"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
02-08-2019, 01:20 PM (This post was last modified: 02-08-2019, 01:22 PM by Kora.)
She knew Leander would be looking for her. He was relentless, that way – someone who never gave up on family. The same could no longer be said of her, now, could it? Her mind turns to what she and Woolf had done, and she thinks of the child who was made a woman. Evia. A name was all she had given their daughter. In another life, she might have been a good mother – though perhaps not a great one – but she would have tried. Yet that was before. The sea had changed her, and the Kora she was now was not meant for motherhood.
So she kept moving. Lee would be thorough in his search, which is why she hadn’t stayed long in Nerine and eventually ended up in a territory she knew to be called Loess. It is hot here beneath the summer sun – a fact the winter mage finds quite uncomfortable, which is why a storm of winter cloud hovers above her, following overhead as she picks her way through the rocky outcroppings. Her delicate frame is encased in translucent ice that shifts like any living thing across her gold-and-white skin, thick against the heat, and the flora that had been thriving shrivels against the freezing wind she brings.
The truth was that she now hungered for more than what her past life could ever have offered her. The Kora she was now craved an unhindered existence. She had once been meek and small, but that had been swept aside – replaced by the ice in her veins. Her power was dangerous; it ached to be set loose. And why not? Fear would not stop her. Family would not shackle her. She would have the freedom she so craves, even if she has to take it for herself.
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
It’s interesting how they trickle in, drawn forward by their own reasons and ambitions. Castile is familiar with it, the influx of visitors when a new monarch ascends the throne. Although mother had gained her crown prior to his birth, she told him of it. Even when Amet gained Hyaline and Djinni Sylva, Castile occasionally wandered from Nayl’s watchful eye to visit and observe how life poured into the veins of each land. With new royalty, there are new opportunities.
He doesn’t know whether she will stay, this wintry queen, as she struts and teases the border of Loess. Castile watches her intently while he bathes himself in the hot summer sun. It wraps around him like a blanket and lifts his body temperature higher, even as a fire churns in his gut every minute of every day. For a long while, she holds his attention. His eyes flicker from reptilian to equine, analyzing how her heart beats nearly in rhythm to her footsteps – calm, nonchalant, but proud. She isn’t prey, not even close, and so he blinks again to see her – to truly see her instead of blood and pulse. How interesting it will be for their elements to conspire and merge.
The shrubs are thin here, but he still eases around them with enough girth. His mismatched eyes are unyielding, clutching to her image as he closes the distance between them. The metallic sheen of his locks catches the sunlight as he takes his final place in front of her. A lopsided grin softens the hard lines of his face as he first regards her, then the wintry storm cloud hovering above her. In play – more for his amusement – he breathes a small plume of flame into the cloud, melting the immediate snowflakes into rain. He didn’t entirely know what to expect, but he isn’t disappointed. Lowering his gaze, he shrugs mildly, ”Sorry to rain on your parade.” A cheesy thing to say, but he doesn’t take it back even in the quiet moments that follow.
Waiting for the steam to subside and the black smoke coiling from his nostrils to fade, he finally offers a simple introduction. ”The name’s Castile.”
Though the recent shift in power would undoubtedly draw newcomers here like an undertow, Kora knows nothing of the changing of the Loessian crown. What she does know is that she has drawn a stranger’s attention, though she chooses to ignore it – that is, until his attentions serve to evaporate the snowfall that usually surrounds her with a single breath of flame. Even as the bout of fire pours from his maw, daggers of ice burst reflexively forth from Kora’s armor – though the radiant heat is enough to reduce them to mere pellets that bounce off his bicolored coat like hail.
Whether she had actually intended to spare him from impalement or not remains entirely inscrutable, though the winter mage admittedly feels a strong urge to wipe the grin from his rugged face altogether. After a beat, however, her lips tilt upward at the corners too. “It’s no bother at all,” she responds in a whisper-soft voice, the quiet sound entirely contradictory to the sharp-edged defiance flickering within her icy blue gaze. “I don’t mind a little rain.”
