"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
08-02-2020, 08:03 PM (This post was last modified: 08-07-2020, 07:25 PM by Blasphemare.)
blasphemare
As old as the breath of wind that brought her in, the black mare stepped into a land once familiar but changed with the flows of time. Age had been well received by this old codger, like a fine, aged wine.. Her bones creaked only slightly for a creature that was only a few years younger than the land upon which she stepped. A pair of blood red eyes glinted in only slightly sunken eye sockets.
Each step was deliberate, placed exactly where it was meant to be to lead her along the edge of the broad plain. Those eerie eyes watched for anything of interest, though the look upon her face read that she didn’t expect to find anything that could peak her interest. Oh, she had been around. She had seen many things. She had traveled to worlds far beyond the borders of Beqanna. Still, this place would always be home.
Even so, it was a home she did not recognize. One hundred years would do that to the land. Trees will grow and die. Rivers will change course. The occupants of the land change. She wondered if there were any faces she might recognize, though that was unlikely. She wondered if some old faces would sense her presence and return, though that, too, was unlikely. She wondered if there were any distant relatives of hers running around instead. That would be more likely, as she had had plenty enough children in the many years she had lived in these lands, and some of those children had had plenty of children of their own. Not that any of them would recognize her, nor she them.
A breeze ruffled a tousled mane and tail, and she stepped forward once more, each step more deliberate than the last. She somehow walked without having to look down, not a normal trait in horses, especially those showing some advance in age. She wouldn’t approach anyone. No, she was too old to bother with that. Let someone approach her. Let someone notice her and wonder what her story would be.
08-06-2020, 01:53 PM (This post was last modified: 08-06-2020, 01:53 PM by Straia.)
is this the end of everything?
STRAIA
or is it just a new way to bleed?
She is perhaps not as old as the mare that makes her way back into Beqanna, but still, she is from another era. She understands how different Beqanna has become, how it is not really their home anymore. Living again, as it turns out, is a rather dull thing. She can pass the time in a state that is something akin to a trance, if she chooses, disappearing into the burning tree that is a part of her soul. Or perhaps now she is simply a part of the tree. It’s hard to be certain which way that relationship works.
Still, she finds herself...curious. That is not quite the right word, but it is a good start. Sochi has asked her what her plan was, and Straia was still not sure she was allowed to have a plan. Did her magic have limits, or could she wreck havoc on Beqanna as she once had?
More importantly, could she bring back some of what had been lost?
That is the question that keeps her up, and she wanders the Meadow with no plan. She can sense the mare though, something ancient about her. Not quite as ancient as Beqanna, but still. Curious is the right word now, and Straia makes her way over, having never cared who approached who. In the end, did that really matter, so long as the stars aligned in her favor? Sometimes it was even mutually beneficial. ”You are older than me, which is quite impressive,” she says as she approaches, her voice a deep purr.
There is nothing remarkable about Straia. She could be anything, but she chooses to be herself. A plain mare with no wings, no horns. Though her amber eyes give away something about her, something knowing and calculating, something to be wary of. This mare seemed like someone she might get along with though.
@[Blasphemare]
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.
" Do you remember? "
She is perhaps brand new, compared to what beings stood before her. She is unfamiliar with a home - whether this or another. She has known nothing except a vague moment of Ghaul, before once again she was swept up and locked away into her father’s magical force. She is a child still, something akin to innocence and wonder (and perhaps fear, too). She knows nothing of the land she walks on, nor of the history of the magnificent mares before her.
What she knows is this: she is back again, thrown to the wind as per when Eight becomes bored. She is lost again, in a land she knows nothing of. She is alone again, as she never had someone to begin with. What does one do when they know so little? They flounder, they wander, they startle in the dark of the night, and seek out anything that resembles serenity. She is unaware of just how little tranquility she may find in the depths of the two before her. From her viewpoint tucked with her back to the foliage (a safe place with a view of the meadow and nothing to fear at her back), she sees simplicity: two mares without markings or magic, quiet and calm in the sprawling vastness of the common land.
Go to her. Her father’s voice cracks through her skull - a command that rings sharp and bright despite the respite she has had from his voice for so long. She does not understand the excitement that would thrill through his spine upon seeing the two before her - but she will listen well.
Her tentative steps take her towards the two mares who may be relics of Beqanna - and her small voice carries out, as she catches the last of Straia’s words. “ How.. how old are you?”
