"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
05-05-2020, 08:51 AM (This post was last modified: 05-05-2020, 08:53 AM by City.)
The winter has not been particularly hard this year, but still it is brutal on an old mare. A warrior like her does not usually notice such a thing, assuming it is part of life, but the freckled woman can feel her body starting to wither around her brittle bones. She naps most of her days away, shifting between an old white jaguar and an old flea-bitten mare, bony and moving slow. As a cat it is easy to enjoy the broad limbs of a lone tree in the Meadow, but it seems easier to pick through the heavy knee deep snow as a horse.
She will enjoy the day she can shed this body and start anew. She dreams of what it might be like to die in flame and be reborn. Will she be young again, newborn, or simply freshened in health? She supposed those are questions to ask someone who might know. And what happens with just being immortal, she wonders, since there are different types, or she’s heard.
Today is cold, the snow falling steadily in light flakes, the day being several shades of dreary grey and bright white. She stands, one leg cocked tiresomely to slant her back end while she rests. Her yellow eyes hidden behind long black lashes closed over them, her bottom lip hanging as she drifts off to sleep.
Even in slumber her ears twist and bend, every so often something stirs enough to cause one of her eyes to crack open and investigate with only a half-hearted effort.
The cold of winter creeps up on the mouse-grey mare slowly, her raven wings clutched to her side more often than not. She is young, however, and a warrior through and though, so she will not complain. Neither do her triplets, though she is honestly glad to have dumped them a little earlier. They’re hers, and she will never leave them alone, but frankly, sometimes they’re too much - they’re too young, to her, sometimes.
At ten-or-so years of age, she still - again has the body of a young mare, about three years old. Even better, the wreckage of carrying triplets had been undone, which might be the only good thing she knows about this whole regenerating-as-a-child thing.
After all, she started to lack the patience she needed to train her wings and muscles, grow old enough again and again to be respected.
She lacked patience in general, these days.
Ha, fuck it, she always had. Who’s she kidding? Her mom? Hasn’t seen her in forever - her brother neither. ”Fuck that.” she mumbles aloud, then starts a trot. Actually, she understood her father now - save for the fact of creating her in the first place, creating more of them with the same curse-; his life was all fucking and swearing.
Why not? If life is all boring and the same, might as well do as you please. Especially if you’re gonna do it forever.
Her trot bursts into a gallop, a wild run through the woods, dodging trees left and right. It is only when she reaches a clearing that she stops, knowing it to be as pointless as life itself, to try and run to her death. It won’t come quickly, it won’t come painless, and it will inconvenience her if she dies. And only her.
”Fuck you, dad.” She tells a random tree, before sighing the cropped-up anger out of her body and turning to the winter grass to chew lifelessly on dead stalks. Fuck you for this stupid gift of yours, this life that I never wanted, just because your dick was itchy and you needed somewhere to put it.
the light you are searching has always been within
