"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
I can see through you, see your true colors Cause inside you're ugly, you're ugly like me
There is plotting in the South, the rise of something terrible in the East, and the North and West seem to be holding their breath for what’s to come next. Tension begins to stir in the currents of the wind but the sun still rises and birds still sing and seasons pass as the earth revolves without a thought for any of them. It cares little for their schemes and hunger for power, little for their greed or even those that live a humble life on its back. It just exists and spins and remembers how often it’s seen all these things play out before. And how it will still be here long after those stories are played out and then forgotten only to play out the same story again and again and again.
The autumn chill is turning into something more frigid and he can sense the coming of snow in the air. The wildflowers have slowly started to wilt (stubborn as he is) in the face of Old Man Winter and although the stream still bubbles with life, he expects to find it frosted within the week. For now he stands amongst the remaining blooms, wandering aimlessly amongst his kingdom. For once he is alone by choice.
Aela had returned for good and he can’t help but shake the little “lesson” she had given him and what that might mean come spring. There’s a nagging feeling that he can’t shake but he does his best to ignore the little pull of worry that he might have made a very big mistake. He has no idea how to be a father and the little experience he has had with his own only leaves a sour aftertaste. Surely there was nothing to worry about though. He doesn’t even think of the mare whose name he has forgotten and whatever indiscretions had happened with Revelrie would surely not come to bite him in the ass. It had only been once after all.
It’s easier to forget about all that and chew over the bigger problems he faced. Like how every time he runs into Cheri he still wants to wipe that haughty grin from her mouth, preferably by using his own lips against her. Or how he can’t control this serpent inside him. Or perhaps even more problematic, the way he’s fallen for Aela. He knows that he is just a means to an end, that was how this had started for both of them. She needed his title and protection as much as he needed her power. It was beneficial to both of them, in the beginning.
And now… Now he’s not sure what lays behind her oceanic eyes when she looks at him just as much as he is unsure of what stirs in the cold recesses of his chest when she speaks of the ideas she has for them. Her ruthlessness can leave him breathless at times and he’s never met anyone whose been able to keep up with his sharp quips so well. There’s just one little thing that stands in the way and that is the difference in their ambition. She has mighty plans and he can see the worth in them but he has never been one that hungered for blood (with the exception of whatever the snake inside him feels) or war or meaningless destruction. He was a trickster and a prankster and he liked to see the smile crumble off another’s face with a well placed cutting word. He feels himself growing into his title and he finds that a crown fits him well. It doesn’t feel like a burden at all and he enjoys the pleasures that come with it, enough that maybe he can see that Aela has a point… That he could be more than a Prince.
But he has no desire to see the world burn like she does.
There is nothing that he would change in the golden striped mare. She is who she is and he accepts her for it. But can she accept him for who he truly is beneath his dark exterior? Someone who wasn’t perhaps as cruel as he came off to be? He ponders these paradoxes in his mind as he wanders his home and is lost in these thoughts when he comes across a stranger. The unknown stallion smells of Pangea, of Aela’s old homeland, and it brings him into focus as his red gaze narrows with interest and a sudden surge of jealous protectiveness. For his scent is vaguely familiar, one he had caught off Aela’s skin when she had finally returned home for good. “What do you want outsider?” His expression is unreadable except for the sneer he throws out for good measure at Skandar, waiting for the answer that he had just demanded.
To crumble, to fall beneath the weight of his power - he couldn’t exactly explain why, though. Perhaps it is his childhood (undesired albeit well cared for, an afterthought, a product of something dark and terrible) and a mixture of meeting an equally self-righteous girl at just the right time. Perhaps it is the power he wields (uncontainable, limitless, disastrous) and its temptation; how it’s so easy to make others bend their knee, how the power over them gives him a sense of control and makes him unburdened -
A true god.
The galaxies and constellations that mark his skin tell of his heritage - the part of himself he claims. It is what is first noticed, but perhaps it is his ruthlessness that is remembered.
