11-06-2018, 11:24 PM
so give me hope in the darkness that I will see the light
'cause oh that gave me such a fright
'cause oh that gave me such a fright
They come in small groups, what is left of the Brotherhood, which only solidifies the idea in his mind that this is what is right – they have, in the past, been a formidable order of warriors, but right now they are something else. No less strong or talented, but amongst them are more peacekeepers and children, lovers and dreamers. It will be easier to protect them if they consolidate with Nerine, where the few warriors left can also help protect their Nerinian sisters and Brothers – which will be all of them, going forward. His gaze rests for a moment on Jesper, and he feels a momentary pang of sorrow for making this decision without warning him first; Jesper is his heir here, after all, while he will have to start again from the bottom in Nerine.
Kromium’s words interrupt his thoughts and he turns to the metal boy, the beginnings of a frown forming on his refined face. “And how do you plan to do that, from Tephra?” he asks, voice mild but not particularly warm. Kromium had literally just assured him his family’s safety in Tephra, but now seems to be planning to ...reside here. Slowly, Brennen pulls himself into a ready stance. He’d been relaxed, quiet, calm; but the undercurrent of what is happening here puts him on edge. He is aware of Ivar on the edge of the group – he’s always aware of the kelpie, remembers well how dangerous the other stallion was in a fight, but for the most part they have coexisted peacefully in Ischia.
Still, he imagines they will both be more comfortable further away from each other.
At his side, his granddaughter speaks. A dark-tipped ear flicks her direction and he favors her with a small smile – he had been perfectly pleased to have Carwyn living alongside him in Ischia, and her assistance had been invaluable in keeping track of their large family; but, he is just as pleased to have her express an interest in something greater now. Each of his children mature at their own rate, and as useless as her mother was, Carwyn might as well have been his direct daughter; if this is her time to shine, he will support her. He is going to respond, to offer his support of Carwyn, but another familiar form interrupts, marching up to stand in front of him, confrontation in every line of her body.
Brennen is still raw, mind oddly open from speaking to his people in a widespread mental net. He can feel the arrogance and entitlement in the little girl’s very fibre of being and it sets him on edge, stoking the fire that has long laid dormant, the contempt he has held for this particular girl’s actions since the first time they interacted. The press of it on his unprotected nerves is simply too much, and his careful filters fail him. The words that come from his mouth are not carefully screened and polished like he has always strived for but ice-hot fury, sharp-edged in a way few have truly experienced. Brennen: unfiltered. This high-stress time was the wrong moment to piss him off. The water all around them – running in and around the island, hanging heavy in the air – reacts to his temper, so much so in some places that the very island trembles under their hooves, and the air seems to nearly solidify around them, hard to breath and oppressive. Anyone in the water itself would find the currents change course, the waves crash higher and higher at the edges of the island.
“You,” he says with disdain dripping from each syllable, “Are still the same entitled, self-centered brat who thought she could be given a Kingdom for nothing as a child. You don’t deserve a throne of any sort, much less Ischia. You have done nothing for this Kingdom – have not even bothered to return to her until there was something in it for you. You were not exiled – you chose to leave, and while that might have been excusable for a short time since you were barely past suckling off of your mother, you have had many long years to return and devote yourself to Ischia if you truly cared for her. Perhaps, had you proven worthy, you might have been named heir again, on merit instead of a laughable single generation ‘birthright’ implied by finding a pretty shell in the surf.”
Krone, in Brennen’s opinion, had barely held the Caretaker position through merit. He had given her his loyalty only conditionally – that she was the best choice for Ischia. When Krone had failed Ischia, he had no longer owed her loyalty. Ischia under the Brotherhood had flourished. He didn’t hold to bloodline exclusivity, preferring to choose leaders based on both blood and merit, and Krone’s weanling daughter had had no merit, and neither has she managed to acquire any in the time since. There was a single line of Kings to which Brennen had pledged anything more than a cursory loyalty, and Diresong and his sons are long vanished from this land. “You have no claim on Ischia, Karat. Neither do you,” he glances at Kromium and while he finds the metal-and-green twin infinitely preferable to the purple one, it is obvious from the searing heat in his fleeting glance and snort of disapproval exactly what he thinks of Kromium offering the support of Tephra on one hand and then backing this ridiculous claim of his sister’s on the other. “You are still fickle, unproven, immature, and unreliable.”
