"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
Night swallows him wholly beneath the volcano’s rumbling mass. Darkness shrouds each corner and hollow crook of rock and shrub, melting into the crevices. The only light is that of the volcano’s plume, glowing angry and red against the black abyss that yawns before the stallion; not even a sliver of the moon casts its silver light below. Haunting glows of red and oranges dance against his auburn flesh, alighting the cobalt of his wings with the appearance of flames. He stands at the shoreline, the sand blackened as the night that stretches out above it, staring into the churning sea.
Here, at the breast of the volcano’s heart, the heat is fierce and unforgiving. The temperatures at the volcano’s core are so high that even the cold rock beside Warrick is radiating and would perhaps even singe his flesh if he lingers against it for a moment too long. The heat soothes him somehow, despite its intensity and fervor. The winged stallion shuffles his wings with a gentle flex of the lithe bones, their indigo color fluttering as he brings them in to settle at his russet sides.
The stillness of night brings Warrick his thoughts, laying them out one by one before him as he attempts to sort through them. He had taken up the crown swiftly and dutifully, and without much hesitation, he is thrown deep into the throes of his kingdom - now responsible for each event that happens beneath the volcano’s watchful stare. He thinks of Karaugh, a captive only a short flight around the other side of the volcano, and of Kolera and her insistence to see her mother, despite Warrick’s careful warnings. His mind even flutters to Reagan, to Offspring. The stallion snorts sharply; he is a gentle-spirit, and he values the relationships he has carved from the very magma of Tephra, but he cannot help but feel as though he is already viewed only as a generous soul with kind eyes - eager to please.
He is slow to anger, but he is beginning to feel the annoyance rifle to the surface.
The familiar face of Longclaw enters his mind and for moment he does not fester; and as if on cue, the iridescent blue of the stallion comes into view, a stark color against the blackness of night. Without hesitation and welcoming the distraction (and realizing very quickly there is much for him to say to the fire-wielding beast), he begins to move towards him at a slow canter, coming to stand before him on the same stretch of beach that they had first met.
“Longclaw,” he says with a dip of his head in greeting, drawing up before him shortly as his hooves dig into the damp, compacted sand. “There is no moon tonight - have you found any hiding within the dark?” A tiny smile curls onto the cobalt of his lips, half-joking, but truly wondering if more strangers have tried to cross their borders.
The idea that perhaps they are both overlooked is something Longclaw can stiffly relate to. Horses with power in this land are all too eager to flash it about, remind the rest where they stand, but they forget themselves. They forget the soil of the earth that created them, the destruction their greed caused for every living soul. They forget that without their magic or their pretty gifts to hide behind they would be nothing - some already are, though they choose to think otherwise.
Perhaps this is why his affinity for the navy-tinged stallion grows steadily with each passing day. Warrick hasn’t forgotten himself in the thicket of this prideful world, he seeks only what he knows is best and strives for the ideal of a home. Longclaw can get behind that; he can certainly get behind a leader he’s seen more than once. Oh, the warg is all too familiar with being a passing inhabitant (though his title claims otherwise) but he’s grown content to let the higher-ups ignore him.
They only underestimate what he’s capable of.
This is why his approach towards the lounging King is met with surprise, especially when Warrick casts his personal needs aside to meet Claw halfway down the beach. His name is met with a toothy smile, answered by using one word, “Overseer,” that he finds extremely appropriate in the moment and then (with a brevity that only heightens his growing respect for the new King) they move onto other matters.
“You would think there’d be plenty of brave souls, given the weather.” He agrees, “But Tephra seems to maintain a reputation that’s better than any invisible boundary.”
So, no. (Though he wonders if his shifting lioness counts - but she was no stranger, just unsure about a new power. Diorae had never left, not really; just changed.) Femur was well and accounted for, along with their growing nest of children, and Zephyr …. Well, he wonders why his mind drifts to her last of all but she’s there, nonetheless. “It never hurts to have an extra set of eyes, though.” He muses aloud, “Shall we?” slipping free as he motions for a walk along the nearly black shoreline.
He never seems to do well standing in one place. It’s the fire inside of him - always hungry, shifting, seeking out new fodder to burn - and he can no more fight it than he can breathe. “You have something on your mind?” He guesses; it seems only right given that Warrick had approached him.
If the stallions had stopped long enough to think about their differences, perhaps they would find that the two should not be compatible - Longclaw has a certain intensity that seeps through the very marrow of his bones, fabricated deep into the sinew of his muscles and tissue. The iridescent blue stallion brings a ferocity (that is extremely well placed, which is why Warrick admires him to begin with) that rivals no other. It is a trait found lacking within Warrick’s soul, but he is beginning to feel the tight grip from the pressure of the crown, and is not afraid of what this new title might bring forth from the depths of his mind - a tickle of anger swelling with the need for respect.
Longclaw greets him warmly, flashing Warrick a familiar toothy smile. He often forgets the power wielded beneath the stallion’s outer facade, and the bay is glad to know that the white-flamed warg is on his side - or, more appropriately, Tephra’s.
“Let us make sure that reputation is to be upholded,” the winged stallion responds sternly, falling into step easily beside the shifter. Despite the largeness of his wings, Warrick moves effortlessly next to Longclaw as they begin to walk down the blackened beach. It must be obvious as the silence grows that Warrick has dove back into the sea of his thoughts, for Longclaw’s voice prys into the depths of his pensivity. It may be common knowledge to his night-strewn companion, but the news of Ellyse and Dahmer’s move to Sylva still resonates violently in his chest, leaving him feeling vulnerable and on edge.
