"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
It is barely dawn when he wakes for the day, a single red eye blearily exposed from beneath the long waves of his raven forelock. There’s a chill in the morning air and the fresh scent of rain hangs heavy on the breeze as dark clouds begin to roll in, a promise of a storm to come. He wonders for a moment if Cheri might be here, where there was a storm usually the onyx and green girl followed. Had she come back? The thought makes a wild flurry of emotions flare in his chest. He has not seen her since he left her standing amongst the wide sea of flowers, alone and drunk. He didn’t need to turn his head to see the rage that probably ran rampant in her bright clover eyes as he walked away. He can see it clearly in his mind, feeds off the hatred that he's sure she had tried to burn him with. The harsh scowl of her lips as disappointment radiates from every orifice of her body. He dreams of it often.
He dreams of a girl of gold now too, with savage glowing stripes and cold oceanic eyes. She smells of wind and dust and unspoken desires. It's the dreams of her that he tries to focus on. The wicked smile on her mischievous lips and the silent promises that tease him from the depths of blue. Sometimes he sees them all together. Aela, Wherewolf with his flared wings and permanent scowl, Crowns of ice and fire (he should seek that one out soon) and whoever else they find as they stir up trouble across Beqanna just because they can and it's better than being boring. Lately it's just her. Bright as sunlight with a coy expression on her delicate features, a devil in disguise.
With a yawn he finally rises, shaking off the last remnants of sleep as he looks upon the flowered world that he calls home. From where he had made his bed (under one of the few trees on a wide rolling hill that’s close to the crystal clear stream), he can see the wide heart of the Pampas. It’s a thin light that comes through gray clouds but he finds he prefers the world this way. There is a beauty in the dimness, in the slated shadows that cover the sky, in the clean earthy scent of promised rain. Has he always loved storms? The red eyed stallion can’t recall but he notices them now, appreciates them now. A scowl plays across his lips as she returns to mind and if he could slap himself over and over again he would. Yes, he’s well aware of why he keeps an eye out for the tempest, why he craves the downpour.
The scowl still lingers as he spots a shape moving through the tall grasses and delicate petals. It fades slightly as he makes out a familiar face but doesn’t disappear completely. So the dappled stallion had come after all. The depths of red glitter coldly over the pegasus but he’s far from disappointed that he’s here. Quite the opposite. “The tortoise finally arrives.” He goads, the scowl finally disappearing into a smug smirk. “Too bad the hare got here first.” A flicker in his scarlet gaze, knowing he’s stirring the pot and making it clear that it’s his every intention. That's what friends are for after all.
Wherewolf is slow to arrive, but not because he is incapable of moving quickly. Instead, like his mother, he is unhurried, especially when faced with the expectations of others. Their goals are not necessarily his and so the gold and tobacco pegasus takes his time. Like his manner, his flight is blunt, and short, and swift, with powerful wingstrokes that thrust him through the air rather more like a stone throne by a trebuchet than a knife.
Beware all who fall under his shadow.
He does come, eventually, though. Not because he said he would (unlike Obscene's beloved Fae, Wherewolf has no trouble lying or going back on his word,) but rather because he really has nowhere else to be. Even now, though, he is slow to land, circling the region prospectively. A part of it is scorched and it reminds him of the damage wrought in Nerine by the dragons. His mother had been gone at the time and he wonders unforgivingly what sort of a ruler leaves their land when it is being openly attacked, ignoring that he, too, would likely choose revenge over defending the miserable bit of rock that built the North.
Nerine and Loess both had burned that day, and his father with them.
He should probably feel more strongly about that than he does. Instead, Wherewolf feels nothing. He learned long ago that feeling things like that didn't serve, and so he balled them up and shoved them so far down below the layers of bitterness and anger that even Amarine couldn't find them. That was better. She had been too free with her magic, too ready to use it, too ready to help, and he hated the way those artificial emotions felt, the way they stirred things up that he preferred left to decompose in the soft mud at the bottom of his stagnant soul. Dangerous, that kind of magic.
He lands, finally, near a rather large mound covered in pampas grass and flowers. The grass sways deftly in a wind that the rest of the prairie doesn't seem to feel, rhythmic and slow like the breath of someone sleeping away the afternoon. The dappled stallion is not interested just now in investigating the strangeness of Obscene's home. There lies more trouble than its worth, as Neverwhere had discovered when the nuckelavee emerged from the sea - a scowl isn't much good against a thing with toxic breath and rending claws. Wherewolf, with his mother's scowl, turns away from whatever it is, delving deeper into the Pampeian savannah until a familiar voice rings out across it.
"Hares get eaten when they don't run," he says with a droll shrug, turning to face the red-eyed Prince, "D'y'know, someone's been burning your garden to the west."
The tobacco pegasus would remind him of a gunslinger from the old West… If he had any idea what that even was. Unhurried, rough around the edges, out for only one person. Himself. It was the easiest way to survive so he doesn’t fault Wherewolf for his tactics. It might not make him the easiest guy to get along with but at least he was one he could understand. They both donned similar sets of armor against the dreaded thing known as feelings. Both remained wary of the capacity of magic. They had similar methods of learning how to cope, how to survive.
