"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
If asked, she would admit that Killdare had chosen to give the Chamber a shot. Not simply because that meant the Chamber got a recruit (she isn’t looking for just any random recruit off the street here). But rather, because she really does think he’ll do well here. There’s not much competition for the higher ranks in the Chamber right now, and perhaps he’ll be disappointed in that. But either way, he’d have to earn his position. It just might take less time in the Chamber, since he doesn’t have to wait for someone to be demoted or die.
She’s content to walk relatively in silence, unless he feels inclined to converse or ask question. She doesn’t mind talking either, though she doesn’t find it a necessity to keep on a constant stream of conversation. She does remark as they pass kingdoms and different lands, because knowing how to get where from the Chamber is useful knowledge. If he plans to succeed, there will be some traveling in his future. Though for Killdare, it seems much of his traveling will be to the challenge and mock grounds.
Eventually, the pine trees begin to peek up from the land in front of them until they are close enough that the trees loom high overhead. They are mostly healed, though there are patches of burned scars here and there. She leads Killdare through the pine forest with ease, though these forests are something of a maze to those unfamiliar with the land. It is a useful border to have in a kingdom that is often making enemies. The pine trees make their approach far more difficult, and far slower.
Eventually, the trees thin until they are in a large clearing, dotted with grass and brush though not exactly a lush and green environment either. She loves it, though this is not the life for all. Beneath their feet, Atrox’s heart thumps steadily. “What do you think?” She finally asks him, after giving him some time to take a look around.
straia
queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
06-08-2015, 01:19 PM (This post was last modified: 06-08-2015, 05:06 PM by Killdare.)
He was certainly ready to start their venture to the land known as the "Chamber", the place that would likely become his new home. Truth be told, he was excited. He fell in line, just to the left of the painted mare that would now be his leader, taking care not to travel on her right side. He had a militant perspective on positions and rankings, and would not begin his duties by upsetting the quondam that was in place. She kept an easy and steady gait which he did appreciate. There were many new things for him to see along the way, and he made sure he was indeed observing all he was told.
They passed between two other realms, one that would be called the "Dale", and even another dubbed the "Falls". A few lesser terra's made up the rest of these two kingdoms, but what was of most interest was not these kingdoms. It was the knowledge that just past the Golden Plains, were the mock and challenge lands. Lands he knew he must become familiar with if he was going to be worth anything to his new Queen. More so, if he would be worth anything to himself he would make a point to frequent those places.
As they progressed past fields, forests, and streams the land become dotted with pines. Sad, looking trees he thought, still holding remnants of a fire. A large fire, he would assume, judging by the ash and soot that remained on trunk and branch alike. He thought he may like to hear that story sometime, for any equine that forged on even after that,well, they were worth hearing about.
It was the first time in his life he had regretting being so stoutly built. His form was cumbersome at the least, as he tried to maneuver between the looming guardians. His pelt was raked, and he made such a noise it was like that of a bear, breaking and crushing all that fell between them. A sad snail pace he had set, at times he thought himself lost, and then he would catch a relieving glimpse of white ahead. Though he made no complaint, not that it would matter, there was nothing to be done about nature. The trees grew where and how they would ,and Killdare would do well to remember that.
The clearing could not have come at a better time, as he had just managed to loose his pastern from a tricky clump of roots. A devilish grin as he had been caught in an unfortunate predicament, it was a surely a wonder he had managed to pass without injury. He slowly emerged from the thicket of trees, scenting deeply the burnt and ruined corpse of the forest. The opening was sparse, but would serve, he had survived on less after all. His ears fluttered as the silence they had shared once again was broken. He was thoughtful about this inquiry, what did he think exactly? "I find it solemn, but oddly tranquil as well." There was something strange about the way the forest seemed to close in on the gap, almost protectively. "Might I ask about the fire?", he turned his dial focusing in on the Queen.
She notes how he falls into step on her left, though she doesn’t necessarily think much of it. Perhaps it was because he would not assume the position of her right hand until he earned it, and she gave it. Perhaps it because he liked the left better. She wasn’t quite so militant. Truthfully, she was pretty laid back, at least in certain regards. Not when it came to the Chamber though. She expected hard work, both out of herself and her subjects. She wouldn’t ask them to work any harder than she did, but she worked pretty damn hard. They were expected to live up to the level she set.
