils of sour anxiety crawling through her stomach, making her acutely aware of what she had eaten last. But the more prominent emotion that blossoms in her chest is hope. “Thank you.” The territory seems so vastly impossible to explore, especially in one day. The shadows call to her now, to linger in their darkness and feel the coolness against her skin. Wound shakes her head to rid herself of those thoughts… She won’t spend her days in the shadows any longer.
“It is a beautiful island… Where do you prefer to spend your time?”
How odd. He’d dreamed of balmy days returning to these shores, green eyes focused on Tephra’s distant horizon while the speck of her gold-patched form waited for him; dreamed of returning to her, to home, and yet - here he is, watching the glide of her neverending legs as they pass one another to lead a stranger into their home.
Longclaw can’t seem to find it within himself to be disappointed by these turn of events. He switches skins, only because the longing to be near her outweighs his dislike of being wolf, and slips between the fingers of shadowy foliage to intersect the two mares on their way in. He never worries for Femur (never worries about her, either) because there’s never anything to worry about, but this lagging character she’s brought along with her is an object of pointed curiosity for him.
Claw surmises that his interjection could fall under the category of “Guard Duty”, so he winds craftily along with a sharp nose to guide him until the clatter of their walking seems nearby. For his own sake, he trades bodies. The soft glint of his blue fur and the matching fangs that glide over his lower lip suit him; Longclaw feels like himself as he brushes past the cluttered branches and slinks out onto the worn trail. His vivid gaze flashes in the near-dark, a reflective shimmer giving him a wild look as the lowering sun flashes over his face.
“Making new friends?” He calls out, the hard line of his mouth pulling itself into a sly smile. If it were anyone but his Femur, his Ghost-Girl, he would never move forward like he does now to close the distance between them. He assumes, anyways, that she won’t leave him to walk the entire way himself. “I wasn’t aware I was so boring.” The lean stallion teases, diverting all of his attention to focus solely on the cherished planes of her familiar face.
And then his eyes are jerking up, peering back, to where the second mare follows. “So, should I blame you for keeping her away too long?”
12-07-2017, 09:54 AM (This post was last modified: 12-07-2017, 09:55 AM by Femur.)
I love the way you rake my skin, I feel the hate you place inside.
Femur did not share Wound’s lusts or dreams for things like twins and grins and family.
She had a pair of twin brothers, one of which tormented her to no end though as she grew up, she realized it was his own odd way of showing his adoration for her. The other had suffered her tears on his cracking diseased skin and looked on her with a fond but sad gaze. Her mother had loved her unquestioningly as her mother had loved all her foals and her father? She had never seen a look in his eyes that was anything but contempt or the desire to suck the fear right out of her but her mother prevented him from doing that, promising that all his children from their unions were meant to be more.
Here she was, not the more that she had been promised and told she would be but just her - Femur.
She looks on the silver bay, unable to read much of the emotions that play out beneath the mare’s skin. Anxiety and hope, neither of which are things that Femur has ever bothered to analyze or feel. “You’re welcome,” she offers as Wound shakes her head and dispels whatever thoughts seemed to have lodged behind her eyes. There is a statement then a question, the latter of which catches her off guard momentarily and makes Femur think. She hasn’t spent much time in exploration of Tephra. Truth be told, she haunts her beloved’s corner of it and crosses the land to get to the shore to get to the other side (such a convoluted explanation!) but she has never once just meandered about and learned the land she lived in.
“Well…” she is unable to finish, trailing off into a dizzying stupor of love that crowds her heart and pushes all the breath from her lungs in a happy snort as who but her beloved is coughed up by the gloaming and the trail before them. His sly smile gets an answering smile full of the same slyness from her; Femur had known he’d notice that she had come and gone, not that she had ever attempted to keep it a secret from him nor did she think he’d expected her to laze the hours away on some shore pining for him when she could do just a little more to make herself seem useful to him and their home. She gives a girlish apologetic look to Wound as she goes to meet him, offering her fanged muzzle to him before planting a quick kiss to his blue cheek. Femur did not mind if someone saw the affection she gave him; he had her heart and all of her, and the adoration in her black gaze was hard to miss as her look became more appraising and wanting.
“Oh well you know…” she trails off, teasing him as much as he teases her though she cherishes it - this easy banter between them that she knows will lead to more, like her brain exploding into bits and pieces of gray matter and stardust whenever that wicked mouth of his is on her skin. But for now, she throws a look back at Wound so the silver bay does not feel excluded as the two lovers meet up on that darkening path, their mouths fanged and sly with taunts and love. “I need a friend now and then to talk to. You know, about things you wouldn’t know.” She laughs now, more carefree than Femur often is but he makes her that way, carefree and careless both which is a conundrum but that’s how she is around him - confused and enlightened all at the same time.
He seems to notice Wound again, to turn his teasing to her because she knows he won’t be unkind or he’ll face Femur’s fury (because she could never stay mad at him, ever - has never been mad at him, lacks that ability it seems), small as it would be. She turns herself into him, aligning her golden shoulder with his blue one so that they rub together with every shift of their feet and looks at Wound, inviting her closer with a smile. “I promise he doesn’t bite, hard…” and she lapses into a fit of giggles, forgetting to play the proper host and introduce them to each other.