“I have lost my general, my commander, and my ambassador. Word of this will fly quickly through Beqanna, and I am not one to sit and hope that no one will attempt to take advantage of Tephra’s shift in rulers and powers.” His voice is low and grave, ever realistic as he quickly summarizes Tephra’s current political state: weak.
“Lead my guard, train my soldiers - prepare them for darker days; to expect the worst, and to hope for the best. I do not doubt your abilities nor your mind - will you accept, Longclaw?”
They are still walking, their hooves quietly sifting through the dampened sand with each stride, the smell of salt and smoke stirring as the wind picks up, howling hauntingly through the night.
Warrick
@[Longclaw] <3
Claw can choose to be 'general' or 'commander', whichever one he thinks he'll have more fun being in charge of!
Ah, but it’s their differences that make them so compatible to begin with. In fact, it’s the first thing Claw’s sickly heart searches for when his intense gaze alights on some new prey or another. The parts that would normally deflect all sense of comradery are the ones he picks out, appraises, and manipulates to suit his needs. Major differences between two creatures are nothing if brushed off and made to seem small.
But he’s not here to sway Warrick’s trust, (that skill is reserved for prettier, feminine creatures with a certain absence of something between their legs) he’s here to listen and so, as they meander, Longclaw does just that. Once settled and pacing easily alongside him, Warrick is soon to drift again into silence and Claw does nothing to prompt him for information. Let the Overseer and his thoughts be settled first; Claw has plenty of time on his hands and he’d rather hear the essence of whatever it is rolling around in that heavy head than a jumbled coupling of phrases and open-ended questions.
What eventually spills free is disconcerting to the colorful guard. “He mourns the loss of what? A few brave souls?” The warg thinks, shaking a curtained neck when the words ‘take advantage of Tephra’ are free to sour the atmosphere.
The leggy Tephran stops abruptly in his tracks.
“Warrick, Overseer, My King,” He says, drawing the length of his curved neck upright so that he might face his winged companion with steely resolve. “Hear me. Not only do I accept, but I swear that soon your worries will be like so much ash drifting through the air. You fear the loss of power that these people once held - I know; but soon the might in your arm will be like stone and you, the fist, need only to point in the direction of the blow.”
His speech finished, Longclaw draws the dark hooves beneath his body backwards over the wet sand, leaving trails in their wake as he chooses to distance himself briefly from Tephra’s leader. It’s for good reason - his nose thrusts into the air and his eyes alight in sudden bursts of eerie, pale flame. With a measured inhale, the arab cross gathers what power he can and summons forth a spire that rockets itself like a jabbing spear into the dark, moonless night above them.
His breathing laboured, Claw tilts an ink-stained chin back down to earth and gazes fiercely at his commander behind curtains of liquid fire. “A new order begins where the old died away. There’s much work to be done.” The demon rasps, a clap of noise above them signaling that his flame-spear has broken apart. The sky rains glittering tendrils of sparks, tiny embers of light that flicker away and come to rest on their shoulders as smudges of soot.
The shifter’s mouth purses, and then he blows the dirt clean from his shoulders with the flick of his head.
@[Warrick] He'll happily take up position as the Commander, but of course you can keep him as a soldier too
With a tilt of his head, Warrick notices that Longclaw stops abruptly, and only a few steps are taken before the Overseer stops as well, his haunch parallel to the iridescent blue of the other stallion’s shoulder. Longclaw’s reaction is by no means anything he expected, but as he watches the blue stallion at his side, he finds himself enamored. Longclaw shows Warrick his intentions, smoothing the worried lines of the Overseer’s face with each passionate word that leaves his darkening lips. Many have just assumed that Warrick would ooze the confidence and sureness of a King, but Longclaw recognizes the hesitancy within his voice and speaks to it, reminding Warrick that the slate is clean for them to rewrite.
The winged-stallion lifts his head to the moonless sky, watching with wide eyes as the white-flame propels itself upward, sent there from Longclaw’s command, a brilliant and swirling flame that illuminates into the furthest reaches, and perhaps burns brighter than the volcano itself. Warrick is in awe of the beauty that shines like an ethereal glow above them, bold and bright as it lingers.
A new order begins where the old died away. There’s much to be done.
As if to emphasize, the flame splits and breaks apart, showering a large part of the beach in white light of the flame, the heat fading from it as they cascade downwards, his eyes following the myriad of fire tendrils and their descent. They cool and stain his auburn coat with the familiar feeling of ash, though he is not quick to shake off the residue. The moment had been memorable, and Warrick relishes in the motivation he finds stirring within his chest. He has chosen his Commander well, he decides, and realizes he is more than lucky to have Longclaw belong to Tephra.
“Gather them. They are moldable creatures in your hands. Make them experts in their craft - and be sure that their loyalties lie with us only. We have no enemies as of yet, but there are always a few stragglers that cannot accept peace for long. Make sure they are ready, Commander.”
Warrick
@[Longclaw] Basically he can train them however he likes - mocks, training exercises, missions, drill sergeant-esque yelling, etc. You can reply if you'd like, but basically this thread can be done! <3
![[Image: sScEgld.png]](http://i.imgur.com/sScEgld.png)
You can reply if you'd like, but basically this thread can be done! <3