But she didn’t care if her subjects spoke their mind. Actually, she preferred it, expected it really. You can’t live in the Chamber and expect anyone to keep their mouth shut, really. They never openly revolted against Rodrik, but none of them had kept their mouths shut either when he kept disappearing. They made it well-known that they had noticed, herself include. She wonders, and perhaps suspects, if someone else would have grabbed the throne if she had not.
He listens well, pays attention, and the journey is as pleasant as any journey can be. He doesn’t pepper her with questions but nor does he reject the information she offers. Not that she minds questions – they can be useful. However, there are stupid questions. Whoever said there aren’t is stupid, and needed an excuse to ask stupid questions. At least, that’s what she thought.
He keeps up through the pine trees as best he can, though it doesn’t come easily to him as it does to those in the Chamber. It will, in time though. Even with his bulk, he will learn to dance through the trees as he dances across the battlefield. Eventually, the trees become friends and lovers, caressing, not ripping. Currently, the trees are testing their newest recruit. Ah, the Chamber is a cruel mistress indeed. Not for the faint of heart, but she doesn’t think she’s found someone faint of heart.
She nods at his description. It’s an apt one. The Chamber is not beautiful in the traditional sense of beauty, but she loves it for the looming pines, for the mists and the sparse clearing that they call home. It is peaceful. Not desolate, but not lush. His description is as close to words as she thinks there can be for this place.
Then he mentions the ash, and she smiles slightly. Not a happy smile, but nostalgic. “Volcanic eruption, from one of the nearby herdlands. Nearly destroyed the kingdom, and we have been long in regrowing. But the Chamber is resilient, and it has regrown without the aid of any magic. Unlike, I might add, every other kingdom in Beqanna.” This is not a complaint, it’s a point of pride. Certainly magic could help, but she is proud of the Chamber for surviving without it. “Supposedly, the disasters were natural. I would suspect that some of the magicians in Beqanna had something to do with it though. They get bored, after all.”
straia
queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission
He's taken to guarding the borders nowadays when he's not frequenting the field. He wishes he could do more there, help recruit more, but he has had to more or less put recruiting aside until he grows into himself. Not that he minded it, he could never mind anything done for the Chamber. But rather it had proven counterproductive. The thought of a horse at his age recruiting was apparently off-putting to some of his would-be recruits. But at two years of age he can almost pass for being full grown. He is a handsome thing, no doubt, all black and well-muscled. With his father's guidance (and a healthy dose of his own training regimen) he's turning himself into a military man, and it shows.
He is patrolling the forests when he hears a stranger's voice, and then his mother's. He is a friend of the pine forests now, walking amidst them with the ease and silence that only comes with long residence inside the kingdom. He is in no hurry to find them; he can easily hear that his mother's voice is calm, and so he is certain that there is no danger. He is moving toward them with intent to greet, nothing more.
He finds them as Straia explains the Chamber is the only kingdom to regrow without the use of magic. It had been a point of pride, the way the pine trees had taken time to burst from the earth again. It was a symbol to all of them of who they were, how resilient they were, even though they didn't possess some of the advantages that the magicians and the others could claim. They were thoroughly normal, and that made them thoroughly extraordinary.
He looks to the other stallion as his mother finishes speaking, and he's immediately relieved to see that this man clearly has the build and bearing of a warrior. This excites the boy; he's had few sparring partners apart from his father, and he desperately wants to enrich his practice. The prospect of someone new, potentially someone able to teach him things that other lands might know, is a very exciting one indeed.
"Every kingdom experienced a disaster at nearly the exact same time." he continues, picking up right where Straia had left off. His voice is rich and pleasant, but there is a briskness to his voice. Not an unkindness, or an unpleasantness, just a clipped nature, as though he's careful to pronounce every word."Mother." he greets, his tone not unkind, but decidedly without the affection that might be expected from a son talking to his mother. He turns then to the stranger, offering a slight dip of his head in acknowledgment. "Pleasure to meet you. I'm Erebor." His tones are clipped, efficient but not unfriendly. He stands straighter than is common, his bearing somehow a little bit more military – a little bit more efficient than the average. But then again, what about him isn’t efficient?
