"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 need something to bind her. She needs something to plant a seed and nurture the roots that lady dormant in her soul. Beqanna was only a dream in the darkness of her eye after years seem to pass. She remains eternal, changing, shifting, hiding from what could be seen beneath the porcelain mask of her face with deep blue eyes and dark quivering lips.
He was always in the meadow when she had least expected him. Would he be when she sought him? The pale mare admires the way the fat snowflakes drift and fall around dampening the pale steel of her mane. The mare picks her way delicately though ice and snow, eyes looking for the familiar face. She wonders if he would feel her in the meadow beneath the thick ash of a gray winter sky.
Eventually she finds a place in the open to dig at the frozen ground and attempt to paw away some of the slush. It helped to pass the time but she could not prevent herself from lifting the heaviness of her head to wonder if the emerald form would breath through the lining of trees that surround the meadow. Maybe he would come...
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
He doesn’t reject the idea that the whole of his existence was based on others using him. What would he be, then, if not the sharp sword beneath the cloak? There’s power to be had in assuming the role of the fist that beats the face to a bloody pulp, almost satisfaction if one could stomach all manner of things horrible and grotesque. Power in it - yes, freedom from it - no. A boulder must be wielded in order to crush a skull, a pen held and guided for a story to be written. This, then, is why he materializes (quite literally) from the dense of the wood to watch her.
He should not go, yet he does.
There’s an air of memory in the moment; Wyrm trades his signature green for a familiar ivory-and-smoke skin. Across his back rests a common pair of gilded, brown-barred wings and locks of dark teak tumble over an aquiline nose to add shade to his otherwise glimmering, green eyes. Each black footfall pressed new indentions into the fresh snow, the sting of winter kisses hardly felt through his plush fur as he glides, ethereal, to where Epithet waits in the Meadow.
“Dear Heartfire,” He thinks silently, alighting pewter colored lips on Epithet’s warm cheek. “save me.”
He draws back. “I remember the first time I saw you out in the snow.” The stallion sighs, a lazy smirk working to transform his attitude. “So peaceful.” He reflects, peering up into the predawn grey of the sky. For a moment, the silence is all that surrounds them; pregnant with unspoken admissions it weighs heavily on the creature’s shoulders. “How can I help you?” He submits finally, drawing those startling eyes back to where her lovely face waits for him. Every line and curve is embedded behind his pale lids now.
Heartfire is nowhere to be seen.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
09-15-2017, 10:33 PM (This post was last modified: 09-15-2017, 10:39 PM by Epithet.)
He comes to her just as she had expected. There is a magnetism, an intoxication of his scent and the caress of dark lips that brings a shiver to her skin. Epithet could be anything, anyone. There is not limitations to her abilities but instead of wielding the mask of illusion, she chooses to remain as the pale porcelain of her skin, the tangle of grey locks, lips and limbs darkened with inky blackness.
She is her true self beneath the dark green gaze of his eyes.
The mare leans against his touch as she feels the coolness quench the glowing embers in her soul. The flutter of her heart beats like a bird in a bone cage. She welcomes the feeling after so many long years of vapid absence. The black blue of her eyes are hooded as she shuts them away beneath dark lashes, breathing him in, consuming his essence and allowing herself to become heady in his embrace.
She can hear words, feel the way his lips part to murmur against her skin but she ignores them to remain in this moment. The silence is deafening and if they exploded into a million stars in this very moment...well, Epithet would define that as a perfect end.
But-
But instead she opens her eyes to meet his gaze, the spot where she touches her already begins to cool and she can feel the hungry hound howling for more. "And I thought you were a pompous idiot." The mare teases as a smirk mirrors his. She speaks low for him, guarding their conversation with the shift of her hips so she may keep him close. She falls quiet now as she looks up to him. He is magnificent against the early sky, the sun beginning to streak like a halo behind his head and the flakes slowing so they rest in the thickness of his mane.
"I want you, Wyrm." The woman does not know of any other mare. She knows she is a woman with a man in the midst of something strong and powerful. She knows she wants this talented, crazy, angry, ruthless, savage creature in her life and would not settle for less. Epithet steps closer so she may glide against his sharp edges, tracing them with the darkness of her lips before stopping to press against him, her mouth tracing the curve of his neck, savoring the feel of him and the feral emotions that he draws out of her.
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
You might not readily call him Don Juan. From childhood he’s adopted the idea of a lesser sex (that would be female, mind you) and his mentor, Lupei, only served to encourage the notion. What female could do what he could not? “We grow life!” They might scream, and his reply would be to match them - it was almost too easy for the shifter to switch sexes, perhaps even easier to become impregnated by a random passerby. “We mature faster!” They could wail and, well, you might be able to imagine the roll of his bicolored eyes. Until recently, Wyrm has never had one fact to prove a woman’s worth above his own - not one!
