"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
She follows at his shoulder, silent to match the pensive quiet that seems to brew in him endlessly these days. But it is not a peaceful quiet, not the same quiet it had been in their days before the reckoning - the ones spent together in the hills and snow of their frozen Tundra home. This quiet eats at him, consumes him, steals him from her more and more every night. Her lips find his shoulder, a gentle kiss against skin that burns feverishly hot, against a black that is broken by the pink slashes of scars from an impossibly long past.
I am one hundred and thirty seven years old. She hears his voice again, an echo rattling in her thoughts, reminding her that it is a past she does not know, a piece of him he has not shared - that he is still, decades deep, a stranger to her.
He moves away from her to make his way to the top of a nearby crest, just a humble knot in the earth so that those who gather will be more easily able to see him. She nearly follows, knows that he would probably prefer her at his side, prefer her cheek against his shoulder. But as he calls out and so many faces gather around him, she hesitates. Jord and Nymphetamine are the first to come, and both are familiar, both from before, both who have seen this man as a king of the tundra and know that he is a leader worth following. They move to his side and she steps back, invisible as all eyes are on him, touches a kiss to his hip and turns to disappear into the crowd below.
She finds a face she only barely recognizes instead, a quiet face on a quiet man, bay like her, standing just outside the main circle of bodies. It is by his side she takes her place, meaning to include him in this circle of old friends, in a sea of old faces like the echo from a past he did not share with them. She touches her mouth to his dark neck in quiet greeting before settling close enough for their hips and shoulders to brush, as easy in their closeness as she has always been before.
More gather, some she recognizes, some she doesn’t - most, though, are those who will remember him as a king of the Tundra or of early Tephra, those who will not hesitate to let him lead again. But there are some, like the stallion beside her, who seem more reluctant. Either in their quiet or their politeness, or, like the black stallion who spat at Jord’s feet, in more open discontent. But one by one, each person who stays pledges themselves to Offspring as they had before, and Isle can feel a knot she had been unaware of loosen somewhere deep in her chest.
Isle herself is silent, she feels no need to voice her allegiance to him - any who know of him will also know of her and that her loyalty has always, always been to him. That she has always chosen him. Instead she is soft and quiet, dark eyes flickering from face to face as she listens to what everyone says. They are open and accepting, question nothing, and she cannot help but wonder if she is the only one who realizes this man is not the man from before. That whatever it is that burns inside him and pulls him from her side in the night is quietly, subtly, forging someone new.
something has been taken from deep inside of me; the secret I've kept locked away no one can ever see.
It is not long until they filter in – some carrying expressions of disdain, while others are curious; perhaps even roused by his call to action. His darkening gaze steadies upon each face, tracing the familiar lines of those he knows, and etching those he does not into the deepest crevices of his memory. The flickering ember within him is stoked by their presence, and a soothing warmth has already begun to seep into his veins, traversing the length of his broad, heavily muscled body. The sun pales in comparison to the hearth of his chest, where his heart hammers steadily.
The first to speak is a warm, rich voice - Jord - and his own burning eyes meet with hers. A small semblance of a smile touches the darkest edges of his whiskered mouth, as her vows spill forth from her own as if she had been longing to voice them for an eternity or more. There is a brief mention of fire, and his browline furrows for a moment, a glimmer of concern flickering in his iron gaze.
He had not wielded his fire, not yet – it was too powerful, too tempting, and thus he kept it under lock and key - as much as he as able. Even now, it burns brighter, and he wonders how obvious it is that something is lurking within the shadow of his restless features – perhaps it had been the heat of his skin, or the way the fire seamlessly found its way out, burning the swaying stalks of greenery as he passed – leaving little but their charred remains behind.
It would be foolish to think that his fire had gone unnoticed – it certainly had not gone unnoticed by him.
A rumbling chuckle emerges from his vocal cords, with are rough and ragged from disuse, and the faint shadow of a smile reaches the depths of his eyes. A nod of acknowledgment is given to her (and there is the warmth of camaraderie in the way that he watches her). He does not speak as she moves to his side, for others speak before him.