Meeting Aela has only allowed his powers to blossom to their full potential, giving him more desire and will than he could have ever found by himself. Had she not come across him, it is quite possible he would still be the scowling colt he was in Tephra instead of the stallion he has become - though he has never seemed to outgrow the rage that runs rampant within him since the day he had been born. There are things that Aela had shown him, had suggested to him, and he had followed willingly. When she had mentioned the Pampas it was only in his nature to go there and investigate for himself. Aela, whose ferocity nearly matches his very own (if not more), whose touch burns him like the plague, was not with him as he journeyed. Like in the past, she has asked and he will obey. It is not Aela, though, who had taught him how to become a shadow, to muffle his hoofsteps by turning himself into nothingness, to prowl amongst the world like a predator.
The monsters taught him that.
It is here, at the border of the Pampas, that the stallion sheds the cloak of shadow and air, reforming himself into solidity. His skin shimmers as if it is alive, like feathers brushing against one another as each blood vessel and artery become visible, reattaching with sinew and muscle and bone. His shimmering body continues to flutter, flays of skin clicking terribly until he is in his desired skin. Deep indigo spills into blossoms of burnt orange and brilliant violet, stars cascading across each part of his lean, muscular body.
It does not take long for him to be found. He does not have a name for the stallion that comes to meet him (a large brute, black and dark as night, with eyes that burn as red as Skandar’s can), but he still surveys him with an inquisitive gaze, wondering just what it is that interested Aela so much about the Pampas. Is it this man, himself? The idea makes something writhe angrily within his chest - flaring, pulsing, and then quelling. He swallows it and allows it to simper deep within him.
Skandar is not as eloquent as Aela, but despite this, he has learned some sort of diplomacy - and so he tries.
“What all men want,” Skandar begins with a slight tilt of his head, turning his bright orange eyes up to peer up through his indigo and violet forelock. “An opportunity.” Though it may not be what he wants technically, opportunity certainly seems to be oozing out of this place, ready to be grasped.
I can see through you, see your true colors Cause inside you're ugly, you're ugly like me
Galaxies weave stories along the entire canvas that is Skandar and he can’t help but see exactly what Aela can see within those webs of nebula and starry patterns. There is a clear picture in his mind of how those scents of the swirl patterned stallion had ended up on the golden plains of Aela’s coat. A deep seething jealousy bleeds out from that fiery wrathful thing that lives deep within his core as it awakens and starts to slither to the surface. The stallion speaks of opportunity and he allows himself to release a little of that angry energy into his laugh, expelling some of that tension that squeezes something hollow in his chest. “An opportunity.” He repeats, tilting his head and considering him. “And who benefits from this opportunity, you or me?”
He can still feel that sinewy movement tightening around his ribcage, squeezing at his insides and searching for release. But his expression remains as unreadable as ever as his crimson gaze darkens with disdain. “Why you, I wonder…” He muses aloud, not caring at all if the other hears him and becomes insulted. He hopes he does, hopes to bait him for the truth that lays beneath his lies. “What is it that she sees in you?”
This is not another brother he thinks, no this is someone.., something else.
Something he has reason to be envious of just as much as he is in awe from it.
The cool winds of fall send a cold breeze through the long strands of his raven mane, littered with thistles and other wildflowers that have been caught in their wild tangles. He rolls a gold lined shoulder to ease the ache of tension he feels broiling inside. He knows that for the sake of this kingdom, they need power and bodies. And there was an opportunity here, he wasn’t that blind to see it. He exhales slowly, easing his temper into a colder place. One that didn’t feel quite so much. “What can you do for us then? Why would I need you?” He sneers and waits to see if he might find a reason to lie to himself and believe that there was nothing to worry about concerning a stallion of the galaxies that could make the world burn in the blink of an eye. Exactly what she had always desired and what he might not be able to give her.
Jealousy is not the first thing that sprouts into Skandar’s mind upon seeing the larger, muscular stallion. He is quickly scanning him, eyes greedy and calculating, memorizing each part of this stranger that he had only seen in his mind, thanks to Aela. He focuses on the microexpressions that come with the furrowing of Obscene’s shaded brows, the violent red of his fierce gaze, and his poised stance - one fit for a prince, as he calls himself. He busies himself with each aspect of Obscene’s physical body, committing it to memory as best he can during the time that he has. “Both of us, if all goes accordingly.” His answer is flat and indifferent, unsure whether he is bluffing or not. Aela would not send him here for mere tricks, for they are far beyond what once entertained them as youths.
