"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
02-07-2020, 10:46 PM (This post was last modified: 02-07-2020, 10:46 PM by Dace.)
The white of his tail trails and dances in the frothing river, and like the silver water rushing below, the grey and dappled blue of his coat shines darkly in the summer sun, glistening with sweat and splashing. It's the shocking brightness of his face and his legs that stands out, deep red-orange like flames, as if the river is burning.
His blazed face hangs just above the shimmering surface of the water as he crosses the river's widest, shallowest point, leaving the stormy turmoil of the rapids for something more calm, more still. Here, his pale hooves fade and blend into the smooth river rocks when he pause, and small schools of silver fish dart around them, pecking away at the mud and silt and bits of grass that fall away from them. The minnows are quick and wary, moving like starlings in the air, a shadow one moment, lightning the next. They are only attracted to the promise of food, a promise that most quickly find to be empty, but a few peck insistently at his red legs when he falls still, their small mouths firm enough that he can feel the urgent tap of their kisses on his skin. Perhaps the few are rewarded with specks of edible detritus because their efforts double for some invisible reason as he watches.
He is named after them - Dace - and there are some fleeting similarities, their bodies flecked with blue and silver, their fins weakly red, but it is here the likeness ends. At last, he turns away from the ever-hungry, ever-nervous, flitting, fish, turning dark steel-blue eyes to the nearby bank of the river. Trees rustle behind him, whispering sentries guarding the eastern shore from trespassers, and on its western side, the sand and rock blend into a vast meadow, golden and musky with the smell of flowers and sweetgrass baking in the heat. It's intoxicating and suffocating. He sticks to the sharp algae tang of the river where a breeze tumbles above, falling down the sides of the lone mountain rising up in the north. Something about that mountain makes Dace's nose tingle and he snorts into the rushing silence around him as his legs fold, dropping into the cool water, rolling as if to wash his old life away.
Saint has always towered over Tephra. Even when Mother ruled, her heart and mind soared miles and miles above their beloved home. Ever tethered by her love and her magic, though, the dragoness kept her predator’s claws buried deep in the rich jungle soil.
Prideful with a hint of arrogance, Saint hovers lazily over where the Meadow, the Forest, and the River meet. She blinks serpentine eyes and suddenly she is seeing the world in all fiery hues. There isn’t much unusual activity, as far as unusual goes in Beqanna. Her eyes flash bright red with irritation, impossibly frightening with their glow and clear distress. Tephra is peaceful and safe beneath Isilya and Beqanna hardly stirs.
Saint isn’t a chaotic or violent creature, but she certainly doesn't like to sit still.
A distinctly equine heat signature is what the dragon finally settles on. With a blink, she is back to normal vision, and the stark gray and red sparks her interest. Something like a smirk lifts her scaled lips, and Saint begins a purposeful descent. She lets the creatures of the Forest and of the River grow nervous with her direct path. Her eyes stay pinned to the koi stallion and just when her wings will buffet him too much, she changes from her flower covered jade green to the rainbow of her horse form.
Saint’s landing is smooth, practiced. Her face is blank and her head held high. Scales still glitter on her hide and where a long, elegant tail should be there remains a spiked dragon’s tail.
“Do you belong to the water?” she asks from where her front hooves rest just in the water.
He is chuckling softly to nobody when the shadow makes its first pass. The silver fish disappear in a flash, but soon return when nothing more dangerous happens, and they quickly are gathering at his lowered nose, shimmying against the slick of the river's current. They are skittish and the shadows remind them of herons and kingfishers, so it is no wonder, then, that when the shadow makes a second pass, they disappear again, except for those sheltered beside the bulk of his body. Their worry makes him lift his head to scan the sky. One does not easily miss the arrival of a dragon, no less than they might miss a comet hurtling towards earth - a blot on the sun, the fire and fury of destruction falling upon them - but unlike the startled fish that dart around him, scattering beneath the rocks, he does not run.
Where would he go?
So though she is reckless and frightens the birds and rabbits and minnows, he is silent, watchful, peering up into her descent with curious ears and blue eyes squinting against the rushing wind. The water turns turbulent around him and the pallid locks of his mane and tail fly in all directions, but Dace is unmoving until the creature has landed, shifted halfway between dragon and horse, and standing before him. Water still drips in crystalline droplets from the long whiskers of his bright muzzle, which wears a soft expression against her blankness. The corners of his lips crook upwards at her question and the stallion hauls himself noisily and wetly to his feet, steps closer to her with a careful eye tracing the swing of her tail. The water beads strangely on his hair-coat and, when he shakes, seems to hover a second longer than it should, before melting back into the river.
"I belong to no-one. To what - or whom - do you belong?"
Dace, who doesn’t belong to anyone, startles and delights Saint, who doesn’t know who she is without that which she belongs to.
A smile—wistful and maybe whimsical, too—drags the guardian’s lips up enough to reveal glittering, sharp teeth. They look lovely there, porcelain just barely stained by the darkening red of a recent kill, pointed in a way that makes such a lovely smile turn into a dangerous one.