He made a practice to look at someone when being spoken to. A trait some found endearing, while others thought it outright irritating.
So it had been fire, but not just fire. A volcano, something he had heard of before but had never himself witnessed, nor its destruction. The Kingdom had continued to survive without magic, his Queen told him. Impressive, he thought watching her still as she finally gives cause of this catastrophe. A magician. He snorted, he hadn't much cared to linger in the presence of those who practiced magic. This only legitimized his decisions, obviously they could be temperamental, the trees could attest to this as well. It was all right here in front of his face, he observed it with his own two eyes. As she finished, he approached the nearest pine, the outside like charcoal. Pressing his maw to the brittle bark, he expressed his care to the Chamber, gently blowing out streams of air though his nostrils. Flakes falling like coal black snow, from his homage as he lifted his kisser away.
Another black form moved, but this was no tree. Another male, young, and obviously a resident from the way he snaked through the growth. Honestly, he doubted there would be much of anyone entering these lands that were not kinsmen or the like. Killdare was perplexed when the colt spoke, his words were not that of a child. He spoke as well, no, better than Killdare himself he would say. Ah, and there it was, the offspring of his ruler. The product of the Lead, a fine specimen, and no at that he was not surprised in the least. Erebor the name felt strange on his tongue as he mentally practiced it. He was equally good with names, as he was faces, but it was scent that he excelled at. Mannerisms, actions, they all made the trails he could follow to the ends of the earth. Each unique, but the same in ways that perhaps only made sense in his own mind.
He gave a side tilted nod to the boy, "Killdare." Thel ad was due his respect of course as was befitting his stature in the pecking order of this land. A young prince he stood almost rigid, his head high, this itself command acknowledgement. The awkwardness of youth was simply not present in this one. Killdare found this interesting, unsettling a bit, but interesting. "I'll say, the pleasure is mine. A unique presence you carry, how many turns have you lived?" His dial was cockeyed as he looked the youngling over, trying to understand.
It doesn’t surprise her that Erebor joins him. The boy is always around, working for the Chamber. She understands why he’s usually within the kingdom borders and not out in the field. It is off-putting to have children out in the field. Everyone begins to think that this child clearly isn’t well taken care of, or the mother doesn’t care, and what kind of home can that possibly be? A few get it, of course. A few understand that sheltering a child is no way to teach them how the world is. She never let him wander by himself before she thought he was able to take care of himself. In this world, without traits, he will always be a something of a disadvantage. But Warship has taught him well, and she doesn’t doubt that her son is able to hold his own, should something ever happen.
He picks up her story and mentions the other kingdoms, and she nods in his direction both in greeting and agreement of what he says. There are no natural disasters that happened as the disasters of Beqanna did. Nothing in Beqanna seemed truly natural though. Even in the Chamber, where there is supposedly no magic, a living heart continues to beat in the ground for centuries and centuries without stopping. Once upon a time, mythics could live here as well. There was magic in this kingdom as much as their was in others, but for whatever reason, their god decided to take away access to the magic in only some of those kingdoms. Not that the Chamber needed it. In the end, their lack of magic only made them stronger.
Though sometimes, she cannot help but imagine what they could do if granted such power. Wouldn’t they be unstoppable then?
Killdare listens intently. She doesn’t find his direct gaze irritating, but rather appreciates the obvious attention. She likes those that are interested in the Chamber, and doesn’t mind telling those that want to call it home of it’s history. At least, of the pieces of it’s history that she knows. She watches as the stallion reaches his nose out to the one of the pine trees and inhales the ash, making is as much a part of himself as it is the rest of them. Erebor, who has grown up with the ash. Straia, who has ruled this kingdom perhaps only because of the destruction. Kavi and Warship, the only two who had stayed with her after the volcano destroyed their home.
She smiles slightly as he pulls his nose from the tree, the flakes of burned bark fluttering to the ground. Killdare turns his attention to the boy, and Straia lets them chat, though she can’t help but laugh at the question Killdare asks. Not because it’s a funny question, because it is the most appropriate question anyone could have asked. It still amazes her that others don’t ask. Of course, they must think it. But Straia likes the ones that actually have the balls to ask the questions on their minds. She grins, and it’s obvious she approves of the questions. “I venture to guess he’s lived at least ten lives.”