Skandar does not claim to own Aela (nor had the thought ever crossed his mind) until Obscene questions him further. Why him? Why him? Skandar’s ears fall flat to the curve of his sparkling neck, his teeth flash with a warning, champing at the empty air with a dull click. The only conclusion could be that Aela did not think to bring him up in their previous conversation and for the first time, Skandar feels that cool twist of jealousy - so unlike the rage that burns rampant - in his chest. He further becomes trapped in it as Obscene drops the final blow, questioning Skandar’s purpose and Aela’s satisfaction with it. The feeling confuses and sickens him, causing the leaner stallion to toss his head violently. When the deep tendrils of violet and indigo, with a twinge of burnt orange fall across his face, Skandar’s eyes glow a brilliant scarlet red.
A low hum accompanies the pulsating glow of his entire eyes, the sound of heat radiating behind his skull. A simple glance of his gaze (maybe two or three) and he’d be able to carve the heart out of Obscene’s chest. “Keep wondering,” comes the growl of a reply through a clenched jaw, the red glow dimming slowly until it is gone, replaced with the orange that had once been. He need not entertain him and his questions, to fight as if Aela wouldn’t try to kill the both of them if she had the chance. They are both willing pawns, succumbing to her charisma and charm despite knowing she thirsts for so much more than Skandar, than Obscene. Even the skinwalker understands she is no mere mortal.
Skandar’s lips turn into a scowl. He knew that he would have to prove his worth and, despite already preparing for a showdown, disliked to display his abilities so freely. He tosses his head (this time much lighter and less agitated), clearly weighing his options as he considers Obscene’s question. Why would he need him?
As his scowl deepens, ears remaining beneath the tangle of violet and indigo, Skandar’s skin begins to shiver tremendously. Pieces of it begin to separate, fluttering like individual wings against each other, clicking grotesquely as he creates himself into something new. Starting at his muzzle, his skin flickers in a single wave, each petal of indigo, orange, and violet turning dark obsidian. It wavers again, in a single and fluid motion to the tip of his tail, adorning himself this time with the same sparkling gold that splashes across Obscene’s face and chest, matching the pattern near-perfectly. Another wave of fluttering skin and the very same tangles of wildflowers and brambles find themselves in the inky black of his mane and tail, mimicking the stallion before him. One final wave falls across him to grow to the same height, even going so far as to match the look of disdain on Obscene’s face. With a blink, those orange eyes flash to a violent red.
Skandar stands before the Prince as a perfect mirror image - scowl and everything - in intense silence.
His ability runs far deeper than the power to mimic others, but there was something in him that hoped the other stallion would be either shocked into silence or pushed into the territory of defensiveness if he were to view the change as a mockery. The not-Obscene’s lips twitch with the tiniest pull of his mouth into a smirk.
I can see through you, see your true colors Cause inside you're ugly, you're ugly like me
The answer is one that he expects and his nostrils flare slightly as he snorts in feigned indifference. The reaction that shortly follows as he muses aloud is not. As the star scattered stallion’s ears fall back, so do his own. They flatten into the wavy tendrils of his raven mane, his red eyes flashing as Skandar champs at the air, but does not flinch from the display before him. He sneers even harder as the other throws his head, as orange turns to red, as he sees the beauty in the chaos of the man before him.
“Keep wondering”. An ugly thing begins to crawl around with the snake, seeping into its scales that begin to break through the black of his fur. No, he doesn’t need to wonder. He has his answer right here, in the tightness of Skandar’s jaw, in the glowing hum of his vibrant red eyes, the scowl that finds his violet lips, the way he suppresses his temper as red fades back to burnt orange. He recognizes those little pieces of himself in him. He sees so much more.
