"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 old King was tired. And yet, he was not here in his cave, like he wanted to be. He strode through the jungle on his island, making the round, dragging his amber tipped wings through the foliage, flowers and mushrooms growing in his wake. The rich earth was black and healthy, and he was doing his part to keep the Ischia insular from the outside world. What they could cultivate here—by his blessing—prevented them from having to return to the mainland. Not all of them could swim; for since its inception, the pathway that kept them all safe and dry on the walk through the ocean had closed, and most of the inhabitants—indeed what few were left—were left stranded here.
Ashley took it upon himself to care for them, for in the fairies’ selfishness, they had not considered the dangers of stranding ground-dwelling creatures in a saltwater sea, upon an island. He grunted and tossed his head, red hair sent flying behind him. The phytoplankton glowed with the coming of another sunset, and as the pyreflies rose from the ground, Ashley’s nostrils flared—the smell of the flora assailed him. Sweet air that you could taste; only something that this island could provide him. He smiled and tucked his wings around him, settling his ruffled feathers for a moment of peace.
These moments were rare, but the beauty of a pink sky and the dappled rainbow of color that bounced off the water in the spring at the middle of the island—exercised by the pyreflies and the phytoplankton—created an orchestra for the senses. In the distance, a water fall. He headed in in the direction of the far side of the lake, in an effort to gain some perspective on the Island. Most days he spent his time below it, in the caverns that he called home—only accessible via the ocean—but as he made a lounge of broad leaves, he lay down in the open, taking note of the sheer beauty that his home has brought him.
He is overtly fond of the night. When the moon begins to rise, Sabrael casts his faint shadow against the shore and watches its heavenward trajectory. He’s not a spiritual man, not devout or taken by ritual (he’s not sure what kind of man he is, really; he’s only just become one). But something about witnessing the death of one glowing orb and the birth of another keeps him grounded every night. The fractured pieces of his heart are momentarily melded in the fresh moonlight.
There is little else to look forward to, besides.
Their island is as much a prison as it is a paradise. And while the few elders they have tout its isolation as a boon for security, sometimes he thinks he wouldn’t mind a breach or two. Sometimes, he thinks he might even welcome a touch of trouble on their perfectly peaceful parcel.
Gloom settles between the dense leaves of the jungle. It is his cue to head for the beach, to watch the sun drown in the deep-water far from shore. He lifts his angular head, but it tilts towards the center of Ischia rather than its ringing shores. The sound of movement pulls him deeper into the darkening forest as he gives chase, albeit slowly. There is no wildlife to speak of here. Usually, the parrots take to roost hours before the sunset. It is quiet and still as the night gathers around them, so this extracurricular activity leaves the young man intrigued enough to follow.
The rich smell of freshly pressed dirt invades his nostrils as he weaves between the trees. Eventually, the sound fades ahead of the young man. Only the chorus of the evening insects and his quickened breath fills the air. But he keeps on, keeps walking until he comes upon the lake and the lounging stallion. “Ashley,” he says when he is near enough. It is soft, but cuts across the surface of the clean-water beside them anyway. There is still some amount of youthful reverence for the other trapped in him as he regards the red. He entirely forgets that he’s missing his moonrise. “Careful you don’t get too comfortable out here. The beach has fleas, sure, but their bite is nothing like the jungle’s ants.”
12-11-2016, 05:50 PM (This post was last modified: 12-11-2016, 06:54 PM by Wallace.)
Wallace
Oh god, it was too perfect. He made little flowers and grasses in his wake, tossed his pretty red hair like the best of them, and lounged so comfortably near their falls. He was consumed in his duty or he'd have snapped at her by now, making her way over to join his cozy moment. So peaceful. So pretty. Isn't he so cute when he's all mellow and serious?
Before she can, another joins. Oh, but she knows this one. The dark and mysterious, the ever-intriguing and elusive Sabrael. This just gets better and better. "Ashley," his smooth voice greeted her dark king. She felt a thrill run through her. This was going to be a fun night. Finally some entertainment around here. "Careful you don't get too comfortable out here. The beach has fleas, sure, but their bite is nothing like the jungle's ants." Silly Sabrael, always saying silly things.