(She doesn’t mean it—to look dangerous. Saint wears her ferocity so effortlessly. Subconsciously, she takes a liking to Dace because he appears so nonchalant.)
It doesn’t strike her, being the once princess she is, that someone might not understand what belonging to something means to her. So when Dace asks, Saint simply states, “Tephra,” following the word with a tilt of her head and a curious gaze.
“You look like you belong to the water. Like it gives you magic,” she adds after a few moments of contemplating what exactly it is about him that speaks to her. He is relaxed and intricate. Like her mother’s garden sculptures and the scales her father once wore. His red and gray reminds Saint of watching rain pour on tropical flowers—
That’s it, she thinks. He looks like he belongs to Tephra.
I like him, she decides. The water splashes as Saint takes a couple of steps closer.
04-26-2020, 06:30 PM (This post was last modified: 04-26-2020, 06:30 PM by Dace.)
never thirsty, ever drinking
Does it give you magic? It's a simple question, and one he mulls over, pressing it with his tongue against the roof of his mouth, but, ruefully, he shakes his head.
"I don't know what gives me magic, I just have it. It's nothing very grand or special, unless you'd like to now about minnows' dreams." He chuckles warmly into that sharp-toothed grin of hers, as if the danger of mingling with dragons is nothing to him. A thread of water flows up his leg, becomes a cascade running the wrong way. With a whispered word at the water's surface, a trio of silver fish appear They are cautious of the mare's shadow, of the way she breaks the water as she steps into it, but they are listening and willing to be convinced of what he asks. Just a game, he promises, I won't let anybody eat you, and, after only a brief pause more, they twine up that backwards-flowing stream, darting through the water that clings to his flanks and finally settling where it pools across his broad back. The water licks at his cheek and makes his wild coat shine.
Wild. No more so than her own, in its way, a rippling kaleidoscope of colors framed in black.
As she comes forward, he closes the gap between them, and when he is closer he catches her gaze again almost apologetically, dipping his head, then turning to gesture at the fish swimming circles in an impossible current. "Er, I should mention, I promised they'd be safe there and nobody would try to eat them. I worked all day to gain their trust so I'd hate to break it now."
Trust. Because, of course, his power has nothing to do at all with control, and though he is not worried by the dragoness' teeth, they are startlingly predatory. The three minnows that swam up the mountain of him came because they were the only ones that even considered his outlandish request. The hundreds - the thousands - of others remain hidden in the rocks or have moved on to less crowded water to search for food and mates. Minnows are not a very forgiving bunch, their world is black-and-white and adventurousness is a rare quality that usually leads to becoming someone's dinner.
"Really, I'm surprised I managed to convince so many." And then, as if he is not a walking aquarium, he turns the conversation back to her with an easy laugh. "My name is Dace. And, Tephra - is that what gives you your magic?"
Saint thinks he is pretty, red and gray and as bright as her home. Unique, she thinks, so unlike the little dots of people she doesn't deem interesting enough to observe from the ground.
If Saint were hungry, she might grow impatient with his good-natured protection of his creatures. The show he puts on is fascinating (her eyes trace the streams of water on his hide - oh, she thinks, his magic does come from the water), but her predator's nature always lurks beneath a shadowed bush. It crouches, not yet prowling but - definite, certain, and dangerous.
"I promise I won't eat your friends," Saint says, low, almost purring. She snakes a little closer, uncomfortably like her serpent form, olive eyes zeroing in on the flitting creatures like a cat mesmerized by a mouse's tail. Fangs flash dangerously when she lifts her teeth in a smile, her eyes flash up at Dace from where her head has lowered -
"I'm just kidding!" she quips, suddenly lifting her head and drawing to a proud height. Her mouth gleams without a teasing, near-obnoxious smile. "I have more self-control than that," is an afterthought, one she says as her gaze drops to the moving water below.
"It certainly looks like you belong to the water," Saint says, musing, risking sounding like a broken record. "You got any other tricks?"
Despite his poise in the face of her fierceness, when she waves her teeth over the trio of minnows, his ears flick back and his lips tighten. A promise is a promise, after all. The stormy steel blue of his eyes flashes and the water that surrounds him turns and tumbles, as if boiling. The silver-flanked fish disappear beneath the angry foam of white-water, safe in the stillness below.
Just kidding.
He replies with a quiet "Hm," and tosses his head, shedding the turbulent water, forcing it away from himself so abruptly that it must drench her - standing so near - as it rejoins the river from where it came. The silvery skin of stillwater remains and the minnows have tucked themselves into the quiet pocket beneath his jaw. Dace draws his chin down closer to his neck to shade them.
"I certainly hope you do, eating people's friends won't get you many of your own." The tension has left his lips and a subtle smirk plays across them again as he speaks and follows her olive gaze where it delves into the gleam of gray-green water. She is predatory and sleek and he cannot help but be aware of his disadvantage, that his own magic is so small beside her. The mare has a cat-like nature, ever somewhere between playing and killing, but his easy grin returns, armor against her danger. He leans into her mischief, his voice is a challenge, though warm and good-natured, still watching her avidly as she traces the river surface and muses on his nature. What other tricks does he have?
