"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
Whew, that was close. Weir heaved as he looked across the plains at his opponent, he was thoroughly tired and sore. The roan was glad it was all over and he probably wasn’t the only one.
It took him a while to catch his breath, wincing as each movement of his expanding lungs caused him to renew the throb that ached in his ribs. That was quite enough of a beating for one day he thought, he had done his part, at least where he was concerned, he had done good for Shippy. He watched them all as they went, the bloodied Chamber King eyeing them each and Weir deduced he was counting them. The roan tipped his head to the dark colored Amazon before he left, wishing her well before he took limped his way towards those that departed.
Boy, that limp, it was a bugger that one. Weir’s amber eyes found the dark form of Warship and he smiled, glad to have been of assistance. It made Weir feel better joining in, jing the side of his friend instead of battling against him. In truth he hadn’t battled against Warship at all, but his herd had, those of their allies had and Weir was done with it. “Fine job Warshyshippy, fine job,” he called as he limped his way forward, there was little hope for him to catch up to the group but that was fine. He should probably take it easy anyways, he would only over exhaust his already depleting strength.
Now first Weir had gone to the Dale, glad that it was not too far from the plains at all. Weir had gone home and he had rested a few hours, greeted the children, greeted Eira and then something awful happened. After giving himself a break to breathe he had finally called on Darwin, excited to tell the telling of his war tale (even though Darwin would already know) when Darwin couldn't be found. At first he called to him, the tortoise’s name repeating on his rusty lips over and over. When that did not work Weir tried pulling him forth, tugging at the place in his innards where he knew Darwin to dwell. Still, Darwin did not come. That’s when Weir became a bit frantic, a nuisance calling over and over to his spirit. He stomped a hoof into the earth, demanding Darwin to quit his nonsense, that this wasn’t a funny joke.
Still Darwin did not show. Weir cried, he begged Darwin to come out, pleaded with the tortoise. He apologized for whatever it was he had done to upset him and yet, there was no answer in return. Weir climbed the hill that day, struggled his way up, urged himself forward though he very much wanted to collapse more than once. He went to the pool, the very one that Darwin had been born in and he called to the tortoise from there too. Weir even tried to pull at the Magic from the pool but he could not so much as make a ripple on its mirror like surface.
He stayed there for a week, crying and shouting and pleading. Weir took no food and he took no drink in this time, he wasn’t hungry and the dry mouth was a small price to pay if it would be enough to make his soul come back. Can you imagine having such a thing ripped from you? On the seventh day he could no longer cry, his eyes had dried up, his heart had finally gone numb- for the moment. Weir sullenly went back down the hill, he ate until he could not eat, he drank until he made himself sick and then he drank again. After that he went to Eira, he went to the children and then he left, few in tow. We can be sure that little Rowling was glued to his side, eager for adventure. All it had taken was for Weir to show him miniature scale of the Tundra’s ice wall and the boy was set.
They came with nothing other than what would come with, Weir even waited at the gate much to Rowling’s displeasure. The roan called once, sheathing himself in a suit of ice and then hanging his head. He felt cold inside, truly chilled, now he could feel the cold on the outside as well.
Who cares if hell awaits?
We're having drinks at heaven's gate.
Maribel is not the typical face you might see poking out from around a snow sheathed tree with the silver of her hair wrapped around her white-out face. Only the glitter of two blue eyes are what stand out from the camouflage she sometimes wore when out and about, exploring the lands of her home.
An unfamiliar call catches her attention, draw away from the sly little snow hare that was currently playing hide and seek with the young mare. It is low, heavy with a heart sinking exhaustion as if the caller was burdened by something. Slender limbs pick their way over the newly formed frost from the easly morning. Mari was always too curious for her own good.
Not too far off stands the shape of an ice horse and ice baby. Large azure pools widen with surprise as her own skin returns to the gold of her palomino coat. It appears as if the two were sculpted from the very ice of the Tundra! Did Dad do this? Mari walks right up smack dab to the frozen equines. Lobes flicker to and fro upon a tilted skull before she walks up close to Weir and bumps her nose against what is his own, playing a bit of pretend with Weir (before she even knows it's Wier). "Well, how do you do?" She says in a sing song manner and proceeds to give a deep bow. Eyes shift to the little one as she straightens and gives him a smile.
But wait-
What's that?
Mari moves closer to the ice horse...so close she is practically breathing on him as she looks to his eye...
Did it just blink?!
Maribel is skidding back as she trips over herself in surprise, her skin shifting to a whirlwind of colors, any and all that you could ever imagine. Her hind end finally finds purchase on the ice just as her finely muscled haunches fold under her in a rather unladylike -plop!-. Mari just sits there now blinking in disbelief that the ice horses were in fact, real horses! "Oh gosh! So sorry about that!" Her voice quivers with the aftershock of the startle. She is too shocked to scoop herself up and give a proper greeting. The chiseled skull twists to look about her to see if anyone had seen her embarrassing foolishness.