She stepped in, lowered herself right alongside Ashley as though she already owned him. Nobody could own that one, though. Not even Ashley himself. There's a riddle, now isn't it? Her grullo -brown body shimmered in the moonlight. Oh wait, no it didn't. It was dull like the rest of her, plain like her brown eyes, boring and grungy-looking like her matted hair. She shrugged it off, and sighed audibly.
Yes, this is much better, isn't it? she asked Ashley as though they were picking up on a previous conversation. His heat radiated from him like a dark sun, tingling her chilled skin. Dancing eyes shifted to Sabrael, and she smiled a sly and wicked grin. I had not expected to see you again. It's good to. How are you lately, Sabrael? She was genuine despite her cheekiness. It really was good to see him. Very good. She'd wanted to know him better, but her chance had been robbed from her. Now perhaps she would learn more of the both of them.
12-15-2016, 07:55 AM (This post was last modified: 12-15-2016, 07:57 AM by Ashley.)
His quiet time is short-lived. The quiet man—Sabrael—has made his appearance, making small talk about the birds and the bees.
Okay, so not literal birds and bees, but he is talking about pests—the way the fleas itch and the way the ants bite. The ginger man fluffs his feathers, snapping his tail up to attack a fly like the warrior he was. Perhaps out of practice, but his reflexes—they were never more keen. “Good evening, Sabrael. As you can see, I have nothing to fear from the bugs. I cannot say the same about them from me.” He chuckles, moving his head to span his view across the peacefulness of the now-risen moon across the glassy water’s surface. For a time, they are silent, relaxed; content to watch the moon rise.
But when the ripples on the water start doing their dance, he knew instinctively that another whirlwind—another pest, if left up to Sab’s metaphors for life—was on her way. Beautiful, young, and nobody’s fool, Wallace saunters through the jungle, waving her hips in her wake. She approaches the men like she is inspecting meat at a farmer’s market, barely containing her tongue behind her perfectly formed mouth. It is no secret that she has designs on anyone who will have her—anyone with power, anyone with position. She is as perfect visually as she is dangerous, and she sidles up to Ashley as if it is the coldest of winters—and happens to be snowing outside. He watches with amusement as she flutters her lashes at him and then turns—innocently enough—to ask after their other company (Sabrael) and his welfare. Ashley has a hard time rolling his eyes. To his mind’s eye, she is but a child—but reality is, she is a woman, and she wants to be treated that way.
And so, Ashley pushes his warm, rippling muscles up against her, wrapping his tail around her back flank, dragging his tendrils down the cords of her tightly bound muscles. He smiles slyly. “Well Hello yourself Wallace,” he croons, his voice thick and throaty. She never once said hello. “Yes, it is much better. Much warmer.” His voice is like caramel; sticky sweet. And He’s going to lather her in it all over. His wings drape across her intimately and he slides himself as close to her as possible. “Are you aware that you’re sitting on me?” His voice, still warm, goes husky. He is fond of Wallace. In his younger days, he would say he lusted after her. Hell, he lusted after her now, wiggling her hips and pressing her buttocks against his…well, him.
But he is determined to press forward with his lesson anyway. If she wants to learn to be a woman—he can teach her how to wear her dignity like Chanel, rather than Juicy Couture. That perhaps, the beauty is in what you don’t say and do, rather than lathering it on too thickly. He only hoped that he could teach her something about this before she went and had her heart broken.
They settle into a companionable silence as the volume of the world grows around them. The jungle is so much more alive than the Dale had been. Before, the creatures had grown still as the sun fell from its perch. They would take shelter in the woods, on the mountain; the periwinkle-hued meadows were barren by the twilight hour. He would walk through them alone as a boy, feeling like the prince he was as the earth hushed more for every star that lit above his head like a crown.
Now, the world is never fully quiet. Ischia is a different beast altogether. When the moon rises here, one chorus simply replaces the other. Day songs fade into night songs; birds resign and insects pick up where they leave off. Ashley swats his tail at a fly and the young stallion can barely hear it over the din. The sound is swallowed by the jungle, swallowed by the noise that permeates every dark corner and hidden grove of their home. There is no escaping, no peace. He finds that he doesn’t truly miss it.
Potential chaos lies just beneath his skin, running hot like lava under the earth’s crust.
