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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    what's past is prologue // raul & castile
    #1

    The riverbanks harbor monstrosities. Within her damp curves and valleys, she shelters the ones who cleave to their anonymity, and Clegane is among their number. Few are more inconsequential than he, this fallen kingdom’s bastard - weak small and half-broken. But he knows nothing of his history. He never had the chance to be taught such things by a proud sire or superior siblings. He only knows that his grandam cares for him, and his mother is no longer alive. 

    That he shouldn’t talk to strangers, and he is never to never raise his voice. 

    His spectral guardian reminds him of these last few things with a kiss, and he sighs heavily as she leaves him. When she’s there he calls her Solace, but he isn’t supposed to tell anyone, and she never lingers much later than dawn.

    Without complaint he watches her disappear towards the north, as she does nearly every morning, although he so wished she would stay.

    But he does not follow; where she went was not safe for him. He had been told it was better for him to stay at their part of the river where no one else ever seemed to travel. So he wanders, aimless, that his whisp is gone. Yet her scent lingers on his skin - a sweetness which weakly masks the scent of his slowly healing tissue.

    From the left he seems a normal boy - although a little underfed - but from the right, his face is raw and bare. In the vapors summer air, his wounds had grown wider and uglier when they should have been healing. But weeks had passed and his young body eventually began it mend the series of lacerations to the best of its ability.  His guardian didn't seem to mind it, and the only reason he had to dislike his disfiguration was the maddening itching it caused him.

    He is terrible to look at, but in this world of monsters hardly unique. And until someone told him otherwise he didn't think of himself as any different from the many other children who must be out there - somewhere - though he had yet to meet any of them.

    Clegane

    been in the dark for weeks         and I've realized you're all I need
    and I hope that I'm not       too late, I hope I'm not too late



    @[Raul] @[Castile] my first thread with him! He's about a year old, maybe a bit older
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    #2
    Tana had left them days ago, and Raul knew it was his fault. His own fear and anger had led him to abandon home, and to bring his brother with him. They'd done everything together, why not this? But Sabra was difficult to live with, and Rebelle had her own set of troubles because of it. He'd been grossly optimistic in thinking that all of their troubles would go away if only by virtue of their family being together. 

    He should have known better, but his own wounds has clouded his judgement. Warlight's rejection had cut him deeply, especially after all they'd been through. Their relationship had always been centered on turmoil, but he had thought that they were each others pillar of peace in a world too often stacked ageist them. They'd suffered, and he'd done all he could to ease her pain, but maybe that had been where the bad had started. He'd only wanted to help. 

    And now he'd driven his brother away with his own stubbornness, his own fear of loss. Tana was angry, and he had every right to be. It had been well meaning captivity, but captivity nonetheless. And it hadn't fixed anything. Rebelle had skulked off to follow Tana, and Sabra still saw the world as her enemy, with paranoid rages and violent outbursts occurring more days than not. There was something broken in their mother, and his skills were not enough to fix it. 

    Nothing was right in the buckskin stallion's world. Nothing he did seemed to fix the damage he'd so unwittingly done. His failure made him sick to his bones, and he found himself unable to stay where they'd been. He had to go. Someplace where he should think about what to do next, because at the moment, he had no clue. His feet led him on an old path, a place he hadn't seen in years. His birthplace. 

    The river flowed as fast and clear as ever, scattered with the gold and rust leaves of fall. They gathered in the curves and slow pools the river had carved in the earth over the years, shallow collections of decay. The burly stallion paused at one of the slower stretches of water, dropping his head to drink the chilly liquid. He'd traveled further than he'd realized, and it took several long drinks to slake the thirst he'd built. 

    On raising his dripping head, he spotted another a little further along the river, looking lost in the shadows. Raul squinted a little, trying to see better through the gloom. He could almost swear... "Warlight?" He called out, raspy voice carrying across the riverbank easily. "WARLIGHT!" He yelled, something he did very rarely. But he was almost certain that the shadowy figure was her. Slight and mottled with white and brown, he could just make out the whorling pattern of spots on their pelt, and it seemed that antlers crowned their head. 

