"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
05-28-2021, 02:17 PM (This post was last modified: 05-28-2021, 10:00 PM by Obscene.)
I can see through you, see your true colors Cause inside you're ugly, you're ugly like me
He had wandered that day he had been born newly Fae, had not returned immediately to the sprawling flowers and tall grasses of the Pampas. Something else had beckoned him, had inspired him to move his hooves towards the direction of the River instead. Night had fallen, dark shadows unfurled amongst trees and greenery, the sound of the rapids loud amongst the twilight sounds of crickets and evening-song. He hadn’t expected the small balls of light that had danced over the moonlit reflection of the water. Of one breaking off from the others and coming to hover close to him. Will o’ the wisps were faeries in their own right. Some thought them spirits, others as types of pixies. Whatever they truly were remained a truth known only to them. However, he as Fae, knew that they were connected in a way.
This one in particular seemed quite connected to him. A silvery whisper, a ghost of a voice, found its way into his mind. It spoke to him as if it knew him. ”My Prince” It greeted that first time. “My Light.” He greeted back, not knowing why he said what he said but only knowing that it felt right. The Will o’ the Wisp had been by his side since that very day. It had traveled back to the Pampas, lurking over the small streams and flickering amongst the tall blooms of the flowers.
Some small grains of kindness still remained inside the dark stallion’s cruel armor and it showed in his treatment of Light. Wisps tended to haunt bogs, rivers, and large bodies of water. It made do with the small streams provided in the Pampas but its Prince would not starve his new friend completely. So every now and then he treks back to the River where he had found Light and lingers near the water’s edge as the ghostly light sweeps over the foaming rapids and dances with the other hovering orbs, glowing brightly in the moonlight.
His red eyes glow dimly in the shadows, hints of glittering gold catching the sparkle of moonlight that glimmers down around them. Watching Light like a patient parent, waiting for him to tire so they could return back home. He isn’t expecting company but when it comes he says nothing, simply swivels a long pointed ear in their direction while his gaze remains on the cluster of Wisps in the distance.
His memories are broken and scattered ever since he left Cheri to visit the common lands. It had been Targaryen’s intent to invite a lonesome stranger or two into Taiga, to bring them home and explain his disappearance as a trip to boost their numbers. It seemed like a reasonable explanation at the time, and the tobiano still thinks it would work if it weren’t for the strange splintering feeling he has.
He’s been waking at random times in random places, not remembering falling asleep in the first place. His body feels heavy when his eyes open as if he has been running in his sleep, and most of the time Targaryen simply lies where he is for a few moments longer. He admits it’s an odd feeling, waking from a “deep sleep” and feeling as if he hadn’t slept in a very long time. The way his mind goes unconscious at random is even stranger — in the middle of the day or in the evening or early in the morning.
Little does he know of the wolves and birds and deer and other numerous creatures his body has melted into, or of the magic that sweeps his mind into the thoughts of such animals.
He is a large steelhead trout for the majority of the afternoon and evening. Targaryen’s pink-sided scales shimmer when the sun sets, and his fish-brain begins to settle down for the night. He’s had a busy afternoon, swimming away from shadows and discovering an unguarded group of tasty yellow perch eggs. The river current is strong, but he finds a comfortable spot where it bumps against his sleek body, rocking him to sleep.
As his trout-body relaxes into slumber, Targaryen’s newborn magic finally exhausts itself. Although his mind has only just gone to sleep, the tobiano wakes with river water running down his throat. He thinks that spring is coming to an end, but the river still feels cold from snow-water melting from the top of the Mountain. The trout had adjusted to the temperature, but his horse body immediately shivers at the cold. He’s confused about how he fell asleep in the river, especially when the water was cold enough to wake him up.
It doesn’t take him long to stand from where he’d been deposited in the shallows, but it takes Targaryen a moment to realize there is someone close. The stranger is almost a shadow himself, and the tobiano might not have noticed him if it weren’t for the dust on his cheeks glittering from the moonlight. Targaryen’s head feels heavy, and he shakes out his wings before pulling them close to his pale-green sides.
Targaryen steps quickly out of the water, wishing for Cheri’s healing to soothe where he feels too cold. The night makes him miss her beyond just her capabilities, and he takes this moment of consciousness to picture her slender face outlined by the electric green of her mane. By the time he finally approaches the stranger, Targaryen’s pressed his adoration and want for the bright-eyed mare into a corner of his heart so he can focus on greeting the dark stallion. “Hello.” His brown eyes follow where the stranger’s go, noticing the strange glowing orbs dancing in the shadows. “What are those?”