But when Epithet’s turbulent gaze searches for his own - lit by some otherworldly power he’s yet to build defenses against - his chest seizes, clenches tight with conflicting emotions. He’d been a pompous fool his whole life: there has always been a tool wielded by women to strike down men, he’s just never been caught in the eye of such a hurricane. Seduction teases him with a smirk, drives him to heavy breathing with the shift of her body, and tells him, “I want you, Wyrm.”
Does he … does he want her too? He can’t tell, can barely think with her so near and assaulting every sense. It was already a trial without her pushing against him or trailing those full, dark lips along the crest of his neck. He shudders, from pleasure or pain (he can’t decide) before the primal instinct of their shared trait begins to surface. To have her in this skin, in as many skins as he could imagine was almost too much - it draws the vibration of a growl from his gut. “Epithet,” He groans, the tone rich and resonant. Hungrily he reaches for her, he must have her, he must, or the fear of spontaneous combustion would become an all-too-real circumstance.
There’s nothing left to consider. Halfway gone already and stiff with need he rounds on her, ready to indulge her request but -
But
A thought gives him pause. “Heartfire.” His mind whispers. Sick with himself and responsibility he snarls, throws his head and gaze aside from the very Eve of his rib, and mutters, “There’s something … someone you should know of.”
With an exasperated sigh the man who never seemed to care finally takes an interest in telling the truth. “I’m a father already, though the circumstances behind it are not so cut-and-dry.” He admits, feeling the beginnings of a bitter winter settling into his bones. Epithet, who had never been anything but his match, deserves this at least.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
He has her in his hands, shaping and molding her though she would not admit it aloud. He meets the curl of her hip, the tug of her smirk with his own. This man with the glinting eye and hard smile. She loves to see the way she can coax it across his lips. She loves the way he moistens the tender parts of her body.
But when he burns against her skin, the familiar press of a shoulder against her smaller her form, the woman moans softly, a shutter racking her pale body...but then he stops. Epithet barely has the time to register the halt of this magnificent force before he blurts out something far more sinister than the darkness that lays in the pit of her belly. "Someone?" The word is a mixture of hurt and anger, her eyes darken to a deep red glow of embers as she snaps her head around to look at him, sucking the air out of the space between them.
Epithet swings her hips around to draw them away from Wyrm. She is accusing him, tearing him apart with her eyes to see if this is some trick or test. But he is an open book to her now. They are one in the same, a single beat, a shared mind. Epithet looks away as her blazing eyes return to the blue-black of before as she ponders what other woman could possibly satisfy him. Sure, Epi could change, shape herself into anything -anyone- but this?
The mare is quiet as her face is offered to his, the feelings of anger and hurt still burning deeply in her gut but she would give him the chance to continue if he should like. "Do you want to be the father? Is she your lover at home? Explain this to me." Her voice quivers softly as she attempts to steel herself. She feels cheated out of something that had yet to begin. She had wanted him, laid it out and was willing to let him rule her...keep her to himself and only him. She would have bent beneath him like a willow and gladly asked for more. But now she waits, her eyes glassy with the threat of hot angry tears (that would not spill for him). "I don't care, Wyrm. I don't care about any of this but what I do care about is you and I'm choosing you." She adds before he can explain, if he chooses to, but deep down Epithet knows she will be the one left shattered into million pieces.
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
How, then, was he supposed to fix this? Making messy death was his speciality; cleaning it up? Not so much. The sharp tang of winter air hits Wyrm hardest of all when Epithet tears away from him but he won’t resist the action. There’s a set look about him now; Stygian guide that he is the dappled grey-and-hickory stallion finds that hardened resolve comes easier than gut-wrenching emotion. He can hear the plaintive quiver in her voice, it steels him from looking back at her to see the pain driving through her heart like a knife.
“The fucking sword beneath the cloak.” He chastises himself mentally, shuffling away only to turn and face her once more. “Reap what you sow, you hardened killer.”
There has always been pleasure in inflicting pain. Always. But when his viridian eyes rise to meet the stony flint of Epithet’s, for the first time he feels guilt at what he’s done. He knew, this whole time he knew and still he kept reaching for her with grasping fingers. The sooty mare’s questions strike quickly, pricking heart and mind alike with smarting anger until she nearly rouses a bitter response from her male counterpart. Did he want his children? Without question! Longclaw and Rapture had been his heart’s desire made in the flesh. And Heartfire herself … far from being saddled with a title like “lover”, yet still she gripped his loyalty in an iron fist.