Nymphetamine; another warm and familiar face, soon standing beside him as well. The right-hand man to Killdare, one of his closest companions and ally in war. The fire dims inside of him then, as nostalgia traces the rim of his memory. He longed to see his wayward friend again, but it is a comfort to have his closest confidant at his own side, speaking confidence in his leadership. A nod of acknowledgement is given to him, too – he would speak with him later.
Then, the reunion is broken apart, as his dark scarlet gaze searches the indigo plane of Warrick’s features, where hardened eyes and a stiffened voice lie. Though his words are a pledge to the volcanic island alone (and thus, much like Ellyse, his allegiance shadows the throne), there is an edge to his voice, though he himself cannot quite discern its source. Nonetheless, he willfully carries his gaze, quietly making a note to himself to seek him out beneath the setting sun further know him, and not only his name.
Another dark figure stirs a gleam of light in his eyes. Thanata. She had been a quiet, but unshakable force within the icy tundran walls. Her tone is as rich and thick as honey, and it is a reminding of the bleary winter days spent beneath the pale sunlight, with icy interlaced in each of their dark, tangled tresses. He would always long for the wintry domain that had been stolen away from him (the fire flickers in its ferocity within him; a trace of irritation lingering on his mind at the thought) but he was content to know that the relationships he had forged within its icy grasp would thrive.
And then Ellyse moves forth seamlessly, her fiery gaze set upon his own, and there is a lacing of venom in her carefully spoken words. He knew her well enough – she had been close to Magnus, and he had seen her blatant disregard for diplomacy a time or two before – she was a force to be reckoned with, but one he would have to watch carefully. She, much like Warrick, pledges her allegiance to the island alone, but something in her terse voice that betrays her intent. It was not the island she cared about at all – but Magnus himself; she would likely not linger for long.
His steely gaze does not settle on her for long, as a sleek, muscled figure moves forth swiftly and catches his eye - with only the briefest of acknowledgements given to him, Dahmer’s attention is set instead upon Jord, and wordlessly, he has spat upon the ground she stands upon. A shadow of a frown tugs at the corner of his dark mouth, but he does not speak. Though he had never spoken to him, he knew well Dahmer’s place in Tephra, as did all who dwelled within - emotions were always inevitably high and unpredictable with the incoming tide of a new reign; he would not fault him for it. It was a matter better left between them.
For now.
Kimber is the first to speak, with a rugged roughness (still deeply feminine, nonetheless) and a sardonic tone, her bright and vivid eyes watching after Dahmer’s retreating form. He cannot suppress the slightest of smiles pulling at the corner of his lips; he did not know her well but he knew of her. She had fought alongside him in what had inevitably led to the Reckoning itself, and she had fought valiantly against the infinitely arrogant Kratos. A solemn nod is given to her; he would seek her, too, and soon. She would be an invaluable asset.
His attentive contemplation is then drawn to a mottled roan, with strong, definitive features, and a broad, carefree smile - he has never been so carefree as he, he muses to himself, studying the line of his lax jaw as he drivels on. Nonetheless, he is charismatic, with humor laced in his voice. He cannot discern why, but he is altogether familiar in a way - perhaps a descendent of the ever-jovial Weir. Perhaps, he, too, would be a valuable asset - diplomacy was of utmost importance.
The shadow of his half-hearted smile soon wanes, though, as the fire burns within, leaving the delicate tissue lining his rib cage searing with pain. The muscle of his jaw tightens as he attempts to regain his composure, a low fire burning in the hearth of his brimstone eyes. Tensely, his cheek turns as he feels the gentle touch of his beloved Isle’s lips pressed against his hip, following her carefully with his gaze as she decides not to stand beside him, but rather - before him.
Much can be said for her decision; she would follow him anywhere - but never had she, nor would she lead beside him. There is both comfort and frustration in that revelation, and a coiling emotion stirs within the pit of his belly - an unfamiliar emotion; one he cannot properly define. Still, there is a flicker of warmth that is not caused by the burning fire within - his heart pines for her; it always would - but she felt so far away to him, somehow. So distant. He is uneasy without her at his side, and yet, there is something growing, changing inside of him, and he cannot bear to bring her closer to the white hot flames.
”Your loyalty and dedication is more meaningful than words can express.” He says finally, glancing to each of them, analyzing the variations in their expressions. ”Some of you know my capabilities as a leader, and some of you I will need to prove myself to. I will.” There is a decisiveness and a finality to his tone. His is King, once more.
