"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
10-08-2015, 11:58 PM (This post was last modified: 10-08-2015, 11:59 PM by Exemplary.)
Home is where the heart is.
It is a deceiving feeling. It means you will feel comfort, and love wherever you are. No matter who surrounds you, no matter what surrounds you—home will always be within you. But that’s a lie. Exemplary has been wandering like a lost bird flying east instead of south… a consistent circle of “who am I?”, “where am I?”.
Home isn’t where the heart is. She will be forever a wandering ugly duckling until her true self comes to shine, in her true home, surrounded by supportive souls and dedicated go-getters. Until then, her home won’t be where her heart is—her heart is empty without a home.
The Deserts is her first stop and most comforting option. She feels the heat wave blast her as she enters the kingdom hesitantly. Is she welcome on land, if she was raised her eons ago?
The sweet scent of sand, the familiar smell of sweat and lack of vegetation… so comforting, so welcoming. It is the first thing she has felt used to since she reopened herself to Beqanna this week. Finally, something she can rely on.
Her onyx coat is anything but grateful, wandering under the scorching sun like an ant under a magnifying glass. Soon her hind would set fire, and her body would ignite in a furry of red, orange, and blue flames. Or, she would grow accustomed to the temperature… the more practical scenario. Soon, her black coat would shiver without the pressuring heat of the Desert sun.
Her eyes set on the heart of her old home, seeing the one little watering hole (which in other kingdoms would be considered equivalent to a puddle). Here, front and center, she might draw the person she sought.
Exemplary
I will be yours, and only yours, until the day I fade to black
She was good at it once, back in the days when she was willing to weave illusions, to bend and shape reality to seduce those who she felt would be good additions to the Deserts. But now it seems that she's lost the touch, or perhaps the patience. Certainly not the capacity; the earth still thrills at her touch, as though begging her to play with it, to pick it up and tell it where to go and what to be. Oh yes, she's still every inch the weaver of reality that she's always been. But now it's different.
She feels the newcomer as soon as the girl steps over the edge into the kingdom. Well, perhaps newcomer is the wrong word – the black mare can feel the history swirling around the girl, thick like a fog. She knows what it's like to have a legacy; goodness knows, Camrynn herself drags enough history to displace small passing birds. But she's intrigued.
The black queen feels the way the girl blossoms gently under the sun. Camrynn doesn't understand the concept of home, or of coming home; even now she doesn't necessarily identify with any one place, and she's rather known for doing some serious hopping about in her time. But she has never lacked for a purpose – perhaps truly for her, home is where her heart is, and her heart is in her own whims. She never lacks for purpose, because she considers everything she does to be purposeful. Even lolling about, lackadaisical as she is, she never feels as though she has lost purpose.
She probably should, but she really doesn't.
In front of the newcomer girl, the pink sands swirl gently. There is nothing threatening about it; rather, the sand becomes like a small cloud of insects, borne on some unseen force. Wafting like smoke, gently like mist, they congeal and disappear, forming into Camrynn instead. She is a beautiful creature, her black coat unbelievable in its perfection. There is no scarring, no white, just a smooth black expanse stretching over her well-formed muscles. A long mane and tail hang tangle-free and far longer than any normal wild horse's should.
Her eyes are teal today, bright and beautiful. Across her chest, the gold of the crook and flail stand out starkly, catching the Deserts sun. And across her one cheek, a trail of diamonds hangs like a strange equine necklace.
With Camrynn's appearance, an immediate change in temperature encases Exemplary. It's not a chill wind, just a cooling one, helping tone down the heat of the Deserts to a level that's more manageable. Still hot, but no longer unbearably so.
"Welcome to the Deserts. the black queen greets, her voice like the richest chocolate, the smoothest velvet. "What can we do for you, Miss…" she trails off, giving the girl a chance to introduce herself. Not that Camrynn needs her to – the name is as easy to pluck from her mind as the history. But that's just no fun; it's far better to get the story from the horse's mouth, if you will.
And then she waits, Smiling gently, entirely pleasant.
Coming home is like walking into a clean room, seeing everything in its place. Seeing your bed made, your pillows fluffed, and all your clothes organized and hung in your closet. It is knowing that your spot for the a full night will be nestled within the comfort of your covers, surrounded by familiar smells and sounds. It is knowing that you are safe no matter what is going on fifty yards from your front door. It is being amongst a billion puzzle pieces, and then finally being found as the last puzzle piece. Where you just click in to the puzzle, a perfect fit.
Like being the wedding ring your wife has sought out, and watching how it slides onto her ring finger like somehow it was always met to be there; it just got lost along the way.
It had to build a history, first.
She feels that, here and now. She feels as though at last, she has been found by her puzzle and is being clicked in by elegant hands into a place that she has always longed for. Her Deserts was her home—is her home—and she owes it a lifetime of dedication. She was born here, they gave her a life here, and she must return the favor in giving it power.
It doesn’t take long for her scent to be then greeted with a physical body. It starts off as swirling pink sand that tickles at her fetlocks and then upwards to her chest. Exemplary ducks her face into her neck in half surprise, and half childish play. Her hazel eyes set on each and every grain as it rises out of her reach. She watches it, inquisitive, as it sparkles underneath the heat of her Desert sun.
And then, it forms a queen.
She is beautiful, suiting for the Desert in ways Exemplary cannot form into words. She is elegant, and queen-like. Her teal eyes are what our black mouse notices first, envious of such a rich colour. Immediately following her eyes, the next thing to catch the attention of our mare is the gold proudly placed on her chest—she exhales an entranced breath. Her body tenses as the feeling of a cooling wind gently breezes over her, the presence of their queen like a breath of fresh air—the Deserts welcome her with relief and comfort.
Welcome to the Deserts, her voice so soothing, so warm. What can we do for you, Miss..
This is where our little mouse is supposed to speak.
And yet, she finds herself gaping like a fish in awkwardness; a default of her lack of socialization, to say the least.
Her head rises, leveling with her majesty, attempting to form sentences…words even, to make herself appear as intelligent as she truly is.
“Exemplary,” and when she finally does find the words (hidden beneath wonder and amazement of her surroundings), her voice matches the softness of the woman before her. She has a harp like sing-song tone, elegant and classical—feminine to the bone. She is beautiful in a simplistic way, onyx black, prophets thumb pushed in the side of her neck… a small indent of what some will believe to be an injury, or defect, yet it is the result of the womb and said to be good luck, and for that she will wear it proudly. The only marking she has is the smallest snip on her nose, a soft cream of white with the slightest amount of pink as it kisses her muzzle. Other than that, our ebony mare is dainty and flawless—simplistic, and pretty.
Nothing like the flashy queen standing before her.
“The Deserts gave me a life, and I am here to return her favor. I want something to do, I want to serve,” and while she has no ambition to lead (as of yet, she hasn’t found her diplomatic ties), she has the slightest hope of being successful. Not in an obnoxious way, no she wasn’t one to draw attention to herself. She likes to be great, without being arrogant. She longs for her name to be stamped in history, and yet at her deathbed have thousands of eyes glossy with salty tears. She is meant to do something, but she isn’t sure what that might be.
Exemplary
I will be yours, and only yours, until the day I fade to black