He hisses softly, his own ire flickering in the depths of wine red as his fur begins to fall away beneath the spread of scales, ignorant as always to the way his emotions seem so tightly wound into the creature within him. Jealousy flares his temper and he wonders what Aela had hoped to accomplish here. This wasn’t just another “beautiful and powerful” to add to the ranks. There was something more to this stallion, something he can feel in his gut. Something he can read in that scowl, similar to the one he returns.
When Skandar’s skin starts to fold in on itself, clicking and snapping into place with something new, his own body twitches involuntarily in response. It isn’t a pleasant experience to watch himself rise from beneath the twisted and mutilated layers of Skandar’s flesh as it forms into a perfect replica of himself. Right down to the violent look that he knows reflects in his own eyes. How he wants to be angry at this display, how he should be offended. But he can’t. His violent look fades as the Fae in him momentarily forgets their silent vendetta and he meets the smirk on his doppelgängers lips, matches it with that smug one of his own.
“Ah. I understand now.” He says quietly, his expression unreadable as the scales fade back and the flames of his anger flickers, uncertain. Skandar might take that as simply a response to his question of worth but it went much deeper than that, one tied into their complex relationship with Aela. He has gotten so good at hiding his emotions behind that mask of indifference he gives now and he is glad for it as a range of emotions begin to swirl within. He flips through each one carelessly, fingers ripping through worn pages. The delight of one trickster recognizing another. The jealousy of knowing that Skandar was different, that gut feeling lingering. The anger of not being able to compete with the likes of someone like the mimic before him. The curiosity of wanting to know him better himself. And then he finally lands on a similar realization, a similar choice, as the one Skandar had already made awhile ago.
That this was another pawn and they perhaps weren’t so different after all.
It’s this that he settles himself with, not unlike the cruel armor he had put together for himself so long ago. It’s easier to live in a lie and he makes a decision to do so, turning a blind eye to what he knows is truth, as his smirk turns into something rather charming. As he decides to keep this one close. “I would have the name of my Champion.” He asks in a way that’s clear it’s not open for discussion.
Skandar’s eyes - now a deep blood red, rich as scarlet (a shade so unlike the glowing that accompanies the light that can stream from his very gaze at will) - do not miss the scaling that flickers across the black stallion’s skin, stretching like a cloak as it engulfs him. The appearance of them brings something like curiosity to Skandar’s handsome, dark face. Though he has mastered physical mimicry, he has yet to attempt to recreate any sort of ability - physical or mental - and for a moment he wonders if he should try to mimic more than just Obscene’s physical attributes.
There is no change to Skandar’s expression. The display of mimicking another has been enough, it seems, to quell the Pampas prince and already he can see the glint in the red eyes that he currently matches - it is not unlike Aela’s, in a sense, as ideas and plots begin to seep through, gears grinding and churning at all of the possibilities. Skandar snorts. His ability is far more than simple shape-shifting but, for the time being, there is no need to allow Obscene to know this just yet. Besides, he is not sure how much the Prince already knows about him, if anything at all, and Skandar would rather be elusive and aloof; there is no need to put on more of a show than is needed.
At Obscene’s offer (order, moreso), Skandar’s ears fall against the now deep onyx of his neck. Ever useful, it appears he seems to be. He obliges, of course, for isn’t that why he has come here? To infiltrate, to gain knowledge and to be thrust into a world of unceasing power? Besides, when killing comes so easily to him, a Champion he truly is.
He wonders briefly what Aela’s plans are for them - how do they fit into this intricate puzzle she seems to weave, always steps ahead of him. But she has promised him glory and adventure, the world crushed beneath them and knees bent at their feet. Soon, he thinks, he will no longer be the bastard hidden in the shadows of Tephra’s volcano - he will have a name all his own; one that strikes fear and demands obedience. Yes, that is why he follows her and for that reason alone.
But as he stands before Obscene, Skandar knows that isn’t true at all.
“Then your Champion I will be.”
Skandar’s (Obscene’s) eyes begin to glow, a high pitched whine coming from the power that buzzes behind his eyes, a silent promise.
![[Image: Obscene-Pixel.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/fTkjKh9Q/Obscene-Pixel.png){kind=tracking}
