"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
A roaring wind, rattling and shaking bones of steel — steel?
A stifling breath cages itself in his lungs, he forces it out.
Not steel, never steel anymore — a giggle, angelic and sweet, the ocean smells sweet...
His jaw works, crunching teeth as his marred body crests a hill. The scene that greets him is picturesque; a warming present meant to welcome and lull those in an internal war.
He hates, and yet craves it, in equal measure.
The grass is fresh and lush, but that is now what draws his eyes. People and paths, paths and people. One must decide when it comes to each, for both can bring many things. Despite the leg that twitches to move forward, Soran chooses to move to the side.
Circling and circling, they always circle and watch, waiting, waiting, waiting.
One might have leaped into the beautiful, open field without a thought — once upon a time, he might have done the same. Now he is but the silent eyes and ears once more.
He walks, keeping his posture calm and collected despite the roars in his unsteady mind. He walks and walks, well away from where he had crested the hill and it is only now that he stops, hooves falling upon a well-beaten path.
Not new, not old, simply worn, as most are.
He glances away from the field and towards the direction the path leads. There is nothing truly eye-catching about the path, it is simply the first he has stumbled upon. He fixes himself, neck taking on an instinctual arch and body standing tall. A man of a court... once upon a time.
To take the first or continue on; to pass up an opportunity and never grasp it again.
A giggle, sweet and kind — ash and tears.
He hums to himself. Glacial eyes slink back towards the field (spots those that one would discriminately call exotic and strange) but he does not move.
A gentle gush of air comes from his nostrils, one filled with slight agitation and indecisiveness. He takes a step back from the path, perhaps he should wait. He clicks his tongue. Standing in limbo has never done anyone any good.
Yet, he remains there, watching the path and watching the field. Stuck in limbo.
sometimes I'm terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants —
“Are you lost?” Her voice rings clearly into the crisp autumn air, stepping from the knoll she had been standing on and in the direction of the stranger. The grasses of the field are tall, though their colors have grown dull the further they drug into fall, and they sway like a dim sea in the cool breeze. She shakes her head as the shockingly white tendrils of her forelock obscure her impossibly black eyes, letting herself take in the stallion better.
She is young, just hardly on the cusp of adolescence, but the boldness in which she approaches him is unfitting for most her age. A few months shy of being two years old, there was little that had ever been childish about her. Her very genetics and upbringing only allowed for so much naivety, and with each passing day more and more of that childlike innocence continued to shed. There was an ever-growing intensity left in its wake, a thing that was almost unsettling when it was coming from one still so young.
And yet, there is still a sweet, girlish delight that softens the otherwise sharpening angles of her face, especially once she draws nearer and she offers him a smile. The motion provides a warming depth to what would otherwise be unreadable eyes, eyes that now linger across the scars that mark his face. For a moment there is a look of concern that flickers across her face, but since they appeared to be healed, she is afraid it would be insensitive to ask.
“I’m Desire,” is what she says instead, tilting her head so that she might level her eyes with the bright blue of his. “You’re not from here,” and it comes out as a statement rather than a question.
Hath in her veins, to beat and run, the glad indomitable sea, the strong white sun.
She is not yet heavy with child — perhaps comfortably full (as if she had eaten more than her fair share) would be a more appropriate description — but Oceane has recently become aware of its existence, of the growth within her womb, and in her panicked realization, the opaline woman has fled for the Field.
She is not opposed to children. In fact, she's quite fond of them. But the two deceased colts who lay in her past, never to leave Nau-Aib or survive long enough to see their own weaning, erupted in the forefront of her mind for the first time in years at the exact moment she'd discerned that she, in all of her absent self-control, holds the child of Castile within her glimmering bodice.
To prevent herself from further gut-wrenching consternation, Oceane advances quickly on the first equine her molten amber eyes settle upon. She holds her balefire wings tight to her sides, hiding any evidence of her current condition, and greets the pair with a succinct nod. Her proffered smile is tight at the edges but kind, nonetheless.
"It's curious, really, how often those from the outer worlds find their way to Beqanna," she says by way of verbal greeting, a factual acknowledgement of the ombre mare's statement. She had been in the scar-eyed stallion's hooves just over a year ago herself.
"Oceane," she tells them but ends her speech at that; the stallion still has the galaxy woman's question to answer, after all, and Oceane is caught up trying to place her scent despite the nagging worry that drags her thoughts time and time again to her growing unborn.
@[Soran] & @[Desire] | "WORDS"
neamrel / thedayofshadow
i must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
and all i ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by
12-25-2019, 08:23 PM (This post was last modified: 12-25-2019, 08:28 PM by Soran.)
stand in the ashes of what once was
The abrupt words cause his ears to twitch back, followed by his head turning in the direction of the young voice, albeit at a much more sedate pace than the former.
While the appearance of the young girl is sudden, and her overall physical appearance is something to make note of, Soran is focused more on her daring approach and question. Such fearlessness can be a condemning thing. However, those who are young always do no know that danger can be right in front of them.
"Are you lost?" Was he?
He does not answer immediately, rather he returns a smile to the young girl that will suffice and not cause any concern about his emotional state. (Despite the dark eyes she has, Soran does not miss the lingering look she gives him — more specifically, his scars. He chooses not to comment on it.)
