"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
02-03-2021, 06:44 PM (This post was last modified: 02-03-2021, 06:44 PM by Sabra.)
My teeth ache. My jaw has been clenched and grinding and now it aches like thunder. I'd woken days ago only to leave mounds of hair curling among the drying weeds. My hair. My flaming, tangled locks, gone. My shrieks of rage had been ear splitting. Agonizing. A wordless, chest-splitting promise of violence.
It was anger like I hadn't felt in a long time, and those cussed fairies were to blame. I asked for the simple favor of my hair changing color, and they took it away entirely. It was an insult and a challenge and I am absolutely certain I will return the favor some day.
This was some time ago now. Days, maybe. So hard to tell when time loses all meaning. My greatest indication that any time has moved on at all is the mellowing of my wrath into a quietly burning ember of hate in my heart. It's easy to hate when you're cold. The sun is gone, and with it the heat I adore. My wings have been my only heat as I wander, too heartsick to go home yet.
The only bright side, I suppose, is that in the dark no one can see me like this. I am sulking, and I think it is near the river that I've made it to. The scene of many of my lowest moments. Staring into the dim, I can almost make out the edge of the bank. It is colder here, with the air moving over the running water, the damp earth beneath my feet.
A miserable location for a miserable mare. Rasping murmurs float across the current, drawing my eyes with listless interest. Familiar gleaming eyes reflect their own light, blink, and multiply. There may be a single creature watching, there may be half a dozen. I don't really care.
"What do you want," I growl absently, naked tail switching irritably. They are not fairies. Quite the opposite, I think. That does not change the fact that I'm in the mood for a fight and not above starting one if the opportunity arises.
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
He returns to the river time and again. It is not a home, but it provides familiarity. And in these fucked up times, familiarity is worth something. Even now, with his memories returned, it’s worth something. More in many ways, because his memories are just as fucked up as the rest of this damned world. Over a century’s worth, battling to reclaim their rightful place inside his head, had taken its toll on him. He is tired and annoyed. And just so damned done with it all.
But he’s not. And he never would be. Isn’t that just the kicker? No matter how done he felt, he would keep living. His life would tick away to the rhythm of his heart beating inside his chest. It might pause, but always it restarts. Again and again.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
So here is at the river, seeking some iota of comfort from the cold current and damp, muddy banks. He’d prefer to seek that comfort elsewhere, but he’s no fool. That comfort was not meant for him and never would be. No matter what stupid realizations he came to or what idiocies he’d overcome.
When the sound of another approaching reaches his ears, Ashhal scowls deeply before melting into the shadows of a tree. He is in no mood for company. They always seemed to want something more from him than he wanted to give. And unless it was a fuck or fight followed by a quick departure (it so rarely was), he never had what they sought.
She doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to the shadows though, instead watching the river. But when her gaze lifts and she grinds out an absent question, the scowl adorning Ashhal’s lips deepens. God, he’d really hoped she wouldn’t notice him here.
“Not a goddamned thing,” he snaps back, his tone matching hers.
02-08-2021, 04:08 PM (This post was last modified: 02-08-2021, 04:09 PM by Sabra.)
The voice that answers is not one I expected. Not the hoarse whisper of a shadow-being, like a snake moving over dry leaves. This one is masculine and irritable, and it brings a vicious grin to my lips.
"Not a godamn thing, huh?" I singsong back to him mockingly, eyes blazing in the dark. "Well, isn't that a first! How utterly refreshing." I sway in the voice's direction, eyes searching for the speaker. I move a few jolting steps the way I think it came from, slipping a moment on a patch of half-frozen mud. Wings flare out to catch my balance on a snarled curse.
The sweet tone is edge with broken glass now, as I think I have come close enough to make out the stranger's profile. "So if you really don't want a goddamn thing, how's about you fuck right off my little patch of river bank and find a nice tall cliff to take a long walk off of, hm?" A perfectly reasonable suggestion, in my book. I was here first, so he can either make my day, or disappear. I have no third alternative in mind.
This damned darkness has its uses, I won't argue that. Hiding my horrible naked neck and ass, for one. But it sure does make it difficult to assault someone you can't see, and I'm listing from one side to the other trying to remedy that. Hoping that maybe the cursed stick in my chest will bump into something solid to sink my teeth into.
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
Rather than taking the sweeping hint his words had less than subtly provided, she instead turns towards him, eyes searching the darkness for him. His ears flatten against his nape as she mocks him, sarcasm thick across the sickeningly sweet lilt of her words. He glares from the darkness, barely able to make out the outline of her form coming towards.
