"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
The ember-flecked woman had been all across Beqanna, never truly settling. There had been a time where she perhaps could have called herself content, but it was only when her fox took charge and obediently followed the wolf; and even then, they could not be defined as ‘settled’. Though vastly different in species and size, the two were partners (friends, though the word has never been spoken nor do they care to ever speak it). But they are two distinct identities, despite their closeness, and are rather independent. Even in their time as wild animals, they would only come together to hunt and to sleep. She would spend the day finding her burrows for the night, or munching on morsels of damp earthworms or hidden berries. He would always allow her to hunt with him, though she lacked in skill and brute strength. She has learned much from the wolf in the ways of killing and battling, but her fox-skin could only allow so much. It did not matter, though. The ferocity that burns in the scarlet irises of her eyes remains intact, despite the vulpine shape being replaced with equine.
There is an animalistic look about her features - dark and plain-faced, amid the fiery red of her tendrils and the bright red flecked along her haunches and shoulders. As she moves onto the grey cliffs, ebony nostrils flaring as she inhales the crisp wind that tastes of brine and mist, she finds herself already missing the shadows of their forest. Her dark skin shivers as the wind rips past her brutally and mercilessly, causing her lips to twitch unpleasantly. She wonders if he is still there, hunting amidst the autumn foliage where she had left him. With a sharp snort and a quick toss of her head, the fire-flecked mare turns her gaze towards the horizon, the sound of the sea thousands of feet below her throbbing unceasingly in her ears.
She had never cared for diplomatics, or politics, or for the ‘royalty’ that normally accompanies a kingdom. Too many times had she lived beneath a weak king or queen, who had no power to protect their country or even themselves. Merida has chosen a life of solidarity, due to the fox-spirit she had been gifted with (and only allows a certain shifter to change that fact), and continues to live by the idea that she can do much more for herself than anyone else could. She prefers to not take company in anyone, regardless of their species.
So she is unsure as to why she has found herself on the grey and forlorn shores of Nerine. Whispers of a sisterhood had traveled through the forests darkness, where her swift paws carried her silently into conversations, and her large ears allowed her to hear the words. She is merely a forest nymph, a tiny and cunning creature in her fox-skin, and is almost always mistaken for a normal vulpine unless she allows herself to be made known. The idea intrigued her - not royalty, not a monarchy? Interesting.
Merida says nothing and does nothing. She does not call for anyone (how good are their sentries?) but she also does not waltz confidently into the kingdom (she is not a fool). She had thought for a moment to sneak in within her other skin, but a fox near the sea would easily be seen as out of place and she would quickly be found out. Instead, she opts for her less favored choice (the form she had been born with, rather than the one she had been gifted later in life), the burning embers of her eyes scanning the area with a rather emotionless expression.
legit word vomit but merida is here to get the scoop on all these amazon women
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
The rain has finally cleared. Over the past few days, Wishbone has wondered if it would ever stop raining and, thankfully, it has. The mahogany girl weaves between expansive puddles of muddy rainwater, enjoying the sensation of the bitter autumnal wind drying her soaked body. While Nerine’s weather is reckless compared to Tephra’s, Wishbone finds herself falling more and more in love with the kingdom.
Her legs are slick with mud as she makes her way toward the border. Since coming to Nerine in the summer, the girl has already explored every inch of the oceanside kingdom. Boredom begins to linger on the fringes of her mind (never a good thing, especially for her) and a low, unkempt sigh leaves her sable lips. Thin cuts dapple her shoulders and hips from just the day before, when the relentless rain sent her toward the caves and one in particular. Wishbone spent the day exploring the tunnels zig-zagging under Nerine’s cliffs and a few tight spots brought some injuries along with them.
The scent of a foreigner rides on the chill of the wind as she moves through the sloppy landscape. Wishbone’s head rises toward the scent, her ears twisting forward amid tangled, dark tresses highlighted with auburn. It doesn’t take her long to locate the stranger and she approaches at a gentle trot. When she comes to a halt, mud has splattered up her belly and across her chest but a smile crafted of wilderness and adventure is on her mouth.
“I apologize for the sloppiness of Nerine; this is the first break in the rain I’ve seen in a few days.” Her voice is a complex mixture of young and rough from the ash of Tephra; a combination of both honey and whiskey. “I’m Wishbone.” She’s certain the stranger will announce her reasoning behind being on Nerine’s border, so the mahogany girl falls silent after that, her amber eyes roving over the other’s face.
A girl - though not a girl, not really - approaches her. The ebony mare turns to face her with a slender and graceful turn of her head, the fiery tendrils of her mane and forelock framing her dark and angled face. Merida’s brows quirk upwards in amusement, though not in a way that is condescending. If anything, she is pleasantly surprised by the younger woman. She is muddied and dirty, her body a dark and slick brown compared to the muted gray of Nerine’s cliffs; she seems at home here, despite the wildness in her eyes that Merida’s fox clearly recognizes.
The onyx mare’s ears fall backwards passively, lifting her chin slightly. She is already missing her fox-skin, itching to bend the bones and reattach muscle or sinew in the blink of an eye. She feels unnatural in this equine body (trapped, weak), unpretty and undignified. There is no grace now that she has turned to face the girl, her hooves seeming too heavy for the thinness of her athletic legs. The freckles of red on her haunches and shoulders sparkle in the dim sunlight that attempts to filter through bruised clouds, making it appear as if embers truly burned on her muscled hide.
