"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
Everything has been so serious lately. That is not to say that it was not a justified serious, impending war and all, but just too gloomy for Weir.
It was a shock too, one moment he had been filled to the brim with Christmas spirit in the North Pole, he had been helping Santa Claus. The next he was thrown back into Beqanna, a very confused head and the drums of war beating in the distance. That just wouldn't do.
Today Weir travels to the Meadow, the common grounds, where surely there are others to bring happiness to. Bring a bit of Christmas fun. That's what they all needed he decided, a bit of cheer.
Christmas. Weir knows very well what Christmas is, he had also had the privilege to experience it as a man. He missed it, there was no Christmas in Beqanna but that does not mean that there couldn't be. He would just have to make some. That was it! He would have to make some Christmas, some holiday cheer. Maybe everyone would forget about that silly war, or be distracted long enough to not think of it for a while.
The roan stallion crests the first hill, blinking his amber eyes at the clusters of horses. Fall was a fine season indeed, lots of colors, not too cold, not too hot. The perfect backdrop for Weir's Christmas extravaganza. So, how should he begin? He thinks a long while, Christmas, Christmas, oh yes, snow.
"Right, snow, yes. Some snow we shall have." He speaks to himself, closing his eyes. Flurries begin to appear, swirling about Weir's body, coiling around his legs, his barrel. They build swirling faster and faster, grouping around him to his back. The cluster collects, creating a sphere that Weir sends rocketing into the sky where it bursts spectacularly filling the Meadow with a light snowfall. "Perfect! Now, what is next?" It's a question he asks himself, humming as he decides that there must be some snowmen and he begins to make some.
It's no fun playing alone, so Weir looks around, trying his best to be unassuming but he looks quite suspicious. A chortle sounds from his chest as he makes a snowball, carefully packing snow into itself to make a perfect circle. Then he throws it, yes he does, throws it at the nearest horse where it explodes with amber light- a bit of Christmas cheer tucked inside.
Winter is not Yael’s forte. It isn’t her foible either, with heat a mere wish away. She remembers when she was much younger, accompanying Nocturnal on a diplomatic visit to the Tundra in the middle of winter. It was a necessary trip, but conducted at a silly time, and she remembers shivering uncontrollably before they even caught a glimpse of the Wall. Desert born and Desert bred, Yael will never be truly comfortable in a land of ice and snow. But the change of seasons is inevitable and so for three months out of the year, she simply chooses not to leave her home if she doesn’t have to. She’s earned that little indulgence.
But it isn’t winter yet, and the wind is still warm with the last vestiges of an Indian summer. So when she feels the familiar tug of magic and soon after, a fine flurry of snow falling from the sky, Yael is slightly puzzled. This should… definitely not be happening. Although… as long as it isn’t cold, she’s kind of inclined to play along. A quick movement in her peripheral vision causes her to quickly turn her head, and she catches the tail end of Weir’s cheer-ball as it hits another horse. Happiness spreads outwards, and though it doesn’t reach Yael, she laughs with unabashed joy. Oh! This is her kind of party!
The little golden woman (almost the color of the amber light – coincidence? Perhaps) is eager to help the mystery stallion in his odd quest for happiness. She doesn’t know about Christmas – having never experienced it as a human, and only celebrating a couple of holidays that definitely weren’t in B’kanna’s history. So instead, she thinks of what makes her family happy, and for Vanquish and her son, that is undoubtedly food. With a mischievous gleam in her eye, carrots start to pop out of the ground, and apples begin to sprout on all the low hanging boughs of trees. They are big and crisp and sweet and juicy, and it seems that as soon as one is plucked by a pair of teeth, another starts to grow in its place until the Meadow folk can eat no more.
the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love
great clouds rolling over the hills
and if you close your eyes, does it almost feel
like nothing's changed at all?
The Tundra is quiet. Which is fine for hibernating, which is what Brennen has been doing for several years, but not particularly good when you’re trying to wake up and be a productive member of society once again. Thankfully for Brennen, a mere few moments of air time brings him to the Meadow, where the activity is never silent. It seems that for every empty home across Beqanna, every quiet Kingdom, the answer can be found in those who congregate constantly in the Meadow.
Coincidentally, Brennen’s not a huge fan. But it does serve a purpose, this bustling place, and he is here to take advantage. Large wings set him down gracefully, back legs preceding the fore, but his relaxed state goes instantaneously tense when the snowball explodes against a still-outstretched wing. Slowly he turns his head, blinking through the amber sparkles of light at Weir as Yael’s bright laughter wafts across him. For a moment he is dangerous Brennen, alliance finalist Brennen, General Brennen, with a dangerous fury kindled in his honey colored eyes – but it only takes that brief second for him to determine that he’s not under attack. That this is some sort of game, someone is playing, that it’s harmless fun. And then the fury is gone as quickly as it came and the stallion relaxes, inhaling the amber sparkles and smiling despite himself.
He takes a step towards them, cautious, and then another. Despite the lack of chill in the air – winter hasn’t yet reached the Meadow, though it creeps inexorably down from his Tundra – snow is drifting down from the sky, heavy enough to coat the grass beneath their hooves. The golden mare – a lady he recognizes, however vaguely, as once Queen of the Desert – is silent but Brennen knows that carrots and apples are not native to this part of the meadow even in the growing season, much less the depth of autumn. With a wistful regret that his youngest children are not here to enjoy the fruits of their labor, Brennen joins the party.
