"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
12-11-2018, 09:37 PM (This post was last modified: 12-11-2018, 09:39 PM by Brine.)
There she is, a black raven among white doves. The heat of the sun broils her deep roaned coat, slimmed out for summer. Since finding refuge in Hyaline, her figure had certainly toned. No longer is she the starving sack of bones that Kagerus had rescued all those months ago—she is now developing into a living creature.
The water greets her dried hooves with a soothing cool temperature, her neck lowering to feed the thirst that her dry throat craves. Her wings are tucked neatly to her side, once served as a security blanket but now seemed to be more of a nuisance.
Her eyes settle down stream on a few equines frolicking in the water, young and mischievous. Her stomach flops as she flashes back to when she was that age, more malnourished than ever before with patches of bald skin. There had been no fun, no playing, no socializing.
Surviving. That was all it was.
Her throat tightens, shifting her attention to the stranger across the water. Seeing as the mare—elegant, clean—also lowered her head into the water. Brine feels herself instinctively judging every curve and hair, feeling instantly compared. Females here were so much more.
More as in clean, healthy, polite, kind… Something Brine had never related herself to.
Not until recently, and even then, it felt alien to look at her reflection below.
It isn’t until she hears the light snap of a twig that her attention falls behind her to the shadows of the treeline.
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
He feels her on the edges of his consciousness. Feels it like a fluttering in the mind, a barely registered ripple on the water’s edge that has him tilting his head, shark eyes darkening even more, taking in the mare who dips her mouth to the water. There is something beneath the surface to her that catches his eye, that stirs his attention—and how unfortunate for her that she should catch his fancy.
Because his fancy is not that of sweet nothings and soft whispers.
It is not that of romance and sunsets—although it can pantomime it well enough.
It is something darker, more sinister, and it rises in him now. Even with the blood of Lucrezia barely washed from his skin, the baptism in her on the beach having left its mark, the hunger still roils within him. His gaze sharpens and then softens, the stallion tilting his heavy-horned head back and taking a deep breath of air. It is easy—easy enough—to manipulate when he utilizes the Fear as both tool and weapon.
And he enjoys that, feasts on it.
But there is something more primal about manipulating with nothing but your own cunning, your own wits, and he appreciates that too. Appreciates the art of bending steel with nothing but your own strength.
When his eyes open, they are not his own. They are deep and warm and his face is washed clean of his usual harsh angles. When he moves, it is slow and steady, not the alien grace he usually calls upon, and although his hand rests upon the Fear, he doesn’t call on it—not yet. Instead he merely walks toward the water, letting his weight crack a twig in his path to announce his arrival. Without a word, he walks up next to her, dropping his head to the water and letting the coolness of it dampen his nose.
He glances at her from the corner of his eye, lip curving into a smile before he glances ahead again.
One deep breath as he lifts his head and then silence.
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
He is painted with a grey shimmer over an otherwise golden coat, and his horns sprout and arise from the sides of his forehead in carved spiral. She ignores him at first, returning her attention back to the other equines around her and listening to the distant hum of chatter.
Her wings adjust to relax at her side, loosening their grip along her rib cage.
Though her eyes do eventually drift to the masculine scent still lingering to her side, seeing as he meanders casually to the rocky side of the creek, his neck lowering with muscular definition into the water below him. He feels almost too close—her stomach tightening at the thought—like a creature with no sense of size, unaware of the heat she can feel radiating off his skin.
Brine does not hide her expression well as he side eyes her with a grin, before returning his gaze forward as if to challenge her curiosity. She scoffs, and if physically possible would have followed with an eyeroll, before again turning her attention another direction.
She feels his head raise, but yet no words fill the silence. Irritation boils deep into her chest, as if a fire is lit in aggravation. Why does she need to be the one to initiate the conversation he is waiting to have? Normal socializing is not her strong suit, but games?
Games are for children.
“You’re a little close,” she finally lets out as the air began to feel thick with an uncomfortable weight. Her darkened eyes do not shift from the empty treeline across from them, her tail swishing against her flank with annoyance. She does not meet his coy smirk with approval, instead she meets his eyes with a face empty of expression.
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
It’s always amusing to watch how they react to the different pressures he can apply.