He follows the dappled’s scowling gaze and gives a slight snort of amusement. “That’s Steve. He’s harmless. Mostly.” His own red eyes follow the last of the grassy mounts movements as it fades from view. “Doesn’t make much sense, that one.” The mammoth was still a mystery to him and despite his time with the Fae, he wasn’t much for solving puzzles if he didn’t have to. A crooked grin finds his lips at Wolfie’s rather witty retort and a rather impish idea comes to mind. Wherewolf certainly does have a way with words doesn’t he?
At the mention of the cremated remains of the land to the west, he merely rotates his shoulder in a shrug of his own. “It was like that when I got here. I suppose I should do something about it eventually.” A roll of a red eye, the task falling low on his mental to-do list. He knows if he’s to succeed in this role it will mean putting in at least a little effort. But first, why not some fun? “I could use someone like you here, Wherewolf. You have a finesse that others lack.” None of its a lie, the winged stallion did have finesse in the sharpness of his phrases, but there is a little wickedness to his smile as he looks to him. “I can’t think of a better diplomat to represent me or the Pampas.” He pauses, a rascally twinkle in the depths of red. “Aela thinks you’re incapable but I disagree.”
“Have you tried these flowers before?” He easily steers the conversation as if he hadn’t asked him anything of importance at all. He steps towards the bright red curling petals that distinguish the special flowers from the rest. “Sometimes they show you things. Most of the time they just help you relax.” And here he flashes him a rather pointed look. As if the last thing he can imagine is a calm and gentle Wherewolf.
05-29-2021, 08:42 PM (This post was last modified: 05-29-2021, 08:52 PM by Wherewolf.)
Let's be better strangers
For all the rest of his faults, Wherewolf is not stupid - or so he likes to tell himself - and though he enjoys the flattery, he is not moved deeply by it. Obscene may try to play him against Aela if he wishes, but Wherewolf doesn't rise to the ribbing, only stares with that unchanging scowl. A diplomat?
He thinks his mother would enjoy the joke, it is the sort of joke that she would play on someone. He thinks Amarine would be horrified, and that thought quirks at the edges of his scowling face, adding unkind humor to the gleam of those blue-green eyes. He neither knows nor cares what game Obscene is playing at, but he is willing to play this part.
"It's your funeral, Obscene." His gaze turns back to the mound called Steve and he wonders if everyone here is out of their skulls, but he doesn't wonder long. The answer is almost certainly yes. The idiocy is pandemic, and it must be catching because he's agreed to be here among them. The tarnished silver of his short tail switches, faintly irritated with what this must means, brushing at his dark hocks and the flowers that bloom around them bright as Obscene's eyes, bright as Wherewolf's golden dapples in the shining sun. Their heady scent makes the air thick, but his stubborn Northern blood resists.
He won't be led so easily.
"No, I haven't." He has not tried the Pampeian flowers. He does not want to relax. He doesn't want to forget all the little jabs, all the hurts and the betrayals that led him to this place, where his bitterness is so palpable he's surprised the flowers around them don't wilt beneath his shadow.
And he's not certain he wants to remember the things that he has forgotten, either. Calm and gentle Wherewolf died years ago, if he ever really existed, crushed by wind and granite, and plucked by hungry gulls. Shaken to pieces by a mother's unforgiving teeth. The shadows of those memories are too thick to see through and he does not need Aela's or Ama's magic to know it best not to shine the light there. Nonetheless, he lowers his lips to brush against delicate petals, avoiding the nectar the Prince of Poppies is pushing so strongly.
"Was it the flowers that told you to make me a diplomat? You might want to ease up a bit," he remarks, his voice sly, "I wouldn't trust the advice of my dinner."
I can see through you, see your true colors Cause inside you're ugly, you're ugly like me
The red eyed stallion can be as fickle as the weather but for now he likes this idea of Wherewolf representing the Pampas. While rooted in prank it also served a more cunning purpose, what might other territories think if his best representative was a stallion like Wherewolf? A man who would cut through the bullshit and get straight to the point. It sends a message, he thinks. One that keeps them wondering and hopefully far off his back.
“I have faith in you.” He gives a rather slick smile, no lies in his words as his gaze continues past the dappled pegasus to where Steve had once stood. At his mention of the flowers talking, he simply laughs lightly and responds to his sly smile with one of his own. “You really think so little of yourself that I need flowers to plant that idea?” He pauses as his muzzle sweeps over a bloom with wide open petals, beckoning to discover what lays hidden in its honeyed depths. “Besides, who doesn’t like to travel and see more of the world? I rather thought Lord Wherewolf had a nice ring to it.”