“Hello,” Merida replies, her voice rich as the dampened earth of the forest she calls home, though wistful. The sound of crashing waves drones onward behind them and Merida quietly wonders if it becomes mundane to hear it so constantly. The girl’s amber eyes meet the boiling red of Merida’s, and she wonders if she’ll turn away from their unique and disturbing color. “I’m Merida.” She pauses, a slight tilt of her head making her appear rather predatory, if one knew of the other animal spirit she shares a soul with. “I’ve heard whispers of this place in the forest. I’ve come to see what is true, and what is merely rumor.”
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
There is a kinship between them, one that Wishbone would only be able to explain if she knew of this stranger’s secret life. There have been many, many times when the mahogany girl has wished to morph her body into something different, like she’d seen others do in her youth (perhaps a whale to breach with the pods she’s spotted in the ocean, perhaps a wolf to run with Longclaw through the forests, perhaps an otter to splash with the family resting in Tephra). To explore all the adventures of the world is one of Wishbone’s greatest desires, and shapeshifting is just one escapade on that list.
Regardless of the girl’s personal goals, there is a look in the dark mare’s eyes that Wishbone can’t quite identify. They are both beautiful, in their unique ways — while the younger is doused in the flames of recklessness and audacity, the stranger is cloaked in regality and cunningness. They are similar to two sides of the same coin, Merida the shiny side and Wishbone the dirty side.
Wishbone’s amber eyes remain unwaveringly on the other’s red ones, showing no indication that she is uncomfortable by the unique eye color. Rather, the girl flashes another unbridled smile at the mentioning of rumors in the depths of Beqanna’s forests. That is good. Their strength and reputation is expanding into the regions of their homeland untouched by kingdom vices. Hopefully that news is good. Wishbone would offer to walk with the dark mare, but under the conditions of Nerine she supposes it would be more distracting weaving between muddy puddles and around draining rivulets rather than worthwhile.
So instead she opts to step closer, moving into the realm of friendliness rather than strategic approach as before. Upon moving nearer, Wishbone can see that the glowing spots on the mare’s body are merely reddish freckles highlighted by the dim sunlight. “I’m willing to answer any questions you might have, Merida.” Although she is independent at heart, the girl cannot deny the amounts of pride that swarm in her chest. “I’m curious to know what rumors you might’ve heard about Nerine. All good things, I hope.”
She can still taste the moisture in the air from the recent rains, intermingled with the briny texture of the salt-sprayed cliffs. Merida continues to watch her for a moment, the fierceness of her gaze carefully calculating each fine bone and muscle that appears on the bay mare. Her studiful gaze is apparent, but it is something she has learned along the way of her life - if you know someone’s weakness, you’ll have the upper hand always, even when it isn’t currently needed. She is not threatened by Wishbone and she is sure that the other woman isn’t threatened by her; but Merida cannot help but store little bits of information in her head, organizing them and sorting them into little slots - like the way that the woman didn’t mind being slathered in mud and dirt, or the bruises that are fading away on her skin, or the signs of a fight that are slowly healing. Not much can be promised from Merida’s inner assumptions (a warrior, perhaps?), but sometimes - just sometimes - there is something more.
Wishbone smiles, meeting Merida’s gaze fearlessly, and takes a step closer. The dark woman, laced with embers of the deepest red, snorts softly and turns her head over her shoulder, turning to face the cliffs that look out into the wide and misty grey of the stretching ocean. The wind rips at the tangled mass of her flaming tendrils, brushing them away from her face in a cold, wet breath. She does not dismiss Wishbone, though the way she turns from her could easily be perceived in such away.
Before there was time for Wishbone to consider Merida’s rather stand-offish body language, a single black ear flips back towards the woman, a humorous tone in her voice as it is ripped from her mouth by the wind. “A kingdom ruled by women,” she begins curtly, and though her face remains towards the ocean, her eyes playfully turn their peripherals to the bay behind her, the blackness of her lips curling slightly into a cunning smile. “Is it true?”
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
As Merida’s eyes find the gray horizon, Wishbone’s amber gaze moves as well. There is no denying Nerine’s rustic beauty — although it is not tropical (like Ischia) or forested (like Sylva), it holds its own honest appeal in the rugged cut of the cliffs and the roar of the ocean below it. There is something lusty and rigorous about the kingdom’s landscape and Wishbone finds it very easily calls to the equally lusty and rigorous pieces of her soul.
Her chest warms with pride for the kingdom even while this newcomer gives her a supposed cold-shoulder. Wishbone is hardly bothered by anything and, with the calculating expression Merida had been giving her only moments before, she can only assume the red-flecked mare has made up her mind with whatever presumptions she might have. Besides, the wilderness of Nerine is certainly more appealing to the eye than Wishbone’s own mahogany, feminine face (an opinion which varies depending on the individual you might speak to).
“It’s true.” Where there are Leviathans now, there used to be Amazons — whereas both kingdoms, filled with strong women, are led by a strong woman. “We are the Amazons reborn as the Leviathans.” The word feels firm but sure on her tongue, like an unfamiliar warrior cry that holds the future of becoming a favorite song. “Men are allowed in Nerine, but only women have led the Leviathans.” She falls silent, her own amber eyes catching the oncoming shadows of thunderclouds in the distance. A low rumble sounds above their heads and, once it has passed, Wishbone gives a low, exhausted sigh.
“If it doesn’t stop raining soon, Nerine will be washed into the sea.” Her honey-whisky voice is dipped with humor, but thoughts of getting wet all over again add a depressive rhythm to her tune.