How some fight back, how others immediately succumb to it. He feels her irritation pressing into him, the displeasure so clear in the way she holds herself, but he doesn’t apologize immediately, doesn’t jump away, doesn’t even show that he’s noticed. He just continues to smile softly, the charming grin so out of place on a face that usually wears an empty, crocodile smile. When she finally speaks, he lets a wave of confusion wash over him as he blinks a few times, turning toward her. “Oh? I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”
His voice is an octave lower than usual, a little huskier, his handsome face arranged into pleasant lines as he takes a step away, opening up the space between them. He continues to look at her though, studying the lines of her face as if admiring them when, in reality, he was mostly imagining all of the different ways she would look like torn apart. Would she wear the same expression of horror as Lucrezia had?
Would she scream and ask for answers?
Would she fight back?
His own version of daydreams touch his face with a hint of dreaminess, a softness as he shakes his head. “I don’t know where my head is at today.” Another smile as he looks back to the water and those who gather here. All he wants is to pull on the Fear, to let it jump to his command, to bend reality and spark further nightmares that scatter them, but it’s not the right time—not yet. Not just yet.
“I love coming here when everyone is gathered,” he says, almost to himself, before turning to focus on her more fully again. “Oh, where are my manners. My name is Bruise,” he says his name like an apology, as if he was ashamed of it rather than immensely proud. “What brings you here today?”
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
She sees him, how his naivety wafts into the air similar to his masculine cologne taunts the tip of her nose. He appears genuine, she feels that. He almost has her completely fooled, the little deer a child when it comes to manipulation. When one is not exposed to much conversation, you are not taught the importance of skepticism. She is not skeptical.
Not of him, not right now; she doesn’t know any better.
His tone is almost soothing, in a way she cannot put her finger on. However, she feels it in her stomach when he speaks. She hears it when the sentence ends, her ears craving more. And while his eyes cloud over, tracing every inch and divot in her body, she knows it. Well, she thinks she knows it. Our little deer is sure of herself that she has put up enough front, enough face. Brine has asserted her dominance and he respects that. He appreciates her. And like a schoolgirl with her first crush, she feels herself wanting validation from him.
And then he steps away, and momentarily she is released from self criticism.
“I don’t know where mine is either,” she shakes her head, eyes refocusing on the water before them with a feeling of embarrassment and judgment.
He talks a little more, and she attempts to not get lost in the husk of his tone. No, focus, focus on the other horses gathered nearby or how the river swirls at the ends of your legs.
“I prefer the quieter times,” she responds, “I feel as though it’s too crowded.” He is obviously a social butterfly, a charismatic type. Brine is not. Brine is comforted by silence and solitude, where judgment doesn’t become self sabotage and social pressure cannot be pressed into her naïve train of thought. “Brine,” she finishes as the silence in the air becomes noticeable, “just needed to get out of my head. And you?”
Brine
find yourself, then come find me
@[bruise]
Sorry Laura, I hope you still want to thread Life got a little away from me there, but I am still able to write <3 Let me know if you want to restart a fresh thread, carry on, or post pone the plot!
I call him the devil because he makes me want to sin
He feels the slight give, the way a master lockpicker might feel a first click of the key sliding into place. It sends a ripple of pleasure up his spine, the same beginning to unfold before him, and he has to exert all of his control to keep his face neutral, to not give himself away, to not show the predatory grin that threatens to pull his lips into a crocodile smile—to give into the short-term rush of pleasure over long-term gain.
Still, he wins this time and just keeps a warm, interested expression on his face.
“I don’t mind the quiet,” he says with that same touch of husk, keeping it impossible to guess as to whether the sentence is a neutral agreement or something more—something flirtatious. There are waves of thought beneath his expression, unreadable shadows that chase themselves across his features, but he says little else for several moments, feeding her more and more rope by only handing out bits and pieces.
When the silence has stretched on long enough, he angles his head. “I hope you don’t think I am the one making it too crowded.” A slight frown, a raincloud across his features that barely touches his brow. “I can leave, if you’d prefer.” A pause as the frown is chased by a brilliant smile, full and genuine.
“Brine,” he rolls her name slowly cross his tongue, savoring the syllables of it. “What a beautiful name.” Another pause as one corner of his lip quirks up in the corner. “I know what it’s like to need to get out of your own head.” Not really, he thinks to himself, because he can’t imagine wanting to escape himself or the Fear that rides shotgun with him constantly; he can’t imagine wanting to ever lose that.
“What do you like to do when you’re feeling this way?”
(and every time he knocks, I can't help but let him in)
@[Brine] - no worries! <3 i definitely still want this thread.
Life got a little away from me there, but I am still able to write <3 Let me know if you want to restart a fresh thread, carry on, or post pone the plot!