The bay takes a deep breath, trying to bank the fire in his chest, and forces himself to lock down on the escaping magic. The air lightens marginally, though still twice as humid as it should be, and the ground mostly stills underfoot. “It is not entirely my place to give away the throne of Ischia. Not when I am voluntarily leaving her. However, I would back the claim of one of my parrot friends before I ever considered leaving the throne to you. The residents of Ischia – those that have stayed, not those of you newly returned like sharks circling around a carcass – have the right to decide how you go forward from here. However, if I were to choose an heir it would be someone like Carwyn; mature and reliable. Perhaps alongside Ivar, who has lived here many years and is waiting patiently for you to slither back to wherever you came from so he can claim a land he has called home as long or longer than you.” There’s some degree of amusement in his bright eyes at that, as he flicks a look towards the kelpie to see if he’s edged closer. He hadn’t missed the bite mark on the girl, and he takes a perverse pleasure in knowing Ivar has presumably already put the arrogant creature in her place once and will be willing to do so again.
“But know this – Nerine will not recognize your claim on this land.” He knows he shouldn’t speak for Breckin, not without discussing it with her, but they are old friends. He is confident that she will have no more respect for this foolishness than he, and she is likely to listen to his advice on the matter. “Nor would we ever consider backing Ischia under your leadership as the Kingdom in this sector. We will find our allies amongst those who stay at Tephra, or whomever comes to power in Island Resort.” As the fury has cooled, so has his voice – his clipped, burning hot tones have slowed, ice still dripping off of every word but the cadence back to his customary drawl, the eminently reasonable stallion they all expect to deal with – but perhaps now that they have had a mere taste of his temper, they will understand why he keeps it carefully sheathed. It is not a weapon to be used carelessly.
Brennen turns his head, trails his nose down his granddaughter’s shoulder in a final silent show of support for her claim, and then he is simply gone.
Kromium’s words interrupt his thoughts and he turns to the metal boy, the beginnings of a frown forming on his refined face. “And how do you plan to do that, from Tephra?” he asks, voice mild but not particularly warm. Kromium had literally just assured him his family’s safety in Tephra, but now seems to be planning to ...reside here. Slowly, Brennen pulls himself into a ready stance. He’d been relaxed, quiet, calm; but the undercurrent of what is happening here puts him on edge. He is aware of Ivar on the edge of the group – he’s always aware of the kelpie, remembers well how dangerous the other stallion was in a fight, but for the most part they have coexisted peacefully in Ischia.
Still, he imagines they will both be more comfortable further away from each other.
At his side, his granddaughter speaks. A dark-tipped ear flicks her direction and he favors her with a small smile – he had been perfectly pleased to have Carwyn living alongside him in Ischia, and her assistance had been invaluable in keeping track of their large family; but, he is just as pleased to have her express an interest in something greater now. Each of his children mature at their own rate, and as useless as her mother was, Carwyn might as well have been his direct daughter; if this is her time to shine, he will support her. He is going to respond, to offer his support of Carwyn, but another familiar form interrupts, marching up to stand in front of him, confrontation in every line of her body.
Brennen is still raw, mind oddly open from speaking to his people in a widespread mental net. He can feel the arrogance and entitlement in the little girl’s very fibre of being and it sets him on edge, stoking the fire that has long laid dormant, the contempt he has held for this particular girl’s actions since the first time they interacted. The press of it on his unprotected nerves is simply too much, and his careful filters fail him. The words that come from his mouth are not carefully screened and polished like he has always strived for but ice-hot fury, sharp-edged in a way few have truly experienced. Brennen: unfiltered. This high-stress time was the wrong moment to piss him off. The water all around them – running in and around the island, hanging heavy in the air – reacts to his temper, so much so in some places that the very island trembles under their hooves, and the air seems to nearly solidify around them, hard to breath and oppressive. Anyone in the water itself would find the currents change course, the waves crash higher and higher at the edges of the island.