What she does mind is the fact that she just might have been momentarily cowed by him. The plume of fire had taken her by surprise, and despite a quick recovery Kora feels sure he had seen it – this being an entirely unacceptable outcome in her mind. In another life, his theatrical jest might have made her blush and stammer and duck her gaze to hide the evidence of a butterfly-heart behind her long lashes. Now, however, she returns his stare outright until he introduces himself.
Kora blinks a little, like she were confused. “I beg your pardon?” The wintry mare pauses before appearing to catch on. “Ah, Castile, is it?” She draws out the name as though to ensure its correct pronunciation. “Forgive me, but I almost thought you’d been overcome by a cough.” A silvery laugh slips from her lips even as her chin lifts ever so slightly. “Though after all that smoke, can you really blame me?”
kora
mage of winter
@[Castile] she decided to be cheeky right back and pretended his name sounds like a cough *dies*
and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
”Good,” he croons as a glance quickly skims her wintry cloud while ice pelts his skin. They had originated form her, of course, but he doesn’t take offense. In fact, it amuses him. A lopsided grin, nearly boyish in nature, lifts the wrinkled edge of his mouth. ”It’s rude to try stabbing someone with ice,” the remark is lighthearted but he takes the opportunity to acknowledge her attempt to combat the heat he expelled. The fire, of course, has since died away and the smoke has lifted from their eyes. It leaves them staring at one another with heavy scrutiny.
Her arrival to Loess is unexpected, but has already played a distraction. While politics rage on behind him, Castile cannot help to keep forward with her in his line of sight. She isn’t a feeble woman falling into the arms of a man – a damsel, right? – but she provides enough sass to keep him engaged.
A low chuckle rumbles from his throat, resonating through his core. She claims his name resembles a cough, a rattling noise that he has become far too familiar with in these past years. The plague has sunken its claws deep into his flesh, but he addresses the symptoms with periodic visits to the healers on hand. Although not enough to extract the plague entirely, it at least grants him reprieve until the next bout.
Some would take offense to her comment, but instead, Castile takes it in stride. His head tilts, sliding his bronzed forelock aside so that their eyes may more clearly meet. ”That’s cute. You’re already thinking of mnemonics to remember me by,” he tries to flip it, keeping her close at hand as she spurs a rare grin. He wants to grab her here, now, and keep her in Loess, but he somehow restrains himself. He doesn’t edge closer, doesn’t even reach to touch her just yet. He just wants to know her, to understand her. ”Your turn. What’s your name?”
“It’s rude to try roasting someone with fire,” she returns, “but that didn’t stop you.” And it won’t stop Kora, either – especially when that grin of his hasn’t faded in the least. Castile shrugs off her playacting with a chuckle and a tilt of his head, the brimstone of his two-toned gaze meeting the iciness of her own. They are two elements in opposition, and make no mistake.
Yet his quick rejoinder causes her to laugh – and this time, the sound is less of a forgery as it leaves her lips. “And you’re already hoping that I’ll remember you at all.” She can see the way his eyes flicker as he looks at her – a look that isn’t altogether unfamiliar anymore. Something of the same had been in Woolf’s scrutiny of her, too. In the end, perhaps power draws power – and while Kora would never admit that this stallion’s swift wit and rakish bearing drew her in at all, it would be a lie to say that she did not feel a spark of interest herself as she stood there, looking right back at him.
After a moment’s appraisal passes quite clearly between them, she decides to supply him with an answer. “It’s Kora.” Settling back on her hips, she gives a delicate flick of her silvery tail. “I would say it’s nice to meet you, but I’m not quite sure that it is yet.” She doesn’t yet know of the crown he wears nor of the dragon that lies within. Even then, at least he was proving a distraction. “Do you get that often, I wonder?”