I can see through you, see your true colors Cause inside you're ugly, you're ugly like me
If he’s surprised that a stallion has suddenly risen out of the water before him, it doesn’t show. His single ear still flicks in his direction, a red eye glancing over at him with his usual disdain. Just as the stranger is tucking away memories of Cheri, he’s pulling his own out. He’s not really sure why she floods into his head now. Admittedly she usually comes unbidden into his mind at the most random of times or in the worst moments. Ever since his visit to Loess he had furiously made it a point to push all memories of her into a gilded locked box. He can still remember her cool expression, the heavy scent of a male mixed into the scent of storms that perfumed her skin.
It had always just been pretend. That night amongst the wildflowers, drunk on nectar and drunk on her. Every once and awhile the lid would pop open and a memory would escape and goad him until he could wrestle it back into the box. It was easier to keep them locked up when he thought of her entwined with another stallion. He didn’t think of her at all when he was placing fervent kisses to an exposed golden neck, when he was drowning in the oceans of Aela’s eyes.
It was easier this way.
It was easier to pretend.
Something in the air smells familiar but he can’t quite put a finger on it. It’s coming from the water drenched stallion but other tendrils of scent weave into Targaryen’s own, confusing his nostrils and distorting what he had remembered coming off Cheri. All traces of the onyx and green mare seemed to have been swept from the tobiano when he had shed his scales in the depths of the River. So he doesn’t question the male, simply banishing the unwanted image of her lustful gaze from his mind as he readjusts his vision back to the lights skimming over the surface of the water.
He can see the slight tremble of the other’s skin as he speaks from the corner of his eye, a sign of being in the water too long. He wonders if his new healing powers can take away things like cold and heat but his curiosity isn’t strong enough to bother asking if he needs the help. Besides, he was the fool who had been laying in the cold currents to begin with. He doubts his powers extend so far to fixing the stupid.
Stifling a yawn, his red eyes remain forward as he responds drily “Spirits of a sort.” Light breaks from the others to come close to him, hovering just above his muscular shoulder. He considers the Wisp thoughtfully. Most legends regarding the glowing lights tied into death. They were known to lure unsuspecting innocents deep into bogs to drown, to tease them off the edge of cliffs, to wreck ships in the sea. They were also considered guardians of treasure. He thinks it would be interesting to see Light lure someone to the cold depths of the River. Now that he was immortal, death was no longer so frightening or intimidating. Plus he could heal now. If he wanted to.
Blazing eyes of scarlet finally come to rest on Targaryen, seemingly unimpressed by what he finds there. “Do you often crawl out of rivers in the dark or is this a special occasion?”
Before he called Taiga home, before he felt the most like himself with Cheri, Targaryen had called the common-lands home. He’d grown up in the hidden corners of the Forest, among the slender grass of the Meadow, and bathing in the crisp water of the River. There were no siblings to play with, so unlike the loud multitude of siblings Cheri has, and even friends were a rarity. Noori had done her part to be something of a mother, keeping him alive and feeding him until he could nibble on grass. And when she knew he could tolerate the blades, she’d claimed a grove in the woods and rooted herself there.
He’s spent many days and nights in the thickness of the Forest, both as a child and as a man. He’s curled his small body at the base of his mother’s tree trunk-limbs, and he’s watched her unmoving shape from a distance as a grown stallion peering through the shadows. Despite the hours he’s spent in the woods, he’s never seen the wisps of light before. Targaryen has encountered his fair share of beasts and monsters alike, but these floating, dancing creatures are different than anything he’s seen before.
He’s entranced by them, and his eyes follow the paths they create in the darkness. His curiosity distracts him from the bitter cold seizing his body, yet his wings instinctively pull closer to his sides. An orb breaks away from the rest and finds a safe place on the stranger’s shoulder. Targaryen thinks about the stallion’s answer (“Spirits of a sort”) and the way he doesn’t shy away from the orb, but neither does he fully acknowledge its presence. Almost like they are old friends, longtime companions — and the tobiano thinks the stallion knows more than what he’s letting on.