Femur
@[wound] @[Longclaw] he makes her silly lmfao and sorry it took me so long to reply!
Quite frankly, Wound is surprised to find her new friend has the love she desires. His blue form appears from the shade of the thick foliage, handsome and suave. At first there is the thrill of curiosity (her eyes dance along the edges of his muscles, the flash of wilderness in his eyes, and the bantering smile that tugs on his lips) and then the sharp tang of disappointment.
Femur moves to greet the stallion, her lips pressing a kiss to his cerulean cheek. Wound feels the hot wind of shame twine through her body. She covets them with their delicious admiration for each other — the way they sneak sly looks, the way they curl close to each other, the way his firm muscle comforts her soft curve — and Wound hates herself for those thoughts.
She tries to pay attention to their words, as they banter with each other and then with her, but Wound’s head is a patch of quicksand drowning her in shame and innocent lust. Ombre locks shift against her neck as a rare swath of a breeze meanders its way along the trail. The sensation draws her away from her foggy thoughts.
“Oh!” She limps forward with her exclamation, embarrassment burning through her like a hot fire. The walk seems unbearably long (with the pair of them watching her with their happy, lovey eyes as she lurches along) although it is merely a short distance. Wound is struck by how handsome the man is closer up and her heart flutters despite her shame and guilt and embarrassment.
For the second time she introduces herself, although more meekly than the first. “I’m Wound.”
@[Femur] @[Longclaw] This is hecking short, I apologize.... Wound's starstruck LOLL
12-21-2017, 06:19 PM (This post was last modified: 12-21-2017, 06:19 PM by Longclaw.)
LONGCLAW
-I close my eyes, ignore the smoke-
He can’t fathom any other creature in the same sphere as his adored ghost-girl, but for her sake he tries hard to pay attentions to her new companion. The lilting tune of Femur's airy laugh tickles his ears and he bats them aside to try and flick away the coiling lust but, damn her, it settles like a quiet fog over his mind and his thoughts begin to drift elsewhere even as Femur explains her newfound friend. He doesn’t begrudge his golden wraith her little jab about things he can’t fathom (the cheekiness is thinly veiled foreplay, she bats him around with those sultry lashes and those sharp teeth of hers) because he knows that between the two of them, there are plenty of heavy secrets and memories to bring a thousand blushes to ones cheeks.
“But would she care to share them with this new oddity?” He thinks devilishly, the deep-set glimmer of his entrancing eyes rolling over every curve and angle of Wound’s conflicted face. He sees longing first, mostly because it’s something he preys on; then chagrin. “Something of an open book, hmm?” He ponders as Femur drifts to stand beside him.
When she’s near, there need not be fear of the curse taking hold. Wound is safe … for now.
“Wound, the pleasure is mine.” He grins, leaning into the embrace his little phantom offers. “Call me Longclaw. I guard these shores and consequently, I guard you too.” He chuckles deeply.
He can’t help it. His lips turn to playing with Femur’s pale tuft of a forelock and once there, they plant warm kisses against the soft curve of her brow. Again he pulls away, insistent that he should do his best not to make the newcomer feel unwelcome (one can try, anyways) and he chooses to offer her direction, should she want it in the future. “If at any time you need anything, feel free to find myself or Overseer Warrick. In fact - I have little doubt that he’d love to meet a new Tephran. We all stick together here.”
Why? Femur has never been shy about expressing her blatant love and desire for her mate. In fact, if she was astute enough, she’d hazard a guess that Wound coveted those very things for herself and the ghost-girl could not blame her - not at all! Femur never thought she’d have love in her life like this but Longclaw had changed all of that. Her blue mate had a way about him that manifest destiny as much as anything else and perhaps, part of Femur was eager to offer up a tiny piece of that to her friend. To invite her in for a taste because Femur could share, sometimes.
Wound is definitely more meek than Femur thought she’d be. But figures that will hold some appeal for her mate all the same. Can see how he already turns those mesmerizing but assessing eyes upon the little mare and slides that hot emerald gaze over that silver bay flesh. It stirs a strange sort of hunger in her to see him do this so blatantly in front of her. She can think of little more than circling around Wound, stroking the skin here and there just to tease her mate because it’s not him she’d be stroking just then.
(In a calculated way, it would be. Femur knows how to fan the flames of his desire.)
But she has leaned into him. Takes the lipping of her forelock with good measure as kisses follow, planted all over her brow. She takes this time to trail little nips across his chest before skittering away to Wound’s side. “Don’t be shy,” she encourages her friend as she raises her lips to one of the mare’s ears. “He doesn’t bite too hard.” Femur laughs then, sliding her shoulder against Wound’s barrel and planting a tender little nip against the silvery bay flank. She makes an attempt to shoulder her friend closer to her mate, curious to see what both of their reactions will be.
Femur has never bothered to set Claw up with someone. He seems more than capable of attracting bees to his own honeypot but it is important to Femur that her beloved and her friend have more than a passing fancy for one another. Hell, Femur might even be a bit bi-curious as it is!
@[wound] @[Longclaw] equally short and way overdue! should we find a way to bring this current somehow?
![[Image: sScEgld.png]](http://i.imgur.com/sScEgld.png)