    It was a trick of the light, and the bare branches in the background, but he didn't see it, didn't want to see it. He wanted his mate, his lost love. The cold water flowed at his belly by the time he realized he'd entered the river. Something wasn't right. The figure was too small. That chance at seeing his beloved was too hard a hope to give up on, he found, and he didn't allow it to fade until he'd reached the other side.

    Only feet away from the skewbald child, he knew that it wasn't her. But the resemblance was too strong to be a coincidence. Moisture had gathered in his eyes, either from the river or his own surging emotions, he couldn't tell. He coughed slightly, catching his breath after the quick crossing. "Where... Where is your mother?" He asked, looking harder at the worn child. Something dreadful has happened. He could feel it in his chest, but he had to know for sure. The colt was ragged, thin and wild looking. And his face... Raul felt a deep combination of rage and regret as he absorbed the poor boy's ravaged features. 

    "Who are you, child?" His voice was low and hoarse, a thread of pain weaving through the words. The more he looked, the more he felt he knew. How could he ignore the evidence before his own eyes? How could he not recognize the blood he knew and loved mingled with his own in the tiny form he'd stumbled on so recklessly? 

    @[Clegane] @[Castile]
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    #3
    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
    He moves like a hunter – an arrogant swagger, silent fluidity, concentration – as he maneuvers toward the river. It seems like eons since he was last here. Memories reel through his mind, littered with both joy and sadness. Hearts were combined and broken here, children created, lives shared.

    A low sigh passes from Castile’s lungs when he takes pause to scrutinize how much the landscape has changed. Trees have aged and grown, the river still courses strongly. Truthfully, he doesn’t know what led him here – not until a scent clutches onto his nostrils. It sinks into his mind and surfaces again as an explosion of images. Moods correlate with everything he suddenly sees – joy, anger, frustration, disappointment, admiration – and storm inside him for what feels like an eternity.

    Then suddenly, it all stops.

    It’s as though the reminders pulled him back and engulfed him. Everything felt real, but it was all reminiscent.

    Castile’s eyes open – he doesn’t remember ever closing them – and he immediately notices Raul. The vibrant colors are a beacon that draws him like a moth to a flame. As leery as he is, Castile masks it behind a face of comfort and rising curiosity. ”Hello,” he gruffly begins, not entirely certain how his son will react. Most of his children exploit excitement and kindness, but Sabra’s twins always have him wondering what’s next.

    But the opalescent male is not alone. Castile follows his son’s eyes down to the young boy. The right side of his face is puckered and scarred, almost even grotesque, but the Loessian King remains steady and not at all deterred. While there are minor similarities that he notes, he says and assumes nothing as a brief quiet envelopes the three of them.


    castile



    @[Raul] @[Clegane]
    Reply
    #4

    Despite his lackluster existence, the spark of youth has not been extinguished for Clegane. His curiosity flairs as the telltale sounds of a traveler reach him, and the colt shakes the frost from his mane and stands a little taller.

    But when this traveler speaks, the raw emotion carried in his voice causes the colt to step back. If the tone and intensity had not been enough to startle Clegane, the sound of his dead mother's name echoing across the Riverlands would have. It is enough to send a shock through his young body. The expression on his scarred face is no longer simple, curious and pleasant. No longer neutral.  He had not learned the diplomat's art of curating his smile - he had never had anything to hide from his grandam.

    In the time the short amount of it took him to realize he was holding his breath, the stranger had crossed the river and was close enough to touch. Clegane's flight instinct had faltered, and other than his initial step backward he hasn't moved since first catching sight of the man who seems to know him.

    Where... Where is your mother?

    Clegane shakes his head, his eyes locking onto those of his interrogator. One was blue, he notes, the color of his guardian's and the other is silver, the color of his own. But he had never had cause to wonder at the color of his own eyes, and the similarity of their features are lost on him.

