"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
The fall of his kingdom didn’t truly affect Tharion, who never really spends much of his time underneath the waves. Since the world shift that had split his territory into Beqanna’s, he finds himself amongst the rivers and oceans of the earth, only returning to Baltia for the occasional underwater parties. There, he had been undeniably popular, but mostly he finds court and politics boring, and a favorite past-time of his had become watching the Beqannians and interacting with them.
He is not a complicated man like most of the Baltians - he has also met many Stratosians in his travels, and though they were generally not as perceptive to him, there are a few he would dare call friends. Does that make him a traitor to his kind? If he’s honest, he doesn’t care.
From whispers on the wind, Baltia and Stratos have both fallen and are just common lands now, absorbed into Beqanna. Their rulers had been found dead, and Beqanna had reclaimed her narrative.
Summer finds the kelpie sunning himself along the bank of the river in the common lands, the blue-streaked fins on his long tail glistening wetly as he flicks water over himself to cool off. This is a familiar resting place for him, close enough to the water to be comfortable, but far enough upstream to properly observe the natives.
He wonders what falls further up the river, but never seems to find himself further than the curves through the Meadow. He knows the Beqannians worship strange gods, and their mountain range is where they go to make their pleas, and there are new (old?) lands beyond them, but Tharion isn’t a Beqannian, and has no place upriver.
She was hesitant to relax in this new world, but there were creeping moments where she found herself doing just that.
No one here seemed to care who—or what—she is, and it is a freeing experience. She was so accustomed to Baltia and Stratos, where no matter which land she visited she was an outsider. Too much of one thing, not enough of the other, and it felt as though her halves never made a whole. It was why her parents had chosen to raise her away from both lands; with the tensions of war so strong it seemed to be the safest course of action.
But safety for Raea had meant isolation, and now here she was, grown, but feeling like a child staring wide-eyed at the world. She already felt as if she didn’t fully know Baltia and Stratos, but this place was something else entirely. Beqanna was full of magic that she had never imagined; things so far beyond just water and sky, it all felt like too much for her mind to hold.
The longer she was here, though, the more confident she became.
She found herself venturing further, with no real destination in mind (how could she have one, when she doesn’t even know what is out there?). Today, she had chosen to follow the river, on the side opposite of where the Ruins lay. Beqanna was far more diverse in landscape than what she was accustomed to, and to her the fields of emerald green and bright wildflowers, the towering trees and the mountains in the distance, were more beautiful than anything she could have possibly dreamt up.
She would be content to wander this for all the rest of her days, she thinks, and never grow tired of it.
But when she comes across the kelpie sunning himself near the river, she finds her steps faltering.
Beqanna had no shortage of its own sea creatures, but it is not until she ventures closer that she recognizes the familiar traits she was looking for; the gills and the shockingly black eyes. “You’re from Baltia,” she finds herself saying before she can stop herself, her own pitch-black eyes seeming to flash with something like hope and fear. It was an involuntary reaction, something that she is not sure will ever go away—a lifetime of never knowing how a Baltian would react to her feathers or how a Stratosian would handle her Baltian eyes and water wings was not so easily forgotten. All the same, she cannot deny the hope and relief that blooms in her chest every time she finds someone from the only other world she had known. “My name is Raea. I…” she trails off, the words seemingly trapped on her tongue. She cannot say she is from there when she is not; it was not her place to claim, just as Stratos was not either. “My father was from there.”
Sometimes he wonders what it would have been like, to be a Baltian blessed with wings - and, subsequently, four working legs - instead of his powerful kelpie tail. Would water wings propel him through the water as swiftly as his fins? Probably not, but he would be less bound to bodies of water and allowed more freedom. If not for the vastness of the ocean and Beqanna’s other bodies of water, perhaps he would feel trapped and envious of winged Baltians, but instead, he’s just curious.
It is those with flight he watches as the sun passes overhead, watching the paths they cut through the sky with sharp eyes. He supposes the ones that are but small specks in the sky are the Stratosians - used to the thinner air, essentially part bird as they dart in and out of Tharion’s sight. In the water, he could see for miles, especially in the deepest parts of the ocean. Is that how their eyes work, in the sky?
With a quiet grumble, he pulls his attention back to those nearby, and it is just in time to watch the young mare falter in her approach. A look of friendly amusement crosses his face as she continues to approach and he makes no move to push himself into more of an upright position, remaining relaxed upon the shore. She is interesting; her coloring and eyes remind her of familiar Baltians, but something tells him that she is not entirely suited for life in Baltia.
“I am, indeed,” he agrees with a nod, eyes sparkling with mirth. “You aren’t, though.” He’s never been one to speak glibly or in riddles, instead choosing to get straight to the point. “Your father was from Baltia, but what of your mother?”
Almost an afterthought at this point, he offers his own name. “I’m Tharion.”
