"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
White legs carried her through short grasses on the outskirts of what was know as The Field. On one side of Sakara was the darkness of the trees and on the other was the light illuminating the open field. She felt comfort in the shadow, as she had spent most of her life in them. Not that she was a scared or timid soul. In fact it was the opposite. She was confident and considered herself powerful. She wasn’t afraid of anyone or anything, even though she should be.
Her build could only be described as small and weak looking. Bones protruded from her snow white coat, no matter how much she grazed. Often times her height was slightly deceiving, as she was tall for a mare. Once someone got close to her though, they could see how thin she really was. It was almost like a ghost was haunting the clearing. She had such an eerie feeling attached to her and she loved it. Her ghostly appearance often scared the younger souls. Not that she cared for them all that much.
Ice blue eyes scanned the field like a predator looking for prey. Who would she decide to talk to today? She started to walk slightly faster, still in the shadows of the trees. Knotted hair fell around her thin nose with every step that she took. As she moved closer to the sparkling waterfall, the air started to smell of water. Sakara wasn’t sure if it was the sun glistening off of the lake or the light smell of the air, but she was reminded of a happier and simpler time.
Visions of foals running through a forest by a stream shot through her head. There were several playing and tackling each other. The ghost white one never was caught because she was too fast. She feared to be caught but she was afraid of many things at that time. Whenever the young souls played, they would always play by the water.
Sakara snapped back to the present with a whinny of another horse in the field. A smile played on her lips remembering the fond memories of her childhood. The timid foal that she had been and the mare that she was now were like polar opposites. Sometimes she wondered what event in her life made her into a strong, but cold soul. Was it one big thing or several small event strung together? She suspected she knew. As those thoughts started to creep into her mind, she shook her ghostly head to get them out.
she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
As memories cloud the mind of the ghost-mare, they also cloud the mind of Wishbone.
The tall grass brushes against her young sides, emerald blades kissing the sweetness of her shoulders. Her mother is trailing behind, explaining why she needs to be on her best behavior (“We’re here to meet someone new and maybe see if they want to live in Tephra with us”) as they wander into the midst of the Field. Excitement dances in the low of her belly, tangling with the knots of her child-mane and tugging at the corners of her dark lips.
Although her mother had begun to lose hope, the girl found Siona quickly and immediately bombarded the fox-girl with questions. “... How did you get your tail? And what about your paws?” One could say the same about the mahogany girl’s bruised knees and her drive for adventure (though some would call it mischief).
She has gone on many diplomatic trips with her mother — to Loess (where the child-queen once ruled) and to Hyaline (before her sister-in-law kissed the sweet face of Solace) and to the Field (as a child with Wound and then as a woman for her own kingdom) — and while they might’ve been to settle the wild traveling bug that never left the reckless girl, they had also been to raise her up in the atmosphere of Beqanna’s politics.
Wishbone is grateful for those experiences now, as she wades among spring grasses and nervous youngsters who had wandered too far from their equally-as-nervous mothers. With an easy (one could almost call it mothering, but such a look on her dark lips has been rarely — if ever — seen) smile, the mahogany woman nudges the anxious, newborn-legged filly in the direction of her searching mother. “She’s just over there.” Although her voice is husky and rough, there’s a warm gentleness in it.
When she raises her head from the height of the young girl, Wishbone’s amber gaze catches on a pale mare shrouded in the shade just outside the activity of the Field. Her own mother had spent her fair share in the shadowy corners of Beqanna, living in the protection of her hawk-eyed brothers. This thought brings another smile to her dark lips, tinted with shades of nostalgia. Wishbone reminds herself to visit Wound in Tephra sometime, when the responsibilities of being Khaleesi are not drowning her.
The mahogany mare approaches at a smooth walk, toned muscle shifting easily along her lithe frame. The patchwork of scars across her knees have faded since her childhood (back when summiting Tephra’s volcano had been her life’s goal and jumping the lava-streams had occasionally ended in painful, blistering burns) but deep gray reminders still etch themselves into the darkness of her legs.
“You’re not from here.” The unique scents of Other Places dance on the pale mare’s skin like a flag waving high in the air with the words “I’m new” printed across it. Wishbone’s eyes are intense as she scans the other’s gaunt face. There’s potential in her pale face and along the poke of her ribcage through her skin — potential to become a Leviathan, potential to become something great, potential to be brave and strong and fierce. “Do you want to be here?”
wishbone
@[Sakara] / sorry this is so long, wishbone is a butt and wanted me to just keep writing
07-25-2018, 11:07 AM (This post was last modified: 07-25-2018, 11:29 AM by Sakira.)
