"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
The end of autumn was upon them, with the leaves straining against the weight of their death, falling humbled to the ground. Thorunn crunches over them without a thought to their carcasses, focusing only on the sound of her breathing. Just as father taught her - focus. Close your eyes, listen to the earth, listen to yourself. Is that the shuffle of a step? Is that the misplacement of a hoof? Weaknesses - find them, sort them out.
Use them.
There's no opponent here, just the sweating chestnut with the orange eyes heaving herself into a series of drills. She leaves Tephra for this, choosing to stay well outside its walls while yet another power struggle happens. She's so young, but already so over the constant power struggles that always topple Beqanna. It's a pyramid, where each races to the top only to find the air too thin and the space too sparse. Before long they topple down down down.
She's over it.
She paces, sprints, turns on a dime, makes the most of her drills. Backs up, throws her head, feints. Anything she can think of to trick her non-existent opponent. Meanwhile her muscles, a little larger than your average for a mare, ripple beneath her coat.
This she knows: she won't sit around and wait for something to happen.
Everything was coming together. Finally, the pieces were falling just as they should. All that was left now was to become something else entirely: a weapon. To always protect her, he would need to learn everything he could on how to fight, how to kill, how to win. Whatever it took, she was all that mattered.
Whatever blessed luck he was already having seemed to continue, as the very thing he desired most materialized before him in the form of a woman, a warrior, running her paces. Big, bottomless black eyes watched her closely. Every move was deliberate but instinctive, smooth and deadly. It was perfect. He'd need to learn everything he could from her. Whatever it took.
He walked right up to her, far enough away not to become the very real opponent. At just over a year old, he was strangely well-muscled and toned, almost bulky. Train me, he said shortly, passively. He'd not been around anyone but Cerva really, and wasn't aware he was being rude or demanding. He only knew what he wanted, and that this fierce warrior was the key to securing it. He wasn't completely barbaric, however. Please. I need to be like you. I need to keep her safe.
What more could he say? It had to happen. If not by her aide, then someone else. And then someone else again. Everyone he could get to teach him; he'd learn it all. For her.
She wonders, momentarily, if her father experienced anything like this. Maybe in his youth, when he was young and supple and did things like train in the open. Thorunn didn't have much of a choice honestly - Tephra was home in a very obtuse way. She lived there but she wasn't sure if it was truly home. Nothing felt like home these days, not even her own skin - especially not her marred face.
Why wouldn't a stranger ask her for help? She stood there huffing and sweating in the autumn cool, her long forelock falling into her face much like her fathers did. She is his spitting image, except with the copper color of her mother. Two peas in a pod.
Why wouldn't a stranger ask? She is scarred - not from battle or war - but could easily have been. Still, she is unsure, she hesitates, pulls away, watches him with her unseemly orange eyes. "Train you? For what?" The corners of her lips move oddly from the scars that still sit uneasy on her face.
She was breathing hard from her exertion, stepping back to get a good look at him. Measuring him, considering him. He was already standing tall, so he only held still and waited.
"Train you? For what?" The large scar across her face danced repulsively as she questioned him, stretching and pulling with the movement. He forced his gaze to stay locked on her eyes. She'd probably earned it. She'd probably killed whoever put it there in some great battle to the death. He could end up with similar ones one day. It both disgusted him, and made him crave it. To boldly bear the mark of his lethal prowess as she did.
He considered his words before responding. I need to protect my mother. She is delicate, fragile. She needs me, and I don't trust her safety to any other. I was told once: if you want something done right, you do it yourself. He took a step back, shifting to the side a little in a take-me-as-I-am sort of show. Offering his figure for her expert appraisal. Could she see potential?
Would she train him? Will you do it? Will you help me?