It was a blessing that hopefully no one (other than Weir and Rowling, of course) had witnessed her carelessness. When she looks back to the stallion and colt, her skin burns to a deep crimson as a lopsided smile dances across her lips and she kind of gives a tiny shrug as she starts to gather herself and find her feet again. "I'm Maribel, by the way." The tones creep outward sheepishly as she shakes the fresh powder of snow from her coat. "What brings you to the Tundra?" Sapphire pools blink from beneath the platinum tinted tresses and dancing with curiosity.
He surely needed to get used to the Tundra’s new activity, and the residents that came with it. And he probably should get used to it fast. However, this change was probably the better one of the two. Brynmor still didn’t feel too at ease with women within their ranks – not because he thought of them as less, he’s just being somewhat neurotic to change – but what he liked less was the fact that he too had learned of it with the rest of the Tundra. He didn’t question his king’s friendship, neither his rule or the decisions that he made, but the blue eyed stallion didn’t liked it that his friend hadn’t consulted him on this. Making him quite a bit butt-hurt.
Another thing that was new was that someone beat him to respond to a call from the border. Yet this wasn’t a thing he should be wary about, but embrace it whole heartedly. She might be young and still had a whole road ahead of her, but thus far she had really proven herself to be a talented diplomat. Just a tad bit unexperienced. It wasn’t hard to miss the sudden burst of colors against the snow. Even from afar Brynmor could see how she ungracefully flopped down, sitting on her rear.
The worry has him hurrying towards the sole entrance in the ice wall. It wasn’t like he was afraid of what might happen, but it were strangers at the borders and Maribel had clearly been surprised by one thing or another. And Brynmor didn’t want anybody to harm his only fellow-diplomat. Or her scaring them away, which could be possible by the sudden burst of colors. With the loss of his wings – not that Brynmor cared for such trivial matters, although he would have to admit that the speed they gave him were quite handy – it takes him longer to get there than he would’ve liked, only reaching them as Maribel introduces herself and asks the strangers for their business in the Tundra.
Strange they were indeed. The blue eyed male blinks a few times, surprised to see the living snowmen –horses, before he manages to hide it. Not everything was how it looked like and there probably was a clear explanation behind this. So Brynmor offers the pair a smile and a dip of the head. ”Welcome. My name is Brynmor.” He leave it at his introduction, after all, Maribel had already asked them for their reasoning and he didn’t have anything to add. Plus she had been here the fastest and he also didn’t want to give her the feeling that he didn’t trust her in these matters.
07-25-2016, 01:12 PM (This post was last modified: 07-25-2016, 01:17 PM by vaughan.)
I shall wear no crowns and win no glory
Vaughan knows little about the inhabitants of the Tundra, up until recently that hadn't been a problem - a bachelor herd made sense to be isolated, away from one another. He was working on being less secluded regardless of how progressive the process was. Today was as good as any, it was the cusp of winter and although many lands in Beqanna were turning a cheek he welcomed it. There was a certain bite to the air when the seasons changed, a chill that crept up your spine like two soft fingers in the night; goosebumps ensue. It is short lived though as he stands, basking in the winter sun's glory as he witnesses a small gathering commence.
Brynmor - Maribel, he assumes; never meeting but heard of no doubt and a ice-ladder newcomer with a colt? Strange.
The black stallion really had no choice, he was genetically predisposed to be curious about things and his duty to the Tundra was to protect and guard so he doesn't hesitate to make his way over to the group. Vaughan is not shocked by the other newcomers appearance, he knew that realistically anything was possible in these lands and he was likely more rare of a breed to be deemed 'normal' The floppy ear lieutenant gives a curt nod to Brynmor, who as of late had seemed permanently perturbed by some of the happenings and choices; though Vaughan had questions, he didn't consider himself so important as to consult on the matter. At the end of each short day in the Tundra, the decisions were Offspring's and he, for one, was thankful that responsibility was not hoisted upon his shoulders. "Brynmor, Maribel; the princess I presume?" a kind smile, though it doesn't last for long as he listens to both of the more diplomatic beings welcome the stallion and colt, he stares at them both. "Ah from the Dale, are you? Seems like you wouldn't bring a young colt to a diplomatic meeting though, so I feel as though it's safe to assume you're not here for such." he assumes, though he doesn't truly know, eyeing the ice stallion, "I'm Vaughan, you've already been welcomed so yes, pray tell what can we do for you in the Tundra?" he waits, although his anchor scar has all but faded with the recent events - it is only a matter of time before the truth is revealed somehow. The apple never falls far from the tree.
Damn! Papa had slipped from my cautious watch. He was missing his Darwin and while I had felt the vibrations of the earth and the magic that rippled I had not know what it meant. I hadn't paid attention, too busy romping here and there and wandering into places I probably shouldn't. I had learned to fly, so there was that also. It was fun soaring up above in the clouds and watching everyone from above. And it was so fast! I could go much farther when I could fly straight over things instead of having to walk so far below around them.
