"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
06-25-2024, 06:19 AM (This post was last modified: 06-25-2024, 06:23 AM by Gale.)
Gale idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword. innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know
He can feel the magic. It is in the lightning that burns in his veins, bright and white hot, blazing with possibility. He cannot hold it all, no matter how tightly he grips it. Always there is some seeping out, some escaping, dancing across his skin, a white hot burn along his spinal mane.
Gale’s hair is almost entirely gold now, the lightning having burnt - and healed golden - nearly every bit of his skin. It was an odd quirk of the Healing he had been born with, the changing colors of his skin as it healed. Only when he is truly and entirely golden, when every bit of his body has been replaced, he will begin to scar navy blue. The cycle has remained constant, and he rarely thinks of it.
He thinks about it now though, and the lightning along his skin intensifies as he focuses. It takes a tremendous amount of precision to excise lightning using lightning, but Gale has been practicing for years. He loses track of time (of hours, of weeks) but when he finally closes his unblinking and unfocused blue eyes, the Healing is gone.
Gale is no longer gold, but a deep and iridescent navy blue. His mane and tail are snow white, and the gold remains in the pattern of stripes along his barrel. Removing the Healing had taken the magical effects of it away, he reasons, knowing there have been far stranger side effects of destroying his abilities.
Such destruction has occupied most of his time. Following his obsession with the impenetrable nothingness, experimenting on himself was a logical extrapolation. He has unmade his abilities to utilize most of his magical gifts, and with them the temptation to use them. He has not thought much about exactly why he does this, nor of how very easy it would be to burn away the destruction and forge himself whole and unblemished.
He thinks about it now, just for a moment,and the bolt of lightning streaks through the otherwise black autumn sky. The moon and stars are buried far behind the low hanging clouds, and the blue-white bolt illuminates the world around him for far longer than lightning should.
Gale turns away from the open sky, and sets his gaze upon the woods.
There's something sacred in the cold wash of a late autumn bath.
Hysperia's skin shivers over and over again as lap after lap of lazy, crystal-clear river water splashes against her barrel. It is nearly night, all the colors of dusk refusing to wash over the darkness of her coat. She is a plain thing, by Beqanna's standards. Some things mark her as beautiful, sure: the dainty, breakable length of her legs, the small splash of white socks around her hooves, the feminine lines of her skull, dotted gemstones trailing intricate patterns across her skin. These lovely things she sees in many reflections - she admires them even. But it is not nearly enough. There are scales and furs of the deepest colors of the rainbows. There are powers of attraction and physicality not within her grasp.
Plain, she hisses to herself - then suddenly dunks her head deep under the water.
This ritual is simple: deprive herself of the simple pleasure of comfort and she will be washed anew. That, and she likes the way her skin tightens with the temperature, as if she is as fresh as a newborn baby.
The filth is washed clean within thirty minutes of anguish. Hysperia dunks her head over and over again, holding her breath until her lungs ache and she sees bright white spots behind her eyelids. It is not until the muscles of her chest spasm that she draws herself from the water, renewed. She is sharp, focused, alive. There is no particular direction for her to follow, but she steps through the creeping darkness as if she is on a mission.
It is that improvised mission that leads her to witness the brilliant blue stallion beneath a lingering strike of lightning. Hysperia audibly gasps, jade eyes widening in shock and prophecy. The Itch she washed from her flesh returns faster than it ever has before as she stares with the reverence of a worshipper at the feet of their God. She does not hesitate once the light fades from the sky.
"Hello?" Hysperia calls, coloring her tentative question with layer after layer of innocence and awe.
"Did . . . did you see that lightning?" she adds, giving a touch of a scared whimper to her voice.
Gale