Thoughts kept creeping back into her head, exploding like fireworks in her mind. It was frustrating to her because she was usually more in control of her mind and emotions. She needed to focus on something and she was in luck. A strong mare started to interact with a younger soul not too far from Sakara. She watched intently as the mare helped the filly find her mother. The ghost mare's expression changed slightly, from contentment to indifference, but only for a brief moment. Foals were not her forte, especially someone else's. Not that she had any of her own. She would probably become bored of it, like she bore of everyone else.
The bay mare started her way and before she knew it, they were face to face. It had to have been quite comical to see the mares so close to each other. Although Sakara was slightly taller, the new mare was right there with her. It was rare that Sakara could look a mare in the eye, instead of looking down upon her. This dark mare was strong and built, and looked as if she had great stamina. She glanced down at her own body and saw skin and bones.
A small, sly smile slithered onto her pink lips. You're not from here. A small laugh escaped from her lips, not at the mare in particular, but at the situation itself. Do you want to be here? The question took her back slightly. Ghost white ears pricked higher on her head and blue orbs opened wider. It put her on alert for a split second. Her mother’s words of warning echoed through her head. Be wary of strangers, she often told her when she was younger, which seemed like lifetimes ago.
Old habits die hard.
But much had changed since then, and strangers didn't startle her anymore. Blue eyes searched the bay mares face and another small smile crept onto her face. ""Depends on who's asking, lovely."" Her words seem to wake herself up. She took a small step toward the mare with her skinny legs. It was almost as if with every step her leg bones were in danger of breaking. They could snap like twigs, unlike the mare standing before her. She had a pretty face and a strong body. The ghost mare wondered why a pretty thing like this was in a place like this. The ending of that thought almost made her disgusted. The field saddened her. Hopeful horses were everywhere, just waiting to be taken to a home. This left them vulnerable to let any horse walk up to them. The souls with bad intentions, the riff raff. She wondered how much she fell into the riff raff section. She didn't see herself as such, but who knows what others thought. Not that she cared all that much. She turned her attention back to the bay mare. Blue eyes tried to meet golden eyes. "I'm Sakara." Her tone was as friendly as she could muster.
SAKARA CAN YOU TELL FROM THE LOOK IN OUR EYES? WE'RE GOING NOWHERE.
Skin and bones, skin and bones. But hers is white, she’s a ghost, a skeleton - she’s absolutely perfect. How does one get to be perfect?
He wants to know. He lingers though. He’s just a boy yet, all in all, not worth the attention. Not craving it either, his discoveries are his and his alone, not to be shouted around, not to be shared. Selfish, he knows, but where he grew up, selfishness was about the only way that ensured oneself a meal, a life even.
Ultimately, he waits too long, long enough for another to appear. A bay mare, looking more fit, moe than the white ghost, more than himself - his body still lanky from his latest growth spurt that finally puts him at his proper height; mostly anglo-arabian, he’s even slightly taller than them.
But he is a see-through being, and only here to see. There’s not much he won’t investigate, but not if there’s a threat. In that case, he mostly lingers - awaits his chances, does not move.
Rajanish
son of a dark god
Love is hurting if it screams - oh, if it's screaming out loud
she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
Wishbone resists the urge to laugh at the surprised expression that flutters across the pale mare’s face at her question. She manages to control it to a shockingly-beautiful smirk of amusement, one that pulls attention to the flare of life in her amber eyes and the subtley reckless curve of her dark mouth. Although she’s never truly been one to attempt to control her own desires (as moonlight-lustful or thundercloud-wild as they might be), she knows enough to rein herself in when it’s needed.
Perhaps a laugh would have scared off this ghost-mare.
Perhaps a laugh would have coaxed her nearer.
Regardless of how Sakara might feel about the shadowy haze of amusement flickering across Wishbone’s face, she is moving forward with tender legs. The mahogany mare doesn’t wonder if the marrow of her bones might splinter and fall apart for the simple reason that she must have walked here somehow. It’s likely she could have wings hidden in the air surrounding them, translucent and only pulled from their glass jar when the time is necessary (and this is a gift that some of Beqanna have, as silly as it might sound), but Wishbone’s expression remains unworried by the fragility of the pale mare nevertheless.
“Wishbone is who’s asking, lovely.” Her voice is honey-whiskey — a chaotic mixture of huskiness from her days spent among Tephra’s volcano-smog and a sweet femininity that somehow smooths over the roughness that precedes it — but there’s a hint of something smokier (something that pulls together memories of blood-tinged waves and the moon’s glow illuminating the sheen of sweat on a kelpie tobiano) in the way she gives both her name and says the word “lovely.” Despite these subtle hints, Wishbone’s eyes easily mirror the ghost-mare’s, finding the lonesome faces of strangers amidst the Field.