There is nothing awkward about Erebor. There is nothing ungainly about Erebor. There is indeed nothing at all that one would expect from a horse who, at almost three years, is just now on the cusp of manhood.
There is nothing childlike about Erebor. And there never has been.
It is almost as though he'd sprung more from what Straia would wish a child to be, than what a child actually should be. As though he'd been conceived in her mind, and sprung forth, fully-formed and Athena-esque right from the shadows of Straia's consciousness. How many lifetimes has he lived? Who can say. Perhaps too many, perhaps only one. He is nothing like a child should be, but everything like a prince should be. He is a walking contradiction, he is everything and nothing.
In short, he is Erebor, and he will grow up to be everything his mother had hoped for.
Perhaps he already is.
Killdare gives his name, and Erebor's nod is gentle, acknowledging and respecting, but not quite deferential. When the stallion asks his question, Erebor answers him first with a charming smile. His mother speaks up then, and the colt's gaze shifts to her. His chuckle is genuine, if small. "As far as I know, only one." His rich voice is heavy with wry humor. "For most of us here in the Chamber, that's about all we've got." Leave it to the others, with their magics and their magicians. Leave it to them to live life after life, to buck the threads of time and turn the normal cycle of life on its head. There are no immortals here, only old souls.
"I'd bet you've seen your fair share of the world." he nods gently, conversationally to Killdare. "Tell me, how did you find your way to Beqanna?" he pauses for just a breath, before adding – with a smile - "And I apologize if I'm making you repeat what you've already told my mother. I can't help but ask. New perspectives and new experiences fascinate me."
Of course the Queen would venture on to say that perhaps the colt had lived at least ten years. If this would have been an honest and truthful answer, he would have thought nothing of it. Instead it was an amused speculation, without an ounce of validity. That, now that did confuse him. What a very strange thing indeed.
In time it was the Prince’s turn to speak. To perhaps provide him with answers. The answer he gets however, is even more of an anomaly to him. As the black responds that it had only been one that he knew of, the cogs in his cranium are evident to be working themselves. In truth, he was never quite the studious sort of man. Rather more brawn than brain if he were to be honest, but it didn’t stop him from having one hell of a go trying to figure things out for himself. His brow creased as he sought to make sense of the conundrum that was Erebor.
He finds relief soon, as the conversation turns to himself once more. He had an odd sense that the trees were indeed directing the dialogue. They felt to be more than just totems sprouting from the earth, they seemed aware. Aware, of Killdare and all that he was, talk making him seem like they wanted him to bare himself. Make himself known, strip away all that he selfishly concealed, and lay himself before them as a vassal. Was it odd he felt so compelled to do so? So utterly inclined to give himself to them, for them, for her, for the boy, for them all? It was alien feeling, had he lacked in the training he had received he may very well have turned and bolted. Instead, he stood rather stoic for a moment, concentrating on his breathing.
Then turning in stride, he shakes his dial to the Prince’s inquiries. A curious sort of boy or man or manchild he was. “In truth, not so much as you might think,” he began, “On your 3rd winter in Calcordia, the land where I was foaled, you can choose to leave or to stay. Most stay to be honest. My father is a General there, or the commander however you like to put it, he’s very interested in breeding a top notch army. I have countless brothers and sisters, most of my sisters, end up exchanged for another stags sons, or pawned off to be breeding stock for his men. A few choose to join the ranks, like Killgore for instance. I’ve never been close, per say, with most of my kin, except her. Perhaps it is because our mothers got along so well, we spent much of our time as foals, and weanlings together. She irritates me ceaselessly, but she insisted on coming. Said she ‘needed’ to get away. From what, I don’t know, she didn’t see need to tell me. We travelled only directly from there to here, Killgore rather insistent on the choosing. My father was…disappointed, not in my leaving no, he finds me an irritant. She, she was one of his favorites, more like him in other ways than just force. I do my killing as my duty, I won’t begrudge either of you the need of that.” He looks at them both rather seriously, if nothing else Killdare could do his duty, whatever that might be. Even if that meant taking life, it was what his Kingdom asked of him and he would do it, and he would not feel shame or remorse. He again returned to his tale,“Killgore kills, for Killgore. She kills to kill, and prolongs the process unnecessarily in my opinion. There’s no honor in it, it mere butchery.” No honor in murder? What a funny way to look at things. “So my request for leave was permitted, so long as I stay with Gore, or within the same vicinity. Keep an eye on her, something she doesn’t need me around for. I agreed, I did I wanted to prove to him that I was more than an irritant, that I was better than him.” Why did he say that? How much was he going to tell to them? He hated himself, if but a small shred for divulging so much.