The breeze lifts the scent of the mare to Blasphemare’s nostrils before she is aware of her presence. The old, black mare lifts her head and sweeps it in the other’s direction, watching her approach. She knows that the end destination is here, where the old mare stood waiting. She knows that there is something different about this one as well. As she speaks, Blasphemare smiles the kind of smile that you can barely see, the kind of smile that you have to look for deep in those blood red eyes.
The winds whisper in her ears, telling her things that few could hear; little bits of history, little bits of information, little things that no one would ever know she knew if she didn’t volunteer the information.
She knew the little one was watching, long before she spoke. She knew there was a voice in her head, though she couldn’t tell you what the voice had said or who the voice belonged to. She could guess, however, as she turned to face the little one.
She was old. That was true. She had been around when Beqanna had still been a relatively new concept. She was so old that she cannot remember much of the early years of her own life, except that she had come here as a tiny little girl, following the scent of a mother unknown, though she couldn’t have told you that back then.
“Yes, I am old,” she says sideways to the first mare. It is redundant. She knows this is redundant. The smile that curls upon her lips even says she knows how redundant this is. “But you have a story to tell...” Then she turns her attention back on the little one. “I couldn’t even tell you how old, but I’m nearly as old as these lands themselves, but who should want to know?” Those blood red eyes stare deep into the filly’s eyes, bearing into her soul.
Like calls to like. Maybe it’s just the old blood in their veins (literal and figurative) that connects them, magic given from the same source. Maybe there is something more alike than that though, something deeper than just a connection by magic and age. She could dig into the other mare’s mind, but of course, the other could do the same to her (or they could just block each other). So she doesn’t, because she is not here for that reason but to satisfy her curiosity in the old fashioned way. It is much more fun.
”We all have stories,” she says, her voice still a deep purr, but clearly amused. She does have a story to tell, but she is not going to give it so easily.
But before they can talk much more, there is another that joins them, asking just how old. Straia chuckles, amber eyes turning to gaze at the girl who...well, maybe she belongs with them, in a way. But not with an overbearing father still ordering her about (though Straia does not dig enough to find out this detail; not yet, anyway).
The other mare asks her own question, a probing one, and Straia leaves the topic alone, happy to let someone else do the work for her. ”Hasn’t anyone told you it’s impolite to ask a lady her age? One day, when you are older, you will understand.” It is clear she is amused, not angry though. ”I am old enough that age has ceased to matter. Instead, it is about the world I once knew. It is not this one.”
@[Greta]
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
08-08-2020, 11:02 AM (This post was last modified: 08-08-2020, 11:02 AM by greta.)
GRETA
I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.
" Do you remember? "
So strange - to live in a world where you know nothing, while others around you are all-seeing. She is used to this (as much as one could ever be), as her father did it too. You were never safe, your thoughts never whole without a probing mind. She was familiar with the feeling of her mind being invaded- the soft tug, the crooning quiet telling you let me in, let me in And of course, even if she wanted to - she could not deny the request. She was helpless, in so many ways. However, where her father forced his way in like a battering ram to the door, crowding her head and leaving no stone unturned, this feeling was a little more tepid. She felt the tendrils of the two mares’ minds, but they did not force their way in any further - just dipping a toe in the water.
She is welcomed cordially enough (a relief to say the least)- and they fold her into the conversation neatly. A conversation of age and stories and the land they stood upon - all of which Greta knew very little about. How could she, when half her life was spent in the snow-globe of Eight’s own universe? The bay mare laughs, and Greta briefly feels ashamed. Should she know these things? What is wrong and what is right to ask? There were no questions where she came from - only commands. “I’m sorry.” A rushed apology complimented by her head low and a quick step back (never look him in the eye, always be demure, always admit you are wrong). But it seems the mare does not seem to mind too much - the laughter is not malicious, but melodic- the conversation continues to flow without a beat. Their age is dripping like honey where they stand, their stories creaking in their bones; and Greta is here to hear them. “I do not know much about age. Or this land or world. What happened? Is it not the same?”
08-08-2020, 12:20 PM (This post was last modified: 08-08-2020, 12:32 PM by Blasphemare.)
blasphemare
She could tell the other mare was deliberating in her head. What she was deliberating, Blasphemare did not know, nor did she care enough to find out, though she could imagine it had something to do with using her own magic to find out what mysteries the black mare held within. The whispers of wind told her just enough to peak her curiosity, and the rest she could glean herself.