So when a brand-new ruckus seems to shake the trees around them, a part of Sabrael is undeniably excited. Less so when it is Wallace who emerges and promptly deposits herself at the magician’s feet. She sidles up to him like they have done this before, like she belongs there, and the ease of it tugs at something inside the bay roan. He can’t put a name to the feeling but it’s there nonetheless, staring at him as he similarly stares at the prone pair.
“I have lived here since the island opened for us. Where else would I have been?” His voice is even; there is no give nor take to his tone as he regards Wallace. Only a small downturning of the corners of his lips shows any sign of his discomfort as Ashley tightens around her like a python. She has gotten herself into this mess, but he wavers between wanting to help her or help himself by leaving. He is drawn to the dark-eyed girl. And whether it is a late-blooming, boyish enthusiasm for the other sex or something more, he doesn’t know. He only wants to explore it further (if only to understand himself better) and finds his attempts blocked by a powerful man he rather admires.
In the end, his throat doesn’t burn with words (only those left unsaid). He lets her learn the hard way of what it means to bite off more than she can chew. If it is what she wants, he is sure Ashley will be an obliging mentor. If not, she’ll be wiser to her ways the next time. He tries not to imagine himself pressed against her instead, sharing the warmth. Sabrael gives a nearly imperceptible nod to the both of them before stepping back behind the curtain of jungle sound.
12-19-2016, 02:14 AM (This post was last modified: 12-19-2016, 02:15 AM by Wallace.)
Wallace
The warmth at her side got hotter as Ashley pressed against her more firmly. Her brown eyes narrowed on him. What game is this? Always, she was rebuffed. An annoyance that nobody wanted near. A silvery-sharp tongue that nobody seemed capable of bearing. She was wise enough to see that not everyone was strong enough to withstand her blunt nature and bladed words. Ashley himself seemed to view her as an self-entitled brat.
"Well Hello yourself Wallace," his voice draped over her like a warm blanket, thick and smooth. "Yes, it is much better. Much warmer." Something was amiss, she knew, but she wasn't able to detect what it was. When she thought he would be scolding her for settling in so close to him, invading his personal space and his little moment of peace with her whirlwind ways, he was instead making his own moves. His tail flicked over her rump, then his wing wrapped around her in a breathless cocoon. He should be moving away. Why wasn't he moving away?
"Are you aware that you're sitting on me?" Um, no. Was she aware of anything right at that moment apart from his body heat and his silky voice gliding over her? Her mouth dried and her throat closed. It was just a game, just a stupid game. He was cruel to play this way. Her eyes reflected her inexperience, the stupid, innocent wonder at these new sensations. Think, Wallace.
Sabrael's voice was her savior, dragging her from this consuming stupor back to consciousness. Wicked magician.
What game was this? "I have lived here since the island opened for us. Where else would I have been?" Hmm..? Oh. Yes, that's right. Elusive Sabrael. Handsome Sabrael. But more importantly, so very intriguing. Always unpredictable to her. Like he slithered under her skin and wedged himself to stay. Another of the magician's games, no doubt. And then her man of mystery simply nodded and took his leave. Even his absence began to eat at her.
She fought the urge to shoot to her feet, glaring at Ashley. Her whole body ached to explore more of this, find out just what these feelings were. But her mind tingled with a...wrongness. The fake of this plastic moment poisoned the fun. She wanted to hum in pleasure and lean in more, drive him away with her attentions. But that didn't seem to be going so well for her thus far, as his rough skin rubbed odd sensation in her coat.
There was a confused hint of fear in her eyes when she forced herself to stand calmly and step back. A sad sort of bitterness snaked in at what the both of them must think of her. As though she was some waif, some floozie out for an easy lay, a warm body. She stared at him. She suddenly didn't want to be here anymore, in this moment, on this goddamned island. They'd all be happier if she left anyway, so long as she stayed gone. Well, that wasn't going to happen. Wallace was here to stay whether they like it or not. But for tonight, at least, they could have their stupid peace.
Take me to the mainland. Bland, even. Emotionless. But not emotionless, no. A hurt level of calculation. Reforming, re-planning. She just needed space, maybe. And with the sand bar gone that previously linked Ischia to the rest of the world, she was forced to request it from him. I need to be away.. Had she thought it, or said it? Hell, who cares. Just get me out of here.