Even when he’s been for all intents and purposes asleep for half a decade, the elemental magic is quick to leap to his touch, a cold so deep it burns like fire. The great warrior stallion ignores his own roots for a moment, willing to surrender to the playfulness of the others, and lowers his nose to the ground, closing his eyes to envision what he wants. It is second nature to produce huge spires of ice, sharpened to points meant to impale and harm, because he is nothing if not a warrior. It takes a deeper concentration, a deep effort, to make the ice spring instead from the ground in fantastical shapes. A castle, first, whole like he envisions the Tundra’s ruins once must have looked. A skin of ice that stretches before it, perfectly flat like the lake in the depth of winter. And to finish the picture, a herd of ice-deer frolicking around the group. These he smiles at when he opens his eyes once more, thinking of his youngest daughter. She would have preferred the animated skeleton kind to the ice, of course (those she could play with), but either way she was always enamored of his strange talents.
Then he blinks back to the two who have gathered here, and smiles sheepishly. He considers the assault by snowball an invitation to the game (though he’s much too old to play games, his brain reminds him) but he might have asked before contributing so grandly. “I’m Brennen.” he offers in lieu of anything else to say.
It has been a long since she’s shown her face in Beqanna. She’s always lurking somewhere. It’s what magicians do, after all. They don’t die. They simply disappear and lurk. But someone said war, and of course she showed her head. Things get boring when you live forever and all, and though she has an infinite number of ways to pass the time, eventually company is a nice thing.
So she came back. Of course she did.
But first, she comes to the meadow, where there’s a boy playing with his new found skill and discovery of Christmas. Evrae, being Evrae, knows all about Christmas. She knows all about everything, because she can, and she spends her time flipping from one world to the next when she’s terribly bored. Unlike Yael, she has never found herself tethered to just one world. What a terribly small world. But then again, Evrae has been alive much longer. Eventually your world needs to expand.
Weir brings snow and snowball fights. Yael grows food throughout. Evrae hasn’t actually appeared yet, and doesn’t until Brennen adds a world of ice to the playground. Yes, at this point, it’s a playground built for adults and children alike. And then finally, she reveals herself. Inevitably, she is entirely red with a white mane and tail. A bit Santa Claus like, obviously. Why? Because she can. That’s always been her reason.
“You are never too old to play, Brennen,” she says, her voice floating through the air with amusement. After all, she’s older than all of them. Oh, but you’d never know. Unless you know she’s an original Carnage granddaughter. That should tell you something, anyway.
Then the trees begin to grow. Tall, impossible evergreens in the middle of the meadow. Next she strings them with lights and ornaments of every shape and size. Gifts pop up beneath the trees, though she admits they are filled with nothing but grass. She’s vaguely tempted to fill them with fake snakes, but you know, at least grass tastes good. And they are gifts for others, not for her. If they were for her, they would all be filled with fake snakes.
“Evrae,” she says, just in case they don’t know. But they should probably know.
12-23-2015, 09:25 AM (This post was last modified: 12-23-2015, 10:28 AM by Weir.)
He hums while he works. He finds it helps, it works the mind and keeps it moving, a steady, cheerful rhythm. Ever so carefully he packs the snow, first a rather large sphere, that shall be the bottom. Next a medium sized sphere that goes in the middle of course and last a small one- not too small though. It's all fine, just perfectly fine as he busies himself with his work stacking together globes of snow. The work is not hard, it's rather easy and delightful. Weir has always had that tug of magic, though he could feel it only when another had used it and then when he changed it. So this, this is a splendid surprise.
Three, he accomplishes three snowmen, all with small branches jutting from their sides. Snowmen need arms of course, he knows they do, how else would they wave? They don't wave though, not really, but Weir imagines they would if they could do so and he does his best to make it look as though they might.
Terribly plain are his 3 men, nothing like what he's seen in books, nothing like his dream either. Yes, terribly white and plain and lifeless. He ponders what they are missing, what it is they need to be finished and in response carrots crop up. Not one, or two, not five but several. They litter the meadow, bright against the white snowfall, and apples. Apples, spring up along the trees, fat and juicy and ripe for the picking. Carrots, apples, and magic. That familiar tingling feeling creeping along his spine and up his neck- enough to give him goose bumps and shivers.
Food is not the only thing to have sprouted unbiased in the snow, a golden woman appears as well, a look of delight on her lovely face. "Madam that is exactly what we need!" He exclaims with cheer, plucking a carrot from the snow laden earth and plopping it into the nearest snow mans face. "Ahah! There now, that is more like it dont you think?" Weir swings his head back looking at the golden mare as though she might agree. He again selects orange carrot sticks to complete his two others, one is quite crooked. "This is good, he looks distinguished. A handsome sort of fellow if I do say." He's talking to no one, to everyone, to anyone, walking over to say hello.
"A pleasure, a delight, hello I am Weir-" Begins his introduction but the receiver of his cheer ball is approaching, looking miffed. Weir is concerned momentarily, considering if it is best to move along, maybe this was this fellows part of the meadow. He doesn't have to worry though because the new comer is here to contribute. The male with huge black wings begins to bring sculptures of ice to the display. A castle and for Weir it is the castle of King Arthur. The lake isthe one where the Lady must reside, the Lady that gave Arthur the great sword Excalibur.
"Welcome Brennan, this is a fine castle." He still looks at the intricate pattern of ice, studying the fine angles and curves. "Darwin would like it very much." He comments, looking momentarily forlorn. A dapper looking tortoise taking shape from ice next to a deer. "Fantastic!" He is excited at his work, silly as it is, whatever would a tortoise need with a bow tie?
His chuckle is short, someone else was coming, someone who made trees surge into the air. Their boughs reaching for the heavens, the lowest ones taking on decorations, lights and baubles. Beneath are packages, tied up with string and fancy wrappings. Another woman approaches, this one crimson and cream like the suit of the Claus. "What a festive coat, hello, welcome." He greets the one who calls herself Evrae, sniffing at one of the presents.