“You,” he says with disdain dripping from each syllable, “Are still the same entitled, self-centered brat who thought she could be given a Kingdom for nothing as a child. You don’t deserve a throne of any sort, much less Ischia. You have done nothing for this Kingdom – have not even bothered to return to her until there was something in it for you. You were not exiled – you chose to leave, and while that might have been excusable for a short time since you were barely past suckling off of your mother, you have had many long years to return and devote yourself to Ischia if you truly cared for her. Perhaps, had you proven worthy, you might have been named heir again, on merit instead of a laughable single generation ‘birthright’ implied by finding a pretty shell in the surf.”
Krone, in Brennen’s opinion, had barely held the Caretaker position through merit. He had given her his loyalty only conditionally – that she was the best choice for Ischia. When Krone had failed Ischia, he had no longer owed her loyalty. Ischia under the Brotherhood had flourished. He didn’t hold to bloodline exclusivity, preferring to choose leaders based on both blood and merit, and Krone’s weanling daughter had had no merit, and neither has she managed to acquire any in the time since. There was a single line of Kings to which Brennen had pledged anything more than a cursory loyalty, and Diresong and his sons are long vanished from this land. “You have no claim on Ischia, Karat. Neither do you,” he glances at Kromium and while he finds the metal-and-green twin infinitely preferable to the purple one, it is obvious from the searing heat in his fleeting glance and snort of disapproval exactly what he thinks of Kromium offering the support of Tephra on one hand and then backing this ridiculous claim of his sister’s on the other. “You are still fickle, unproven, immature, and unreliable.”
The bay takes a deep breath, trying to bank the fire in his chest, and forces himself to lock down on the escaping magic. The air lightens marginally, though still twice as humid as it should be, and the ground mostly stills underfoot. “It is not entirely my place to give away the throne of Ischia. Not when I am voluntarily leaving her. However, I would back the claim of one of my parrot friends before I ever considered leaving the throne to you. The residents of Ischia – those that have stayed, not those of you newly returned like sharks circling around a carcass – have the right to decide how you go forward from here. However, if I were to choose an heir it would be someone like Carwyn; mature and reliable. Perhaps alongside Ivar, who has lived here many years and is waiting patiently for you to slither back to wherever you came from so he can claim a land he has called home as long or longer than you.” There’s some degree of amusement in his bright eyes at that, as he flicks a look towards the kelpie to see if he’s edged closer. He hadn’t missed the bite mark on the girl, and he takes a perverse pleasure in knowing Ivar has presumably already put the arrogant creature in her place once and will be willing to do so again.
“But know this – Nerine will not recognize your claim on this land.” He knows he shouldn’t speak for Breckin, not without discussing it with her, but they are old friends. He is confident that she will have no more respect for this foolishness than he, and she is likely to listen to his advice on the matter. “Nor would we ever consider backing Ischia under your leadership as the Kingdom in this sector. We will find our allies amongst those who stay at Tephra, or whomever comes to power in Island Resort.” As the fury has cooled, so has his voice – his clipped, burning hot tones have slowed, ice still dripping off of every word but the cadence back to his customary drawl, the eminently reasonable stallion they all expect to deal with – but perhaps now that they have had a mere taste of his temper, they will understand why he keeps it carefully sheathed. It is not a weapon to be used carelessly.
Brennen turns his head, trails his nose down his granddaughter’s shoulder in a final silent show of support for her claim, and then he is simply gone.
but I will hold as long as you like
just promise me we'll be alright
just promise me we'll be alright
BrenneN