"No, I think it's your turn, actually. What else can you do?"
"Uh!" Saint exclaims, drawing back from Dace with wide, genuinely surprised eyes. Her expression suggests that no one has ever chastised her behavior before. Water coats her scales in a silvery gleam; little drops leave her cheeks the way tears do, making little noises beneath the rush of the moving water. "You got me all wet," she states with a miffed frown, gaze finally focusing back on the stallion. Saint thinks he did that on purpose, but she doesn't ask - not yet.
A begrudging grin lifts the dragonness' lips when he asks what tricks she has. Her scaled tail submerged in the water flicks upward excitedly, showering Saint's hindquarters with light and liquid. Sharp teeth flash beneath her lips in a hint at some of her tricks.
"You saw most of mine," Saint states with a shrug of her shoulders, casting reddish black eyes to the trees on the shoreline behind Dace. "But maybe . . ." she trails off, taking one offhand step closer to the water-wearer. Her eyes are almost glazed as she thinks, and she is paying so little attention that she does not bother to sidestep in her path to land. Her scales brush freely against Dace, a sensation that makes her blink back to reality but does not slow her movement.
When Saint reaches the shore, she shifts her hooves into her dragon's talons, dipping her nose to the faint line between mud and grass. "Watch," she calls just loud enough for the stallion to hear. When she speaks, the grass quivers, lifting to her mouth with tiny green arms of worship.
"I'm a plant dragon," Saint states, suddenly lifting her head and turning to face the water. "Plants are stronger around me."
Steel-blue eyes dance brightly, reflecting sunlight and a hint of laughter at her dismayed reaction to the soaking, every inch of him claiming ownership of the watery attack but his voice, which says nothing. His tail flicks heavily, laden with water, to slap against his hindquarters noisily, tendrils wrapping themselves around his legs and staying stuck until the current they trail in finally tugs them free. As the mare uplifts her sinuous dragon tail in a shower of diamond droplets, Dace lowers his nose to the water's cool surface and whispers a slightly bubbled farewell to the trio of minnows that indulged his whims, releasing them back to the questionable safety of their home. They dart back among the rocks, joining the shoal of silver-flanked fish with tales the others will not care to hear, and the stallion strains his ears as if to hear the conversations, but they are too quiet, too distant in the rolling rush of water. He loses himself for a moment but the feel of her scales against his damp skin brings him back, the creases between each plate catching wet hair and brushing it the wrong direction so it stands out from against his ribs and sets the skin to jumping. Like a fisherman casting a line, he deftly tosses his head up and out, his muzzle at the extent of his reach grazing her side with the rasping whisper of scales against his lips.
It's a thoughtless, casual, caress, mimicking the unintentional way she rubs against him as she leaves the water and Dace watches, interest piqued by the leading way her words trail into silence.
Maybe?
He follows her to the bank, fine river rock crunching under their hooves, to watch her lure the thin grass to greater heights. It doesn't grow well here, the gravel too loose, the mud too dense, and the river too prone to flooding its banks, but under her spell, the blades grow thicker, taller, darker green. He draws up beside her, head low once again to skim the tops of it, letting the sprays tickle his nose.
"That's amazing," he says, as if he has not so fully ignored the ways she drifts between horse and dragon, as if this is common, expected. He finds delight in these smaller, secret things, an offshoot, perhaps, of his time spent with fish and their forgotten world.
Saint, while not aptly named, has her good graces. She finds them when she stares at Dace, some small, humble part of herself eager to know if he approves of her earth magicks. The swift, subtle brush of his nose against her scales reminds her that she is not an island, alone in her might and glory. The once-princess is as small as the rest, struck like a simpleton when touched by a stranger.
"Thank you," Saint exhales on a breathless laugh, lifting her head and staring pleasantly down at her new companion. "My mother--she's a magician. I grew up learning all the right ways to nurture our earth," the dragonness adds thoughtfully, olive eyes casting distantly over the river. Leliana is a near-perfect mother--as close to perfect as a parent can get. For a moment, Saint forgets she stands beside a stranger, thinking how she must make a point to see her parents soon.
The opalescent woman's reverie is broken when she shifts her hips, accidentally swinging too far to the side and stumbling. Embarassment rises to her cheeks but Saint does her best to hide it; instead of gushing out her shame she says, "Saint. My name is Saint." It's obvious she nearly forgot Dace was there so she bites her tongue in frustration.
An uncharacteristic apology tumbles from Saint's mouth: "I'm sorry, I got to thinking about my mom. And Tephra. I should be getting back there soon." It's true. Her dragon-form is tied so tightly to the volcanic kingdom that too long away leaves her feeling suffocated and tense. "Maybe I can show you Tephra. You'd like the fish."