”When Tephra was founded, there was a notion of cooperation and collaboration. The idea of a refuge, or a sanctuary - a noble idea,” his voice is a trailing murmur near the end, his memory roving over the solemn, whiskey rich words Magnus had once spoken to him. ”but once more, the world is changing, and we must change with it. A loose political system has done nothing to benefit us. We have no alliances, and similarly, no enemies. But as Nerine moves forth towards the very definition of a regime, as Taiga closes itself off, as Pangea falls - we must find where we belong; we must find strength and solidarity in one another.”
A pause, then, his searing eyes looking towards the volcano, and the thick plumes of smoke rising from the volcanic vent at the top. ”There will be a place for each of those who deserve it. There will be a purpose for each of those who desire it. I will need confidants - those I can trust, those I can depend upon. I will need diplomats, to extend of olive branch to some, and to negotiate terms with others.”
He looks to them, now, stoicism etched into the rough surface of his masculine features.
”Jord, Thanata - you will serve beneath Nymphetamine; he is a strong diplomat. Prove to me your abilities and there may be higher placement for you. Fox, is it?” His gaze steadied upon him; he did not say his name but he was a watchful one - much could be learned simply by listening. ”you have wit and humor - both of which are useful in diplomacy. Should you desire it, I would like for you to traverse the land with them. There is much to learn about the lands that still remain, and your good humor and .. ability to express yourself,” his browline raises then, ”might be beneficial to kingdom ties.”
”Kimber, I will need you skill and your experience, if you are willing to serve beneath Ellyse. I trust that you are capable - but I would like to see it.”
And finally, he glances to Warrick, tracing the ridge of his stern brow, and the taut muscle of his cheek, where his teeth are tightly clenched. ”You. Warrick?” he asks, but he already knows. ”You are a quiet but steady accompaniment our kingdom. I need a stable presence, to represent what we are and where we have been. Consider it, if you will.”
”I will do all that I can to serve you, and Tephra.”
wounds so deep they never show; they never go away. like moving pictures in my head, for years and years they've played.
Offspring
Um, okay. So.
Word vomit.
I wanted to make sure I acknowledged everyone; thank you so much for replying.
You can reply to this IC, or OOC. There will be a caste system, but a slightly nontraditional one.
I will explain more later, but Offy needs to know where you all want to be and what you want. :3
He trails after her, and this is a first. Usually he leads them, but she is changed - he can see that now, it is in the way that she walks, more decisive than she has ever been. Is he changed too? No, he thinks not because he is nothing like her, and she is less like him then she has ever been for all that they shared their mother’s womb together. He cannot guess at the thoughts in her head no more than he can guess the patterns of river or wind. She seems more wild now, untouchable almost and it makes his heart squeeze inside his broad chest at the thought that she is almost but not quite unapproachable now.
She can hear him clopping along behind her but he keeps back apace and this too, does not surprise her. Spark is aware that on some level, she has frightened him and he has begun to fear this new version of her that has been remade of flame from the inside out. She can feel it arcing through her, anticipating her need of it and like an itch, it begins beneath her skin and moves along her bones, licking and lapping at every bit of her until she longs to shed this self for that other - the one of fire that burns as much as her heart beats.
What she doesn’t know is how it still came to be, so far removed from their conception or anything momentous like the Mountain changing the landscape beneath their feet. It had just happened, and it seemed the catalyst had been her terrible and fierce love for Giver combined with her anger at him. In the collision of the two, something had happened to make her feverish and dull, to go deep beneath the pull of sleep and dream until… until Spear had called her back, and she sighs at the memory of it as they come closer to the loose throng of horses that surround the big black in their midst. Looks like their father is taking up the King’s mantle again, trading in ice for sulphur this time.
Spark comes to a halt, and he halts beside her.
(He seems dim for all that he is the bigger of the two, more like their father in build then she is. She seems small and delicate, but there is something new and fierce about her…)
Some faces are familiar to them, and some are not.
