"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
12-03-2015, 02:38 PM (This post was last modified: 08-03-2016, 09:45 PM by S I L O A M.)
you're so fucking special,
i wish i was special but i'm a creep
It is very thin. It has barely survived through the winter. It has no mother, no father. It has only a name, it assumes but really it's Mother was just letting go, chanting a word that meant such.
Siloam.
It is black, silver dapples to form later with a bushy cream mane and tail. It has fangs, it has talons instead of hooves. Its skin is sloughing off at the base of it's talons but regenerating as quickly as it is falls. It is hungry. It is desperate. It is so tired of looking. It knows no meaning of this world, it doesn't know it's a boy or a horse (if you can call it that). It cries aloud, though hushed and only a short while because energy reserves are low. It falls asleep, crumbling it's weak knees beneath its pile of bones. It watches others pass by, wondering why it is burden to live a life such as this. How do you even ask for help? It thinks.
A mouse is in the vicinity, it smells it, it can nearly taste it - it scurries away then back towards it. Quickly, it strikes and the fangs grasp the mouse - a small meal, rough on the stomach and not the best diet but it will suffice to keep it alive that much longer.
Perhaps stubbornness is genetic.
s i l o a m
undead, rotting, taloned and fanged little boy
infection and oliphander
ooc: I may change the way I write him later, I'm trying this out. He's the weirdest one I've ever had so I'm trying to feel for him,
Monsters don’t scare her; she’s walked alongside dragons and battle night-witches and curried favor with the Gods. She’s lost her sun and stars and brought him back again. Monsters are just another part of the inevitable - and monsters that cry are not monsters at all.
Yael is a woman who opens her arms to all things - or tries to - and as she flies on gilded wings, the colt’s despairing thoughts strike a chord in her. Despite its appearance, his raggedyness reminds her of Munroe, and she finds she cannot keep on going. Her wild child wouldn’t accept this thing as a sibling, she thinks, and while she circles high above, an idea comes to her. Yael already has a great number of children, of loved ones to care for and family that takes up her time. What if Vanquish…? She knows he would do anything she asked of him, and while she isn’t in the practice of asking for favors, she sends a cryptic thought towards her dragon-winged King, saying simply, Darleeng, t’ere ees somevone een ze Meadow t’at needs your xelp.
The golden mare disintegrates into a Disney-like coil of dust and floats down to the hungry, undead boy. A warmth settles into the area, hopefully seeping into his rotting flesh and easing the chill of a fading winter. And with the next thought, she calls mice to their deaths. Their squeaks will make her jaw clench, but it is for the greater good, and that is what ultimately matters.
12-04-2015, 11:29 PM (This post was last modified: 12-04-2015, 11:34 PM by Vanquish.)
His bones and flesh were all new, magic woven skin and bones solidified by a crown returned back to its rightful position - atop his heavy black head. Thirteen years a king of the Deserts he was, before his life was taken in a moment of vulnerability, a bloody meeting between estranged father and a wrathful daughter. But the Nightwalker has been reborn with a fresh body to house his old warrior-king’s soul, so that he may sit back upon his throne of sand.
And since his rebirth, his hooves have felt nothing but sand and his lungs nothing but desert dry air. It was well enough time that he visited the Meadow to gorge himself on the sweetgrass that was far too weak to even think to bloom in his kingdom of desert stone and cactus. And it is nothing but absolute coincidence that Yael summon him to a place in which dragon-wings already carried him.Yes, coincidence, perhaps.
Like a huge plunging black cloud, the draft steps from the sky into the Meadow grass, wings pleating routinely against his ribs. When he arrives, he can barely feel her magic there – it is only a faint metallic taste on his tongue and yet still he finds the boy as if a fleshly guide had led him there.
A host of field mice was making its way to the fanged and taloned boy, waiting in line single file for their turn into his jaws when they got there. Between the sacrificial mice and the palpitating heat that rose from the cream tailed, black and quivering colt - he could all but smell Yael there. Vanquish was no stranger to those who fed on flesh instead of fauna, one of his own favored sons counted amongst them. Tarnished would just as soon rip open the warm throat of a rabbit than gaze on the dry, tasteless grass more befitting to the appetite of those of his kind.
The wraith-king’s voice is warm and smooth like a heavy silk when he speaks, “what is your name, boy?” He asks, standing a few feet from the emaciated colt. Vanquish’s size by itself was enough to unsettle some, let alone the huge, scaled wings that rose from his sides– there was no need to frighten the colt. The Percheron’s nostrils flare widely, drinking in the scents on the foal’s skin, the boy had been alone for quite some time. The king is surprised it has managed to sustain itself this long, “you've been abandoned.” He says, but there is neither pity nor accusation in his voice, “do you know why?” He asks, even though there is no right or wrong answer to a question such as this. He merely asks to see how cognizant of himself that the child was, to see how aware he was of his...strange uniqueness.
you're so fucking special,
i wish i was special but i'm a creep
It feels something new, something it has never felt before - warmth. It remembers the lapping of the waves against its skin, it remembers the bloating of its mother, the stiffness in her maw, the beady eyes. This warmth is precious to it. The creature opens its eyes, its adrenaline kicks in - food; a weaker heart would result in myocardial infarction but this creature is not faint of such. It wonders why it is so easy, as if they just step in - it has learned that it must hunt, be swift but not now. It doesn't understand magic, not yet, but it is thankful.
Once its belly is full, engorged with mice (some perhaps still alive), it stands. In feeding, a large stallion has appeared - it remembers nightmares it's mother had; was this that image? Perhaps. The stallion has large wings, they fascinate it - the light that bends across the black scales; almost iridescent. Only having seen one other horse -it's mother, and at eye level to the ground - the stallion's size is all irrelative to it. It's perception of things, clearly, is skewed. The winged man asks a question. A name. It thinks, brow furrowed, confused and unsure; how do words become words? "Si-lo-am," it says, choppily but practicing in its head over and over. Siloam. The stallion mentions abandonment which means nothing to the strange little thing, he asks why.
It doesn't know why. It doesn't understand body mechanics, mortality, or that it is a walking, recently talking, freak show. It would learn in later years, though, that much is certain. "Water. Mama cold. Siloam leave. it says, not sure if this would suffice - still confused. It is not afraid of this man, perhaps a young colt should be but fear does not register.
It is moldable, one can only hope it has given to good hands.
s i l o a m
undead, rotting, taloned and fanged little boy
infection and oliphander
Yael opens her proverbial arms to the broken, the abandoned, the distressed, and the weary. Her wild child was much like Siloam, if you care to look past the fangs and rotting flesh. Mothers were dead and gone, their speech skills were less than stellar, and while this colt didn’t seem as emotionally broken as Munroe had been, she imagines that his social skills will take awhile to get up to par. She releases the mice from her command as soon as it seems the colt has eaten his fill. Van arrives and as the boy answers his questions to the best of his ability, she materializes quietly at his side.
Yael is warmth and motherly love and all the good smells of the world. Caring, soft brown eyes look down at the boy and look past his undead flesh (though she secretly wonders what good it will do him to live in a land of sand) to see the lonely orphan in front of them. “Siloam,” she says. “I ahm Yael. T'is ees Vankish. Vould you like to come xome vit us?” And just in case he doesn’t understand what she means, she sends him an image of the three of them - herself, Vanquish, and Siloam, and then several other indistinguishable horse forms behind them. Home is more than herself and Van. Home is a kingdom - with friends and family.