Then as she offers her name, his smile turns slightly more sincere. Now, at this point if he were a more sinister being, hearing one have such a name would be the perfect opportunity for all manner of things, and he cannot help the worry that sprouts within him at the idea her name could create unwanted situations in her life.
"Soran," he offers in return, tone gentle and not something one would expect from someone that looks like him.
"You're not from here." He is just about to smirk at that statement when other movement catches his attention. Glancing in the direction with only his eyes, the new face which appears is older, perhaps older than himself even though he cannot be certain. With wings held tight against them and a smile edging the lines of being too tense, Soran keeps quiet as this woman approaches with a nod and abnormal greeting, just as the young girl had.
He takes note of the name Beqanna, holds it in his mind for later examination.
"Again, I am Soran," he offers once more, (he does not think about how the name of the older woman brings with it the image of cresting waves and roaring waters) angling his body to face both of them. "And no, I am not lost." With being lost came a feeling of anguish at not knowing something. Soran did not feel that. Wherever he was, that was fine with him.
(Even then, perhaps he was lost, for when one was lost they longed for their home; longed for the familiar embrace of that which they did know.)
"I am simply... thinking." Thinking about paths, which direction to head next. He gives the two before him another smile, "You both live here, it seems," he gestures to the path he had been contemplating before Desire had approached. "Could either of you tell me where this might lead?"
sometimes I'm terrified of my heart; of its constant hunger for whatever it is it wants —
Desire has thought little of the outside world; of what lies beyond the borders of Beqanna.
She thinks of the stars and the other galaxies, like the ones written across her skin, but the idea of other lands – livable places – hadn’t ever really crossed her mind. She was still young, and maybe a little self-centered, in that she rarely thought outside of her own circle – herself, her twin brother, Pangea, and occasionally her parents. It wasn’t until she smelled the foreign scents on his skin that her curiosity of what else could be out there was truly piqued, and she regards the stallion with a new kind of interest. “Soran,” she repeats his name, and the syllables have a kind of noble feel to them on her tongue, which again brings her lips into a smile.
When another approaches she turns to meet Oceane with her flat-black eyes, and the smile she offers her is friendly enough. She seemed guarded, and unlike the stallion, who did not give off any kind of vibe that her gift could pick up on, Oceane had a fairly obvious one – she did not know the name of the draconic stallion, but his image burns clearly in Desire’s mind, though nothing on her face gives it away. She smells of Loess, she notes, a land she is not familiar with but one that her and Stave had passed through on their way to Pangea. “My name is Desire,” she says to the older mare, and then, because it seemed polite, “from Pangea.”
Her delicate head tilts in thought at Oceane’s observation, and in a rare show of childish curiosity she asks them, “How do you find Beqanna? I was born here, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever met anyone who wasn’t.” She ducks her head as she adds with a light laugh that ripples in her voice, “Until now, I mean.”
Soran gestures to a path, a well-worn one, but one of many that led to and from the field. “That one leads to the meadow,” she says, her gaze now following the path as well. “And beyond the meadow there is the rest of Beqanna – all the different kingdoms and lands.”
Hath in her veins, to beat and run, the glad indomitable sea, the strong white sun.
Desire, from Pangea.
Oceane hadn't yet visited Beqanna's easternmost territory, though she had heard of it and its rouge sandstone canyons. Her aquamarine ears prick with interest, having never met a resident of Pangea before now, and the intrigue places a sheer blanket over the worry that nags in the corners of her head; out of sight, out of mind. For now.
She concentrates on the galaxy-painted mare as Soran answers the question previously placed before him — no, he isn't lost, but where could this path take him? Oceane's amber eyes, the skin between them furrowed at the behest of her hidden worry, flick to the worn path he has indicated. She knows it well, can smell the wildflowers that would meet him in the Meadow at the other end of it, but she is distracted by the unexpected inquiry that falls from Desire's curious lips.
She smiles, the expression tight but not unkind, as she searches for an answer sufficient enough for the other mare's inquisitiveness that wouldn't reveal more information about her homeland than she is comfortable with.
"I just... kept flying, until I could smell civilization on the breeze. I came across others, before Beqanna, but none that made me want to make a home there." She leaves out how it had taken her years and countless miles to feel safe enough to settle down, or why she had left Nau-Aib. There isn't much else about her travels before Beqanna that Oceane would choose to share even with those close to her, and so she lets her silvery voice fade to make room for Soran and his explanation, should he choose to provide one.
When Desire finally acquaints the scarred stallion with what would await him beyond the path upon which he stands, Oceane nods her agreement. "There are twelve in total, including Pangea and Loess. Each are very interesting in their own way." She adjusts the wings at her side as the tenseness of her muscles causes them to ache and she suddenly remembers why she has kept them pulled so tightly against her sides.
"I apologize for, ah, my interruption—" she nearly stumbles over her own words as she begins to move away from the pair. "I've just remembered that I must..." Oceane clears her throat and sets off quite suddenly into an extended lope, leaving Soran and Desire at the trailhead behind her.
@[Soran] & @[Desire] | "WORDS"
neamrel / thedayofshadow
i must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
and all i ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by