The swell and dips of the clearing can certainly seem depressing, if someone were to look at it that way. Haunted eyes gaze out from the shadows, perhaps fearing the approach of a rough-and-tough stallion or perhaps wondering why they had come in the first place. Children tousle among themselves under the careful watch of nervous mothers, yet offspring and parent alike have no true, protected place to call home.
Wishbone sees them all as opportunities — dozens of opportunities.
Her eyes meet the shadowed gaze of a tall colt, hazy in appearance, before her lithe head moves back around to catch Sakara’s introduction. “Sakara.” The word is a whisper in her mouth and it sounds like a sweet little secret between the pair of them. “Do you know anything of Beqanna, Sakara?” Her sunset eyes are unwaveringly on the skinny face of the pale mare again, yet a hint of a smile dances on her dark lips.
07-26-2018, 12:25 PM (This post was last modified: 07-26-2018, 12:40 PM by Sakira.)
Sakara's blue orbs scanned the field once more before something happened. Something or someone was around, but her eyes couldn't land on anyone in particular. A scent had drifted to her nose and she inhaled deeply. It was as if a ghost was around, but the mare dismissed the thought almost immediately. Ghosts weren't real and Sakara didn't believe in them. She was new to Beqanna and has seen her fair share of winged and horned creatures, but ghosts? They didn't exist.
Her thoughts changed from the "ghost" to the mare. Wishbone is who's asking, lovely. Her voice was smooth with a hint of roughness as she said it. Sakara raised her eyebrows slightly as the bay mare spoke. She mirrored some of her words, and Sakara wasn't sure if it was flirty or sarcastic in nature. Either way, a small playful smile crept across her mouth. The mare's voice then echoed through her mind again. Sakara. The ghost mare liked the way she said her name. Do you know anything of Beqanna, Sakara? She had frequented The Field for a few days, but she had not explored any more of these mystical lands.
It had been a crazy couple of days for her. She has seen souls that did not look like her, horns, wings, different colors. She wasn't used to all of these differences in her old homeland. The mare liked these differences though. The horses were unique. She wondered if she had a different appearance to others. Sakara knew she looked like just a bag of bones and maybe that was what made her different.
The ghost mare looked back to Wishbone. "Well, Wishbone, if I'm being honest, I'd rather not be here. It bores me." Her ice blue orbs flicked to the field and then back to the dark mare. "I know nothing of Beqanna, but it is a strange place. What do you know of these lands?" Sakara assumed Wishbone had been in these lands for quite a while if she was asking. Wheels in her head started to turn and she started to think the bay mare could be a valuable soul to know. Who knew all of the things she could inform the ghost mare about.
SAKARA CAN YOU TELL FROM THE LOOK IN OUR EYES? WE'RE GOING NOWHERE.
His place in the field is slightly behind the white skeletal mare. Skeletal ghost, ghostly skeletal. Skin and bones, skin... bone-white skin on bones. Isn't she just lovely.
He remembers Lokii's explanation of the hearth though. She must have one too, but, to remove it, to examine it, would ruin her skeletal white. Besides, he knows what the heart looks like now - a piece of machinery designed to pump blood through veins in a rather strong and fast fashion - for tall horses like those gathered, quite the effort.
But having a strong heart did not mean anything in this world.
The bay mare then - well, she sees through him as she does the others, only perhaps a little surprised by either his stares or his appearance. Wishbone, she says is her name, he picks it up and cherishes it; he'd love to make wishes on bones, her name is perfect, but unfortunately it belongs to a rather plain bay instead of to the bone-white skeleton mare.
His guess is that perfection is near-impossible to achieve.
But oh, no - the skeletal white mare is bored. That's a bad thing, she might move away too soon. He finally makes his way over to them, then; not to partake in the conversation, but to come close to the image of perfection, the ghost, the walking skeleton, the bone-white-bones. It's just after she asks a question, but it wasn't a question for him, so he ignores it.
Small talk.
Been there enough never to have done that.
Instead he likes to offer weird questions, or unappropriate touches; a child as he is, he's thus far always been forgiven. His stalker-self creeps up to the white skin over a white rib bone; stretching his nose to touch it. Is it soft like skin? Does it feel like bone instead?
Rajanish
son of a dark god
Love is hurting if it screams - oh, if it's screaming out loud