But Papa was crying for Darwin and it broke my heart. Shattered it into little bitty pieces. When he didn't eat or drink or do much of anything for a week, I thought he was dying. I had pleaded with him until my throat was raw, until my lips bled from being so chapped and dry, but apparently the death of his spirit animal was as hurtful as loosing one of us or a piece of himself. That seventh day I had slipped from watching Papa to going and grabbing some food and a drink before returning. I slept when he did usually, catching quick naps here and there.
But when I got back..he was gone.
"Dammit Papa." I curse and take to the skies. I had been gone a little longer than I wanted to be. So by the time I found him, flying far to the north where it was always cold, I sighed happily when I did see him on the ground. Or rather, I saw Rowling near the giant ice wall, with an icicle Papa near him.
A mare was talking to him as I circled around, slowly lowering myself to them. I catch names and then Vaughan as he speaks and I cannot help but smile a little. I land lightly next to them. "Papa, you really should have waited for the rest of us." I scold him lightly, touching my lips to him and then to Rowling before turning my attention to the rest of them. "Pardon my Papa, I think he means for us to move here." I manage a smile, meeting them all in turn with my black coat and black feathers a stark contrast against the white of the snow. "My name is Graeme, this is Rowling, and Papa's name is Weir. He's deeply saddened right now by the loss of his familiar when the magic surged through the land." I act as Papa's mouthpiece although I keep turning to look at him out of the corner of my eyes before I respond.
Instead I tug Rowling's forelock, looking at each of them in turn. "Is this place always this cold?" My winter coat was not as thick as it ought to be living in this place. Oh well, I would adjust, so long as I was with my family.
Too bad he was too low to appreciate the enthusiastic welcoming he had received. Not merely one horse but three of the Tundra’s residents had seen to him and his. On any other day Weir would have been elated at such a gathering, bright eyed and curious to each of the individuals, today he was not so enthusiastic. He couldn’t find his pep at the moment, taking shelter within himself instead, behind layers of ice and hoarfrost.
They are all kind enough, not overly suspicious or cross at his surprise arrival. The only one seeming put out was Graeme and in truth he hadn’t waited for any of them to keep up really, he simply let them know he must go and that they could come too if they wished. He was too broken to insist they stay with him, that his family stick together and had they not come on their own accord he would have been in even worse shape than he was now.
A young mare finds them first, a young woman that blends into her surroundings, that is, until she notices the pair at the gate. Quickly enough she approaches them as a new shade, a radiant gold like the rising sun and usually Weir would have been intrigued. Right now he simply stands, statuesque as she approaches them. Maybe he should have said something more because she did not seem to take note of the gentle rise and fall of his sides. It would appear she thought him a true horse of snow and once upon a time he might have laughed at this, a robust chortle for the humor of the situation. Instead when she asks him how he is he simply blinks, a blank stare in her direction before he finds words of response. “Not very well I’m afraid,” he admits, unresponding as she plants her rear into the ground with her surprise.
Another bleeds into the group, a dappled male and Weir blinks to him as well. He does enough to dip his head in greeting, Rowling wiggling his ears at his side looking back and forth between the two horses. It’s a shame the boy couldn’t hear, he would likely be the mouthpiece for them both if he had ever attempted speech. The one that catches the ice-man by surprise is the black to approach their gathering, and in his grief Weir momentarily wonders how his daughter had arrived before them. He looks over his shoulder once, certain he spots a glint of silver in the distance, she had not yet come afterall. It isn’t her indeed, the boy is quick to speak and Weir’s eyes widen briefly as he takes it all in. Vaughn, the name falls like a brick in his skull and presses mightily against his chest. It is only because Weir is smart enough to put two and two together, he did not need the ombre blue mare there to tell him the nature of the boy’s parentage.
At his side Rowling too is surprised, wiggling his ears and bleating as he dashes around the dark boy. He quickly looks him over, head up, down, side, side and he reaches his small nose out to sniff. It wasn’t his sister, but it looked a lot like her, save for the flopped ear and lack of tinsel. The child’s ebony topped head turned to look at his Mother, head tilted, before letters quickly scrawled themselves in the snow. ‘Fastlane’ it said and to accompany the word two miniatures sprang up from the frost as well, one a boy with a flopped ear, the other a girl shining streaks of ice in the mane and tail of the replica.
Weir only nodded in return, quickly making his own tiny horse, bigger than both the previous sculptures, much more refined too. The details were uncanny in Weir’s projection, a stout stallion, hardened muscles unmissed and an icy infinity symbol emblazoned on it’s chest.
Before he could answer any more questions though, a sixth party made an appearance, his little daughter Graeme who was most upset at him. She took the reigns with introductions and she knew exactly why they had come, Weir confirmed the request when she finished. “We’ve come to stay a spell if you’ve the room. Is your King around, Offspring?”
