[open] Did you bring a lighter?

[Kindling]

She has solidified a spot in a higher place, where the melting snow and sloshy-mud cannot find her ghost-pale coat. She is barely a quarter of the evergreen tree beside her, hidden by the massive overhang of branches and masked by the nauseating smell of pine needles.

Her right hind foot is cocked in a relaxed stance, her head held mid-height to level with her back as she inhales deeply and lets it out in a long exhale. She is tired from her journey through the gates, her body had been out of commission too long now, her flesh and bones feeling foreign. Death had made her question if what she thought belonged to her all along was maybe just a temporary carcass to wound and scar. 

Kindling looks weak, weaker than we remember her. Her ribs are prominent, her hip bones exposed, her eye sockets sunken. A woman once beautiful and strong, now no stronger than the cardboard straw in a fountain pop. In due time, her strength will build and soon the skinniness will not be so prominent. Muscle and dominance will be as her body replaces deterioration with determination.

Someone poured a little water on your flame, are you dried enough to ignite again?

She opens her eyes from her overdue nap, the softness of sunrise peaking through the green pine needles. There is still a chill in the air - just how winter liked it. She can feel the springtime sun warm the tips of her nostrils where the light first hits. Winter was hard before but coming back from the dead during winter almost felt impossible. So cold still, a dead kind of cold that needed much thawing out.

Like fire, freshly set, she is hungry for life and power - ready to consume and be a force to be reckoned with again.

After a few minutes, she retreats from her piney escape and chooses one of the randomly worn paths to meander down. Each step she takes feels heavy, it always does this early in the morning- arthritis, age, death, pick one but their effect on her is noticeable. Or it could be chalked up to the cold and how it impacts her bones, making her feel tight and constrained.

What can I do, she ponders as she breaks into a trot, attempting to stretch every firm muscle and ligament, allowing herself to move freely in attempt to loosen her limbs. Death did not account for such things to be in limbo—a selfish beast.

Normally this was all it took—a stretch here and there, and she would begin to feel like her old self. Briefly, fear flashes across her face as a thought takes shape in her brain about the hindrances of old age. Is she second-guessing herself? Did she still have what it takes, or should she find someone who does?

The path eventually led to where the treeline broke, leaving only the open space of the field as the only landscape. Once upon a time this was where she would come to find fresh meat to bring home, another body to fill her army. Now, it seemed almost barren this morning with only the soft distant tune of songbirds and the leftover remnants of frost shining on the limbs of trees.

Her mind spins, reels, tumbled with myriad thoughts: what will become of her now, would anyone barter a place for her skills amongst them? The pale mare stood there, stationary and thoughtful, with the lightest of breezes toying at the tips of her tangled mane. Her stomach churns with anticipation and purpose; this time—her time, she was back for a reason and she would not squander the chance she’d been given.

They say white flame burns the hottest... who would finally bring light to the fire left on embers for too long?

[Leilan]

You’re uncontrollable
and we are unlovable

The Isle is unforgiving in winter; unyielding horses stubbornly reside where nature tells them every year that they shouldn’t. Spring and summer however, allow them to graze - and so does Nerine, when in time of need. The winter kingdom - princedom, home of the hounds, territory, whatever - could never be solitary, save for those like him, those who are so accustomed to the snow and ice that there is hardly any choice.

It’d be lonely if it were standing alone.

Luckily, it doesn’t. And now that spring is well underway, the place allows for a certain foal to be given the proper meals. Himself, he hasn’t eaten anything vegetarian for a long time, and it feels like perhaps he should. This little escape from reality could be just the thing.

Grazing isn’t exactly a possibility with teeth like his. They’re only suited for tearing things apart; thus, he digs for roots, finds berries, and perhaps some early fruits.

He wanders a bit, doing so, until he spots a hare and decides that it might be fate.

The stallion has the benefit of not smelling actually like a predator; being a horse and all, he can pretend to graze until he’s close enough. A breath of icy cold then is aimed at the small animal; their warm paws get stuck with ice to the ground like a tongue on a frozen object (not his, but regular people’s tongues). The ice drake stills his hunger quickly, and so it becomes apparent to him that all those years living on a strict vegetarian diet were a ruse.

If he is a predator, he’d better get used to it. It’s like that day with Sabra. Sometimes it’s better to give in to what you are, he thinks. It’d been better for everyone.

The scaled draft wanders further, his roan scales glistening in the spring sun, courtesy to the ice adorning them. He enters the field not because he’s actively looking for anything; remembers how long ago it was that he’d been here, wanting to prove that he could actually be a diplomat and starting a chain of events that led to many a horse’s demise. Well, his own mostly, and possibly the bay mare’s. She’d make a great mother though. Just a terrible wife or girlfriend. Is that rude of him? She had been expecting more than he could give, after all.

And for now he’s decided not to give, any more. Not that he’s taking instead, he just doesn’t involve himself. It’s easier. The odd way out. It’s the only thing he knows.

The field is rather empty this morning, and he enjoys the idea that recruitment has come to a standstill for those who came here daily for that purpose. Oh, diplomats. He shakes his head and finds a sole tree to relieve an itch; then, shoulder resting on the cold stem, he watches lazily.

A mare walks into the field. For a moment, Leilan is content to simply watch, see what she’s doing. But she’s doing nothing; standing, probably thinking a lot of things he doesn’t need or want to know, and on the lookout.

After what feels like an eternity, he calls out. He’d better go see what she wants, this empty-looking mare filled with thoughts.

and I don’t want you to think that I care
I never would, I never could again

Leilan

no. 7 | ice forged in fire

@[Kindling]