Yes, we all have stories to tell, but did Blasphemare actually have a story? If she did, she couldn’t quite remember it. She had been around for so long and gone from Beqanna for what felt like even longer that her memories had faded. This was, perhaps, the trait that had aged the most, her memory that is. Though she did remember little bits and pieces here and there. Still, she could not even remember how she had come across her traits or what she had done in the Amazons. She simply remembers that she was a big name once upon a time–a big name that was now nothing more than a whisper in the ears of strangers, a whisper that likely fell on deaf ears.
As the little one apologizes, the old mare chuckles softly. A sound that voices her thoughts, that there is no reason for her to apologize. “It’s alright, child,” she says, her voice gentle and soothing. She could tell that this one was used to a more firm and relentless presence. As the little one spoke again, Blasphemare’s ears perked slightly atop her head. “Time changes everything. Time has changed these lands, shaping the river a new course, growing new forests and killing off the old. Time has changed the old mares you see before you. I know I was once a bumbling, naive child, just like you.” She did not say this in a mean way, but rather her voice is soft and understanding, calling the little one naive as a term of endearment, rather than derision.
She stands there silent for a moment, watching the two before her, one mare aged and historical like herself, wild and free, the other young, naive, and controlled. She felt for the little one, the way she knew so little, the way she was held so tightly in the grips of the voice that commanded her here. Finally, she shifts her weight ever so slightly and says, “My name is Blasphemare, and what should I call the two of you?”
The girl apologizes, her head down, and Straia shakes her head slightly, though there is something like kindness in her eyes. ”Do not apologize, dear.” Her magic reaches out, an invisible bit like gentle fingers, encouraging her to lift her chin back up. ”Not to anyone, and certainly not for something so simple as a question.” She finds herself more curious to know who pulls this girl’s strings. More importantly, she wants to know how to break them.
She lets Blasphemare answer first, though her answer is vague, it is certainly not untrue. Straia grins slightly. ”Perhaps a story is in order?” Though Blasphemare is older, perhaps Straia knows the most history (or just likes to be showy, on occasion). Then again, she may have had something to do with the destruction of the Beqanna she knew, though certainly, she was not the only cause. It would have been quite a feat to be the only cause, after all.
Around them, the world changes. As she speaks, she paints pictures of the lands, as best she can. ”At first, the land was divided only by lights and darks, or good and evil. There was no magic here once, though that was long before even my time. I know only that over the years that began to change, with magic and traits arriving along with those that called themselves neutral. When I was born, there were eight kingdoms. Good, Neutral, and Evil, and each of those divided by mythical and non-mythical. The Chamber of Evil was my home.” This she paints in vivid detail, because it is the place she knows best. Beneath them, the subtle beating of a heart. Around them, misty pine forests and somewhere in the distance, a burning tree.
”But divisions are blurry things. Magic became more rampant, light versus dark ceased to matter. Instead, all that mattered was power. There was too much of it.” She paints a war around them, taking place in the pine forests of the Chamber. A war she started for no reason. A war that was nothing more than magic hurled around, lives lost for no purpose at all besides fear and destruction. She feels no remorse, but of course, she had hardly been the only involved. ”It was some time after all this that the fairies finally had enough. They destroyed Beqanna, leaving only the mountain and new lands to be discovered. Powers had to be earned again, and magic has never flowed as freely through Beqanna as it once did.”
She stops, and the world goes back to normal around them, leaving them once again in the meadow. It is one of the few unchanged places of Beqanna. There are a couple. ”You may call me Straia,” she adds, nodding slightly in acknowledgement of the name already offered from the other ancient mare.
I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.
" Do you remember? "
As she stood before the two anchors of Beqanna - she understood that there was something more here. Stories that ached with destruction and rife with history. She held before her a textbook of Beqanna, pages where one mare could fill the gaps when the other could not. They had eons behind them (and perhaps many more). But Greta - did she have anything to say? Did she have anything to tell? No. She did not. And so the best she could do was listen, learn, drink in the world that she was suddenly surrounded by and honor the mares as they should be.