But what the stranger does and doesn’t want to share isn’t a concern to Targaryen. He must’ve disturbed the stallion’s evening, the tobiano assumes, judging by the rather deadpanned look he’s receiving. The red eyes are eerie, and the expression in their depths seems to hint at the idea of superiority. Targaryen shifts his weight, trying to ignore the ways he feels he needs to defend himself, even when there’s nothing to defend.
In fact, the stranger’s question seems like an appropriate lead-in to the mystery that Targaryen’s been experiencing lately. If the black stallion knows even a little about the spirits, maybe he can help him figure out what’s going on with him. “I’ve been waking up in random places lately,” he says with as much confidence as he can muster. It’s only once the sentence is out that he realizes bringing up his problem that needs fixing seems to make him look even more like a failure. “I’ve lost track of time, and my recent memories are all mixed up. I left Loess one day, and I can tell time has passed since I left, but it feels like it happened yesterday.” He wishes Cheri were with him, could comfort him and watch him and explain what’s wrong. Instead, he has to turn his cinnamon eyes to the stranger and hope for the best. “I’m all mixed up. Have you heard of this happening before?”
I can see through you, see your true colors Cause inside you're ugly, you're ugly like me
It would irritate him to no end that he shared so much in common with Cheri’s lover. Lonely childhood, abandoned in the common lands. Unlike Targaryen, he had gotten a small taste of love and affection before his neglect. He had gotten a sense of family and place. It had been snatched from him cruelly and imprinted a craving in the newborn colt for more. When that had gone unfulfilled and the mocking of other children had become too much to carry, he had turned into the stallion he was today. His heart was a stained, withered, sooty thing. Barely a heart at all. He had tried to turn it to stone and thought himself better for it. Then he realized (with the heat of his hatred for Cheri and anyone that hurt him in general) that his heart was made of fire. How nice it was to feel it burn hotly in his chest, to feel anything at all that wasn’t pain or despair. To feel that flicker of flame if only for a moment in the confines of something so cold and dark.
He had been a Meadow creature when he had been found by fairies and had never really wandered into the Forest or the River, content to stay where he was under their arms length approach to care and affection. He had never seen the Wisps either as a colt but had been aware of them and other faerie creatures thanks to the lessons (sometimes horrifying) he received from his guardians. It had only been after he had turned Fae that he seemed to see things that he had missed before and perhaps in his presence (and other Fae Equus) other things came to light that were normally hidden.
Light dances over his shoulder and whispers in its strange silvery voice to him, “He is familiar is he not?” Goading, taunting. His red gaze narrows on the tobiano stallion. The male looked slightly older than him (not that he was keeping count of his age anymore since becoming immortal), a dark green and white, and ruffling wings close to his body with a shiver. Nothing about him sparked any sort of recognition or speciality except for that strange scent which he still can’t put a finger on. Just a mortal stallion with bedraggled wings and unusual coloring which wasn't so unusual in the world of Beqanna. He continues to look down his nose at him with even more disdain, irritated with the fact that he was obviously missing something.
The stranger begins to speak again and he’s only half listening as he tries to sort out the puzzle his Wisp had presented to him. He speaks about losing track of time and mixed up memories and this is enough to make his own stomach twist as the snake within him coils in defense and warning. “Have you heard this happening before?” He scowls in reply but it’s not meant for Targaryen. Because he does know about that a little all too well. Just a another thing to add to their list of shared experiences. “I have.” His voice is eerily quiet as he gives the man a condescending but thoughtful look. Perhaps that is what Light was hinting at, someone else that had little to no control over a power that had been thrusted upon them. The high price from a trickster to become what he was now. But then he remembers something else that the male had said. Something he had missed before when his interest had been piqued.
“I left Loess one day.” Loess. A loud bell rings in his long pointed ears and now that scent hits him like a ton of bricks. His expression smoothes into something unreadable as Light titters over his shoulder, realizing that he has put two and two together. “The infamous Prayers.” He finally says (almost to himself) and his words are icy and full of contempt. For the musk that comes off Targaryen is the same that had been woven in Cheri’s on that visit to Loess. That heart, cold and dead in his chest, suddenly comes to life in a vicious blaze of jealousy and hatred as that smug smirk settles firmly on his dark lips. The only visible sign of the snake within (slowly rising to the surface on the wave of his emotion) is the sudden way his pupils turn to slits among the bright red of his iris's.
obscene
@[Targaryen]
How dare you make Ob feel bad for him for a second ;p
![[Image: Obscene-Pixel.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/fTkjKh9Q/Obscene-Pixel.png){kind=tracking}