It is hard to remain still, the fire moves along her muscles and bones and begs her to burst back out of that shabby skin that keeps it in. She almost gives in but it is like Spear knows her, knows the sweet cajoling voice of the fire within and he touches his lips to her hip. It stops everything for a moment - just a single moment, and she rolls her red eye back to him as he moves closer to her, his flesh crowding her own and making it twitch in both love and disgust, which is new for her to experience. She has never felt sick at her brother’s touch until now, and it is the fire in her that rebuffs him and his familiarity. It is all she can do to keep from erupting into that shape, but she manages it - all but her mane, it goes up in flames and stays that way.
Both of them look at the gathering, at their father in the midst and nod to him.
He assigns rank and important to some of them around them, and they can only stand there next to one another as a show of silent support.
Warrick has made his decision, to serve the crown and the crown alone. As others gather and make their case for Offspring, the bay stallion feels slightly at ease knowing that his decision would not be made in vain – he would be serving a just ruler with (though he has no problems with this) a swift fist and a mighty arm. He can feel the winds of change as it rustles between the already large forming group, glad to be a part of the forward movement of his home; though he wonders if that is what he is truly feeling as she steps into the crowd, watching him as he finishes his sentence.
He’s sure that everyone can hear the rapid pulse of his heart cracking against his chest, even though he stands the furthest away, still lurking on the outskirts. His head lifts high in curiosity, nostrils fluttering, and he even takes a few brisk steps forward when he sees the pale gold of her body and the brightly preened white feathers at her side. He wants to run to her, to ask her where she’s been and if she’s found what she’s looking for, he wants to know if she’s okay.
He wants to ask if she’s missed him.
A light comes to his eyes that as long since been ignited – a look of courage, of hope. His feelings were soaring around his chest haphazardly, but he welcomes them. He prefers these feelings of confusion and elation than those of the dismal haunts in his cave. He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to react to her sudden return, especially when no one else seems to understand how wonderful it was that she had returned to them.
But slowly, perplexedly, the light dims. She turns away from him, speaking only to Offspring, and gradually his eyes turn dim and foggy. His brow furrows and shades the once brilliant blue that was there. He is now glad that he is not truly with the crowd, for maybe no one will see the doubt and uncertainty that so clearly now wavers across his face, the hardened lines creased with shadow. He lowers his head, his navy-tipped ears falling lazily against the black of his mane. His eyes focus on Offspring, focused on his king. He hopes that the black stallion does not see the emptiness that now hovers in Warrick’s glassy gaze, even though the bay continues to listen intently and wholeheartedly. Loyal to his home, he always would be. But he cannot ignore the familiar sting that rummages through his chest, upturning and overthrowing each and every part of him that was joyful and bright until it was shattered into nothing.
He will not seek her out, he decides quickly.
He’s still listening to Offspring and the others, but he refuses to move his gaze from his new king. He does not trust himself, for the second he wavers he knows his eyes will fixate on her – and he did not want to feel the dismissal from her once again. More have come and more have spoken but their words fall flat on his ears. Voices rose and the king silenced them, others came and others went. He barely even notices a light figure that moves near him, unfamiliar in all ways yet for some reason was familiar all the same. He doesn’t even flinch or react as the brush of velvet lips lightly touch the dark of his neck – though somewhere inwardly, he is thankful. The touch soothes him, though he does not know the face in which he finds his gaze searching. He feels like he should know her and is frustrated that he doesn’t. His brow continues to shadow the blue of his eyes, unwavering in his distraught but somehow soothed by the presence this bay mare gave him. It’s almost alarming at how comforted he is by her presence at his side and suddenly he does not feel as small as Ellyse had made him. Before turning to look at Offspring once more, Warrick touches his muzzle to her cheek. Thank you. he doesn’t say.
His name is being said and time is moving on. The sharp bite that had gripped him only moments before still lingers, though the ache does not stay on his voice. “Whatever it is you desire of me,” he states to the king, nodding his head with agreement. “I will do my best to represent this kingdom and ourselves.”
He does not look to see if Ellyse is there. To him, she already may have left the group.
like the sun,
swallowed up by the earth
warrick
Warrick says yessssss of course cause he loves everyone. And he's gotta prove himself to Ellyse somehow anyway.
![[Image: nymphetamine_zpsmlx48otf.gif]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v202/dsl_devin/nymphetamine_zpsmlx48otf.gif)