When she slips, a curse erupting none-too-sweetly from her lips, a bark of unkind laughter escapes his own. She seems more irritable now, even less pleasant than just moments earlier. While Ashhal has never been terribly picky about his amorous encounters, there is a madness about her that proves entirely off-putting, grating the edges of his nerves and kicking his senses into overdrive.
She seems… unpredictable. And not in a good way.
As she closes the distance that remains between them, his gaze is drawn to something protruding from her chest. From this distance, Ashhal cannot quite tell what it is, but it unsettles him. So much so that her next suggestion sounds far more appetizing than it normally might have.
Wings flaring abruptly, he begins to advance, dark eyes glittering dangerously inside his pale features. “Gladly,” he spits swiftly back, continuing forward as though expecting her to remove herself from his path so that he might do exactly as she suggested. He wasn’t about to argue about who was actually here first or had the rights to remain.
You ever get what you want, and then realize that it actually wasn't what you wanted after all? I came to a teetering halt as the stallion (now a pale blur on the night) spat his acceptance back at me. The pale pink of my lips peeled away from my teeth, disgusted.
"What is it like, to live such a cowardly life that a bony mare speaking venom is all it takes to chase you off?" I 'tsk' from my perch, a bolt of lightning streaking across my shoulder. It was too easy. There's no fun in tearing into someone when they don't fight back, so I jab again until they do. I need conflict to spend the electricity that makes my bones jerk beneath my skin.
Like a battery just waiting to be connected to its circuit, I fizz in place, impatient for the right wires to cross. When he continues moving forward, I hold my ground. If he wants to leave so badly, he can go around, he can go the extra three steps. My head tips like a curious bird's. Breathing in light, feathery bursts, I smile at him.
"Don't let the rocks hit you on your way down, dearie, we wouldn't want to damage your fragile skin." I chime, no rhyme or reason to the words. No logic, except that I want to instigate something. Anything. I do at last step to the side, one wing snapping out, hoping to clip him as he pushes past. A few discordant notes hum through me, knowing that I'm being a fool and knowing that I stopped caring about that a long time ago.
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
He might once, a long time ago, have been so easily goaded into attacking. Might have found offense in the implication that he was so weak he cannot handle one underweight wench. But time and experience had brutally beaten that right out of him. He knows even the most innocuous creatures can be some of the most damaging. He might be an idiot, but he’s not fool enough to fall victim to such a paltry insult.
Besides, the way her body seems to be fairly crackling with overzealous energy, he’s absolutely positive she has some kind of ability beyond the visible. Ashhal himself is decidedly boring in that respect. Wings and an inability to die don’t do fuck-all against some of the ridiclous bullshit more and more horses seem able to conjure up these days. He’s not particularly concerned about death, but it sure as hell isn’t on his bucket list today.
Still, he’s more than pig-headed enough to not only refuse her goading, but to refuse to move around her (despite the fact it would undoubtedly end this encounter much more quickly). He is more than half convinced he’s going to have to barrel right over her, weird stick and electric skin be damned, but at the very last moment, she does move sideways. With a very decided lack of graciousness.
When her wing snaps out in an attempt to smack him in perverse retribution, he finds himself unable to resist retaliating. Ears pinning, his teeth snap at the offending appendage without an ounce of restraint or gentleness. If nothing else, the taste of feathers on his tongue would help assuage his own irritability, not to mention how gratifying the knowledge of understanding how painful it is to be plucked like that.
He doesn’t turn back - doesn’t even stop walking - but the muscles of his back and haunches stiffen, the anticipation of a response sowing tension down his spine. Truth be told, he rather hoped she did. He’d been spoiling for a fight all damned day.
And really, I hardly did anything to get it. A lazy, self-satisfied smile paints itself across my lips, the pinions of my wings resettling themselves along my side. "I knew it!" I crow, a little jig bouncing erratically through my legs as I jerk out of his grasp. He's pulled off a few of the looser plumes, and I wince lightly at the sensation, but the smile doesn't fade.
"Not as dead to the world as I thought, no sir! You might still have a touch of life to you after all. A dash of fight and fire." I cackle, ruffling my wings and spinning on my heel after him. My mood has shifted, from sullen and brittle, to a sharp sort of entertained.
