"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
08-22-2020, 05:52 PM (This post was last modified: 08-22-2020, 05:52 PM by Sabbath.)
She doesn’t recall much of her meeting with Varick beyond her teeth meeting his scales. There are hazy glimpses that turn her stomach mingled between a seething rage, but little else. And now there is a fluttering in the pit of her stomach that she prays is organ failure killing her slowly. Sabbath has more than enough children to fill her nest and hug tight to her as it is. Still, she must face the possibility and prepare herself for the worst.
Today she slips from Tephra and away from her little den. The autumn day is cool against her face when she heads east toward the river. She comes here some days to be alone with her thoughts where her family will not pester her with their concerns or their questions. Where is Tarnished? Where is her daughter? When will they be home? They mean well, but she wants to strike them for it. She has just as many questions and the anger blisters her heart.
Slowly, carefully, she steps over the smooth river rocks and wades into the water. The current is gentle here and it makes no effort to sweep her downstream. The vibrant red scales across the sharp edges of her cheeks glimmer in the midday sun as she closes her eyes. Sabbath lets a sigh ease from her lips and tries to relax the tension from her shoulders for a while. She’d hardly noticed how tensely she carried herself until moments like this.
But then there is the sound of someone approaching. Those wild green eyes open and she looks over her shoulder, already scowling with her head lowered to present her broken horn.
“This part of the river is occupied,” she informs whoever it is sternly.
may my enemies live long so they can see me prosper.
He rises with the sun because even kings with crooked crowns must sleep. As dawn slips over the still waters of the cove, chasing away the final wisps of silver moonlight caught up on the surface, the raw-boned piebald stands with a low groan and stretches before shaking out his mane.
Hunting down his youngest son is nowhere near as easy as it had been finding Salomea. The wan-eyed mare is animal and powerless, relatively weak-willed and she cares about about things – that is, someones. Niklas cares about … well, Niklas for the most part, Set and his family whenever it suits him. Though birthed from the womb of the dapple gray shadowmage, the black devil isn’t quite animal and thus drifts on the boundaries of Set’s control. His soulless offspring is adept at melting into the void just as soon as he’s been discovered, into those shadows that exist between worlds. It would be maddening were father not so fond of son.
Stepping through time would be the quickest way to travel, but it is not an optimal exercise of his gifts, or of his physical form. There was a time that he did not have anything but what he had been born with, before the mythical and untraited comingled so readily and the magical mutations flooded Beqanna. He was well into adulthood when he had experienced his first taste of the powers that the faeries had to offer - uncontrollable shifting, tethered to his emotions and instincts. It had taught him a lesson that he would never forget, one that would have been even further cemented had he been around for his homeland’s recent history. He is not so foolish as to abandon his magic altogether (he couldn’t now, woven into the fabric of his being now as it is), but keeping his matter just as fit as his mind and control of his magicks is a balance he thrives on.
His breath his heavy as he reaches the mouth of the river, having swum across from the opposite shore. He blows and snorts, his bright eyes red-rimmed from the salt, chin chucked just above the water’s surface. There is nothing like knowing the form of dozens of aquatic animals to understand just how ill-suited for swimming the horse is. Blinking seawater from his field of vision, he pulls himself up onto the river’s north bank, resting until his heart rate returns to normal and his muscles no longer ache with fatigue. His eldest is likely in the forest, where the shadows are hollow and the prey abundant. He casts a glance at the nearest mountain, the mid-morning sun dressing its crags in light and shadow. Hyaline would be easiest to traverse by river, and he waits only another minute or two before shifting and slipping back into the water as a giant river otter.
He cannot remember the last time he met a stranger – a female one, that is – who was anything but ill-mannered (broken, jaded, calloused). Frigga, perhaps, that delightful mare with laughter like music and sense of adventure enough to play tag with him in the forest. Make no mistake - the ones that challenge him, that genuinely rival him and engage him – these are the interactions and relationships that he, in fact, craves. He just feels cheated when they bristle even before he opens his mouth.
He shed the otter’s form for his own, but water sheds from his coat just as easily as it had from the otter’s. His gaze drifts across the bay mare’s body. It lingers on the scaling, the reds brilliant in the midday light, before meeting the vibrant scowl cast over her shoulder. Her tone bespeaks of a creature used to getting her way and he does nothing to stifle the wide grin he faces her with, bright eyes dancing. Ears flickering back and then forward again, he continues downriver through the shallows, drifting closer without making a direct line for her. Nonchalant would be the best way to describe the air that accompanies him, but he is wary of this viper hybrid with the jagged, broken horn. In his experiences, the snake is wont to strike first and ask questions later. “Indeed,” he finally agrees, cheekily. He’s stopped just across from her. “Have you seen many others about? Perhaps a hollow-eyed black creature - almost as attractive as I am - stinking of sulfur and accompanied by a massive hellhound?”
Sabbath is beginning to learn that nothing good ever comes from the water. She finds herself wondering over this lesson as she watches Set wade through the river and closer to her. Oh, but he’s careful not to come straight to her. She keeps her bright green gaze trained on him just the same. His wide grin does nothing to put her mind at ease or inspire thoughts of friendliness toward him.
He fancies himself attractive and she wonders if he is. Would her sisters fawn over him if she brought him home to the jungle to show off like some prize? Perhaps, she supposes, but her mind dwells little on thoughts of love and attraction. But there is a question presented to her and she thinks on it for a while. No one came to visit Tephra who did not have business there, and certainly no hellhounds. She’s only ever heard tales of those.
“No, no one’s come to darken my doorway like that,” she says as she observes him for a while longer. “Why are you hunting someone like that?”
She takes a step back to afford more space between them. It makes her uneasy to be too close to someone she doesn’t know well, especially outside of her home. At least there she knows what faces to expect, unless a troublesome magician comes tugging her strings like an awful marionette.
“And what’s your name, if I should run into your creature or your hellhound?”
may my enemies live long so they can see me prosper.
Set