“I don’t care, Wyrm. I don’t care…” Epithet is saying and Wyrm, moved by such a display of tender feeling all over someone like him, pushes forward through the snow to wrap her once more in his embrace. He suffers from seeing her like this - so wretchedly pissed and still fighting for them - while the source of it stems from his inability to be his own man. “I care.” He tells her heavily, pressing his mouth against her warm face, her nose, her cheek, “I care about the truth, I care about you, damnit.” He pushes.
“You came along and suddenly there were things I never expected to understand or feel.” The masked devil explains, “Things I never knew I’d been searching for.” He ends. “Now it’s like I can’t stop them from coming - these emotions - and I don’t want them to stop. Ever.” Wyrm demands, emphasizing the passionate response with the click of his teeth. For so long now he’s been repressed into darkness, thrust upon a shelf to gather dust and make friends with the cobwebs and he decides that stale, meager existence is over.
“I know that I want you, but I also know that ending one chapter and beginning another deserves resolution. @[Heartfire] is watching - she is always watching, and with that knowledge I won’t use it to desecrate our dynamic. Whether she cares or not, I do, and I know you do too, Epithet.” Wyrm exhales, rattled by this new revelation.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
She feels like maybe she's being dramatic. She feels embarrassed to lash out with the sore red emotions and wants to shrink away to nothing...
in fact, she can truthfully...
But he is moving, his lips and skin are touching her pain, the cool words soothing the heat of her fever. She folds easily against him and Epithet hates herself for that but she doesn't fight it. She chooses to bury herself the steel and mahogany draped stallion. She closes her eyes to the word and the wicked ways that brew just beyond them. Epithet listens to the drum of his heart, the vibrations in his chest as they rock against her like a slow tide.
"I don't want them to stop ever..." The mare liftsa ehr head away from the warmth of his embrace to look upward at him, studying him, reading him but she does not pull away. "I don't want them to stop either." She sounds like a child for a brief moment with a puckered lip and red rimmed eyes. The porcelain mare listens as he speaks of this Heartfire and Epithet is not spooked. She wishes in this moment that she had the magic she was born with still for a 'just in case' purpose but her abilities were nearly limitless and immortality made it pretty hard to die.
"I do care Wyrm and I don't know if I'll be able to ever stop." She binds herself in that moment to the stallion, she knows she has lost a part of herself to him but it is a willing offer, gladly given to this terribly complicated, beautifully scarred man. She knows she wants him and she would keep him always. "You are mine and I am yours." She speaks softly to him, her skin shifting to a lovely shade of pale lavender with dun, her eyes flickering to match as she feels the soft warm bloom of feeling for another begin in her chest, coloring her skin to reflect.
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
Lupei had told him about this, once. Wyrm can remember the light in his sire’s eyes when he described meeting Zojja for the first time; how every detail had been so precise and beautiful. That had been the one beautiful thing in father’s life - the love he and Zojja had shared that would result in his own existence - and Wyrm can’t help but wonder if that one right choice had meant better luck for the generations to come. Where were the rest of his siblings, if such was not the case? Even with Circinae there’d been a touch of softness in his old sire’s heart, (all this time he’s never understood why) and more than likely it had stemmed from love of her dam, whoever that mare might’ve been.
Is this the key, then? Love?
Once upon a time he felt it in the shape of Heartfire’s body pressing against his own but, since then, the word had grown cold and lifeless once more. Besides, they’d never truly known what it had been, the invisible tie between them. They’d never named it, never pledged themselves as Epithet was pledging now, “You are mine and I am yours.”
When her skin settles on a blushing shade of purple, Wyrm rumbles with pleasure. He’ll hurt her again, and very soon at that, but for the second of peace they have he chooses to offset her color by adopting a matching, darker shade of royal plum. “You are mine and I am yours.” He echoes, and then in a flash he’s laid teeth to her skin in a bold claim. There’s no fear of hurting her - Epithet could match him strike for strike if she wanted - but for the first time in his life Wyrm understands the necessity of the action, the primal need for physical, lasting proof of this Love he thinks he’s found.
“I have to visit Nerine.” He tells her sharply, the acrid tang of her skin still hot on his tongue, “It’s time I leave for good, but I need to put an old deal to rest.” The stallion explains. It rips him apart, to leave her like this, but Epithet is more than the tenderness he’s privy to now; she’s just as much a carnivore as he ever was or ever will be. Pulling apart from her, the shapeless man transforms abruptly into a creature capable of quick flight, hovers near to her lovely face, and then darts away before another word can be said.
It never occurs to him that she might be inclined to follow.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