She holds her demure position - eyes down, chin low - this is how you wait to be absolved. This is how you wait to atone for your sins. She awaits the lash - the heartened grip of magic inside her skin - and instead, she receives laughter from the ancient one. Light (and nothing malicious) and almost encouraging. Her apology is unnecessary (unwanted?) - and as her eyes lift to look at the two before her, her head involuntarily follows. A small tug, like the one she feels upon her soul, something she cannot disobey. And then: a command. Do not apologize. Sealed and set in stone. And the words dissolve from her tongue. Do not apologize: a command. Something she understands.
Greta stands still, bewildered in the solidarity of a command that comes from anyone but her father. She can feel it like a stone in her stomach - something that cannot be undone. While she digests this sudden order, the two before her continue on - and she lifts her head a little more properly before stepping closer to listen. A story - this she could fathom.
She is still so much a child - and as Straia weaves her magic, she falls further into its tomb. It is like the snowglobe her father kept her in - the magic rolling up her legs, seeping into her skull, divining all of her senses. This feeling she knows. This carries a sadistic sort of comfort. Home is what you know - and what more has she been familiar with than others tugging on her strings?
She sees the division of lands stretch before them, and she sees equines that look much like her father, and much like the dark mare before her. The smell of pine tickles her throat, and a sneeze escapes. A taste of darkness flooding her throat. A tree pulsing with fire. Why does this feel familiar? Why is this so true? Why does her heart ache and throb? Home home home.- her father’s voice tears her asunder--
She startles, her head jolting backwards, and she shakes her head as Straia clears her magic. This - she is used to, at least. Worlds created around her that she cannot escape. Things that others create that she is only a whim to. There are so many questions. So many things she wants to know - she wants to feel in that same way.- that she wants answered. But there are introductions floating around. Blasphemare - the ancient black one. Straia - the dyed and magic one. And she? Who was she?
“Greta. I’m Greta. Greta my father said. I can answer to nothing else.” While normally she is timid, slow, and quiet - she hardly waits a beat to introduce herself. There are too many things spilling forth she must know instead. “You are evil? You do bad things? There’s a tree - I know there’s a tree. What is the tree? Why aren’t we all different now?” She turns to the darker mare, and still more comes ”Do you remember this? What were you? Are you evil too? Where did you go that you are back here now?” Did she have a snowglobe too? Were they both as awful as her father? This felt both like the place she should be- and perhaps should not be.
There was something pleasant about sharing knowledge and information with the young one. She listened so aptly, as if she was hungry for more. However, there was also a kind of sadness to the way she submissively tucked her chin and shifted her eyes away from the two older mates. Blasphemare felt like lifting her chin, but the other older mare uses her magic to do the deed. Then she spoke, telling her not to apologize. Blasphemare noticed it, the moment the young one stiffened. She seemed put off by the statement…by the command, the old, black mare realizes. The wind whispers softly in her ears, the words of a curse. She could have corrected this, could have gave her a separate command, but the winds whispered not to, that to countermand the command would only convolute things. This could not be undone. The child would probably never apologize for the rest of her life. Blasphemare reconciled this with the fact that maybe apologies aren’t always necessary.
Then the moment is gone and the other older mare begins to paint a picture with her magic and her words. She tells the young one about the kingdoms that Blasphemare had once known. "There were kingdoms and there were lands beneath the kingdoms, similar to how it is now. I lived within one such land under the evil kingdom for a brief period as a child. There were eight kingdoms. Six of these were the evils, neutrals and lights, the other two were the Amazons and the Tundra. The Amazons is where I lived, along with my sisters, for it was a land for only fillies and mares. The Tundra was the home for brothers.” She uses her own magic to paint these lands into the picture that the other had spun around their imaginations.
As the other mare speaks of magic not flowing as freely as it once had, Blasphemare shifts uncomfortably. This she knew most familiarly when she returned and her own magic had changed. It’s potency has dimmed and fluttered, and was now attached to the shadows, more flourishing in the nights, but weaker by day.
Then like a candle in the wind, the magic dissipates and dissolves around them, leaving the world as they had seen it upon arrival here. They exchange introductions, and the young one, called Greta, sputters our several questions in a quick fashion, as though she cannot get them out quick enough. Blasphemare chuckles softly. “We all have evil and good within us, some more so than others. I certainly have my own darkness to contend with.” She pauses for a moment as more questions pour from Greta’s lips. "I was not here when this war took place. I have traveled far and wide, to many corners of lands unknown to most here. I have seen a great many things." For the other questions, she would allow the other older mare, Straia, to answer, for this tree was something that Blasphemare was not familiar with.