He is quiet for a moment as he lifts his head and gazes at him with a rather curious look. “What is it with you and Aela anyways?” He’s merely curious and it’s not an intention to pit the two against each other that spurs the question. The sunlit striped mare was a mystery in many ways to him as much as she had grown familiar. He wants to know her better. Wants to know them both better and get a clearer understanding of this thread of animosity that ran between them. It was important to know how they thought, what made them tick, how their weaknesses could possibly effect him. There was also a smaller part deeper inside him that perhaps asked from a place of caring that he would never openly admit to.
06-11-2021, 10:35 PM (This post was last modified: 06-11-2021, 10:36 PM by Wherewolf.)
Let's be better strangers
"It sounds downright ridiculous."
He makes no effort to hide the expression on his face over being called a lord, and something in his chest claws against the inside of his skin, at his throat and tongue and skull with the idea that he will have responsibilities, that he will have to answer to this drunken Prince. The whole idea is preposterous - he'd as soon tear his own heart out and lob it, still beating, at the black stallion - but he soothes the seething anger with a quiet reminder that he absolutely will not try his hardest.
No, he will go where Obscene sends him, and he will be exactly who he has always been, and if it brings trouble to the Pampas, well, it's hardly his problem. It isn't as if he's the one in charge here; let Obscene and Aela deal with that. Wherewolf could be long gone before the consequences came looking for him.
Mollified, the beast in his breast smiles a smile that bleeds onto the buckskin's dark lips, one that is, at best, conspiratorial, but certainly not friendly. One that, with Prince's next question, freezes, becoming little more than a rictus grin.
It's complicated. Although, not really.
"She started it," he says simply, and that shouldn't really come as any surprise, because Aela is always scheming, always finding trouble; always starting trouble.
And isn't she at fault? She should not have gotten in his way that day. In the twisted alleys of his memory, a colt and filly are fighting on the broad heather plain of Nerine. He's turning to leave and the wicked little cat snatches his wing up in her teeth. His left wing. He remembers panic and rage, a dragon and an explosion echoing in his mind. He remembers they fought until she finally let go and the white noise faded with the scent of sweat and blood, and back in the Pampas, he hitches that wing a bit tighter to his side.
Why do he and Aela dislike each other so? It's simple. Although, again, not really, because that isn't the whole story. He does not, however, elaborate. She is too proud, too vain, too smooth, catching up on all his sharp edges. Who can be surprised they don't get along?
"You should watch your back with her, too. She's slippery, why else would her Mama name her Eel-ah?" The topic of Aela does not interest him, though, so he pauses only long enough to shake his head and chase away a bee buzzing too close to the golden dapples on his cheek before moving on.
I can see through you, see your true colors Cause inside you're ugly, you're ugly like me
It would be a fascinating thing if the dappled man ripped out his chest and lobbed a heart at him and if he could read his thoughts he might encourage such behavior. Alas he can not, so he also misses the thread of thought that soothes Wherewolf. The one where he tells himself he would absolutely not try his hardest in this new role Obscene had placed him in. But if he had, he would have agreed. He doesn’t want him to try at all to be something he is not. That would ruin the prank you see. “Ridiculous?" He says with that smug grin. “Well yes, of course. I have faith in you regardless.” Faith in what, exactly, is a matter of interpretation.
What has become more interesting is that visceral reaction when he brings up Aela, the stiff smile and tension that blossoms beneath the sooty buckskin’s flesh. “She started it.” He says, the mature reaction he has come to expect from the man but he nods in understanding. Because she does have a way of starting things, placing little hints and subtle suggestions and knowing just exactly how to get under one’s skin. For him it was a more pleasurable experience, for Wherewolf not so much.
Wherewolf mentions watching his back and he says nothing for a moment, his red gaze lingering on the flowers as if he is inspecting them and not rummaging through his own thoughts about Aela. A corner of his lip tugs upward in a smirk at the jab against her name. She could be slippery, remembering the supple sunlight of her flesh and the kisses she had planted along the thick chorded muscle in his neck that fell like waterfalls across the glittering gold of his skin. “I’m aware.” Is all he finally says, acknowledging that he has heard the man. He had already known of course, that he was playing a dangerous game when it came to her. He had known and decided that he didn’t care. Aela was the type of mare he deserved and the fire in her ambition spoke to some sort of fire in him. A steady burn that could destroy him completely.
He breaks his thoughts on the striped woman as he looks back at Wherewolf. What did he need from him now? “See if any territories are interested in getting to know.. us. And try to find out anything useful along the way” He says with a shrug, his gaze now scanning the open field of wildflowers. Usually a diplomat was a line of communication to open up a pathway to diplomacy between different courts. Being that this was Wherewolf… it would be interesting to see what kind of "pathways" he ended up opening. “Anywhere in particular you ever wanted to go?” He has an agenda to find Crowns of course, the boy from the party that had stood out in his mind. He also wants to send Wherewolf to Sabra and let her know of his ascension. She would be pleased, he thinks, and he would rather keep someone like her on his good side. However let it be the pegasus choice first, let him pick where he wants to go and simply let the dominoes fall where they may.
![[Image: Obscene-Pixel.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/fTkjKh9Q/Obscene-Pixel.png){kind=tracking}