That's the problem with getting my attention, you see. I'll hold on to it until I get bored, and there's no saying how long that might take. He's so surly looking, so downright pissed, and well, I'm just adamant about figuring out why. Not that I think I can or really even want to help, but just because it's interesting to see why everyone else is miserable.
Like an intrigued bird, I hop a pace closer to him, head cocked one way then another. "And just when we were getting to know each other, you up and leave. Typical." I pout, voice shatteringly light. The motion of my head is astonishingly free, and I'm reminded of what I'd come here to forget. An ugly look flashes across my face before I reconstruct it into something more neutral.
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
To his surprise and disgruntlement, she does not attack as he had anticipated. The victorious crowing that escapes her lips pins his ear flat, teeth gritting as he tries his damnedest to ignore her. Unfortunately for him, such a feat proves impossible as she dances after him like a seagull spotting food.
A snort of derision escapes his lips at her observation. If only she knew how immutable that touch of life apparently is in him. “Too much fucking life,” he growls under his breath, still refusing to halt.
If she was looking to avoid boring though, she’d picked the wrong target. His life consists of precisely three things. Even he had grown so fucking bored of it he’d been tempted to die just for a reprieve. Of course, a whole lot of bullshit had followed that whim, so now it seems he was right back at square one. A little older and wiser maybe (hah!), but doing the same damned monkey dance.
At this point, he’s committed to ignoring her entirely. At least, until she spits out that line about getting to know one another. He stops abruptly, caring little if it causes her to bounce right off him. His dark, glowering gaze snaps to her, lips curling in an unpleasant sneer. “Trust me lady, you don’t fucking want to know me.”
I'm a dervish, feverish, barely contained within the bounds of my own body. Lightning crackles at the seams of my scars and I sigh oddly nostalgic as he grunts at my antics. Such a thick shell!
I nod, agreeable for once. "You're not kidding!" I chirp, eyes rolling heavenward. "Too much life, too much too much too much!" The babble is easy on my ears, a pleasant pattern of sounds that I discard. "You know, I remember exactly the last time I felt like I slept well? Which is saying quite a lot, really, my memory is not what it once was! The last time I returned, I felt whole and healthy, like I'd had the best sleep of my life. And then it all went to hell, as usual." I chartered on, hardly breaking stride when he halted and my shoulder glanced off his hip.
"Almost skewered you!" I cackled to myself, as I sidestepped his stoney form. "You die and you die and every time I come back, I leave a little piece of myself there. The body does what it can, but magic can only go so far. Can only heal so much, before its all scars and shattered minds. Too much, I say!"
It's nonsense, threaded with my truth. There are things that I've left behind, some more intentionally than others. Some I wish I could get back. Who I am without them is not who I ever wanted to be. Doesn't matter now, though. What's done is done, and I'm all that remains. Me and this stick in the mud who's so sure he's the baddest boy on the block.
My grin is as haphazard as the rest of me, but it glimmers ever so slightly with the ghost of the girl I used to be. She tried to take on the world once, and lived to regret it. She's gone now. "You're absolutely right, I don't give a flying fruit bat about you. But as long as we're sharing stories, you may as well add to my list of things to forget." Almost an invitation, nearly a dare. I brush up against his side like an affectionate cat while he ponders my proposition.
I tried to sell my soul last night Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite
He may have been something once, a very long time ago. Now he is as hollow as the man he had always pretended to be. He had never been anything good, of course, but he had been something. Perhaps her lunacy has some truth to it. Every time he’d died, he had left a little piece of himself behind. If that were true, there must be very little of himself left.
In truth, he cannot say he has very much of himself left at all. Cannot say his own personal nightmare is nearly as distant as he wishes it to be. Perhaps in another decade, he would simply be a soulless shell of a man, wandering these cursed woods for eternity as he rotted away and died over and over again.
Would she still find him so interesting then?
He doubts it.
It fuels the bitter humor that begins to rise in his throat, turning his next biting jest to acid on his tongue. “If this is all that remains of you, there must not have been very fucking much to begin with.”
If he could read thoughts, he would have laughed out loud at her imagination of his conceit. He might have been fool enough to believe himself the ‘baddest boy on the block’ once, but that had been whipped from him decades ago. No, what she now witnesses is the demeanor of an old ass who had stopped giving a shit several lifetimes ago.
Turning away from her with a dismissive snort, he starts walking once more, brushing off her practiced affection with the ease of someone who wouldn’t know it if it smacked him in the face. “If it’s forgetting you want, I have a few suggestions for you.”