    Who are you, child?

    Somehow, despite the dryness of his mouth, he begins to shape his racing thoughts into words. "She..." he says, breaking a rule for the first time (do not talk to strangers), breaking it because he feels he owes it to this stranger.

    He had known his mother's name.

    But before he can force his tongue to obey, there is another voice. Far greater and powerful than his own, it draws the colt's attention with ease. The masculine rumble overshadows whatever mummer may have escaped the mottled yearling, and he suddenly feels much smaller.

    A  quietness settles over the three of them, filled by the tumbling river and breath coming a little too quickly.

    "She's gone," he finally manages. But his words seem too loud in the foggy woodland, where even footfalls were muted by the damp. He is embarrassed by the way his voice cracks, especially when his own feelings do not match the emotions of this companion of his mother's. The first few months of his life were a fog, and the facts around his mother's death were locked away in the darkest parts of his mind. He rarely thought of her, and when he did the terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach caused his mind to pivot to other topics. This feeling returns now, and the jagged line of his lips press together in discomfort as he drops his eyes to examine the muck around his toes.

    Clegane

    been in the dark for weeks         and I've realized you're all I need
    and I hope that I'm not       too late, I hope I'm not too late



    @[Raul] @[Castile] I love you guys for putting up with me and my sporadic posting
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    #5
    The day continued to surprise, as Raul laid eyes on the piebald stallion who emerged from the brush. Mistrust seeped into the scene, already volatile with the emotions running through it. As much as it off balanced the buckskin stallion to see his sire here and now, he had far more pressing things on his mind. 

    He nodded curtly in the elder stallion's direction, acknowledging his presence, then returned his gaze to the little one at the heart of things. His mismatched eyes drank in every detail, every shadow and plain that made up the boy. Buried beneath the neglect and the hardship, a strength pushed through the youngster's bones. The inherent courage of one forced to face things far larger than himself at far too young an age. 

    The painted boy spoke again, his voice as soft as Raul's own. The words that reach him are not the ones he wanted to hear, but they are not altogether unexpected. Gone. Yes, she was gone. And if the boy's condition were anything to go by, it had been a long while since. Warlight, his beautiful Warlight. She had been full of life once, even when sickness dogged her. A warrior who loved her home and her family. And him. He'd thought so, anyway. 

    There were deep layers there, things done wrong on all sides. It had been an era of fear and judgement, and maybe that was why they had clung to each other so strongly. Why they had burned bright, then burned out. And he had thought himself alone again. But she had not been alone, had she? Not if what he saw was truth. She'd carried him with her, beside her, until her unknown fate caught up. 

    What could be say to make sense of any of this? To begin to patch up the tattered remains of a history he knew only one side of. An uneasy glance towards the looming figure of Castile reminded him of how tenuous this all was. Blood did not mean everything. Sometimes all it managed to do was burn the ones it joined. 

    His throat constricted, felt as raw as it had the day he'd made his sacrifice. It would not surprise him in the least of blood spilled from his lips instead of words. Sometimes it was good to be wrong. The gravely rasp of his voice forced its way past the choking point, out into the space between them. "I am sorry to hear that. Your mother was very dear to me..." The words cracked between his teeth. They may well be blood, as this was his heart on display. 

    He shook with emotion, held it tight to his chest as he pondered where they could go from here. He could not abandon the child, it was out of the question. Nor was he certain where they could go. To stay by the river might do for a while, but it was not a permanent solution. He shook his heavy head, too weary to unravel the jumble of thoughts fighting for dominance. 

    "Did she ever... do you know your father?" He could. be wrong, after all. The resemblance was striking, but it was no promise of relation. If Warlight was the child's mother, she may well have found herself in other company when they had parted ways. It didn't matter though. Not to him. His or not, the boy needed help. Needed care. And if the bone-crowned mare had birthed him, Raul couldn't give a damn who else's blood he carried. Not if it meant he got to hold a piece of her once more. 

    @[Clegane] @[Castile]
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