It is not, truthfully, a question that Straia had currently asked. She is less curious in the past, in stories, than Erebor is, though she knows how useful information as a whole can be. Currently, she is interested only in what the newcomers think of the Chamber, what they can offer, and what she can do to make them stay. The Chamber needs recruits. It’s simply a fact. Not a reflection on those that already call it home – they were loyal and determined, certainly – simply an understanding that the Chamber was weak. Particularly against the Deserts and the Amazons, and should the Valley turn, against them as well. They were already at a disadvantage in terms of magical traits (that being, the Chamber had none). They didn’t need to be lacking in numbers as well.
But when Erebor asks, and Killdare answers, she listens intently. He spills his life before them, and for this, she is appreciative. After all, she’s never talked all that much about her own life. Not that she won’t, if asked, but simply that she doesn’t tend to offer it. And certainly, she doesn’t give any of the emptions that come with her story, just the story. But something in Killdare seems to trust them, or maybe he just trusts the trees that surround them. She has always trusted the trees. They know her inside and out, the way no other living soul does. The trees are everything she loves, and everything she works for. Them, and the heart beneath their feet.
She had never killed, truthfully, though she knew she was capable of it. Not without reason, because in the end, she was not her father. She would kill for the Chamber, for her son, but not simply because it suited her mood. He was devil trapped in rotten flesh. Straia was simply Straia, and she lived for the Chamber, not for herself. She understands what Killdare means though, no honor in the killing. There was no honor in killing her mother – helpless and mourning the loss of her father on the beach.
That would be the only horse she’d kill for her own gain, her own peace of mind. Whoever murdered her mother didn’t deserve to live.
“Where did you sister end up, if you don’t mind my asking?” The Valley would be Straia’s guess, but she is curious. She’s also interested in showing that she hears, though she’s never been one for a pat on the back or saying everything will be alright. She doubts that Killdare expects or wants such attention either, or he wouldn’t have chosen the Chamber. But still, she does hear. She does listen.
06-29-2015, 09:33 PM (This post was last modified: 06-29-2015, 09:50 PM by Erebor.)
We are at war. There will be scars.
Fascinating.
Absolutely fascinating.
Erebor has never known a land other than Beqanna. He has never heard of a place where war is mandatory. He has never known of a kingdom where horses are subject so completely to the will of another. He's also never known a place where mares are considered less than, or used purely as breeding stock. He's been raised in a land where his mother is queen, where she rules alone, sole and solitary. He's used to her being a pillar of strength, as much or more than his father. And it baffles and fascinates him to think that there is a land where that is not true. He has no desire to live there, he thinks, but he is terribly curious to visit.
When Killdare speaks of doing his duty, Erebor nods. The boy understands that, and he never doubted that Killdare would, in fact, kill as needed. It had been written in the man's bearing ever since he'd set foot in the Chamber. Erebor had marked him for a soldier the moment he'd seen him, and the man-child is discovering that he's quite a good judge of character.
The man continues speaking, talking of honor and butchery. Erebor nods, agreeing with him completely. The boy may be a trained soldier, may be a warrior, but he will never kill without reason. He takes pleasure in the act of training, in the fact that he is a honed soldier (if a blade untested in actual combat). But he will never take pleasure in the way flesh rips and gives way. It will never be his joy the way it is for some others. He wonders how many around Beqanna would fall into that category. He suspects, strangely, that Eight would not. He wonders if others within the Valley would. He wouldn't know; he hadn't seen any others when he'd visited.
His mother speaks up then, asking after his sister. Erebor hadn't even thought to wonder about that; his mind was more on the questions of the land they'd come from. He hadn't even thought that the man might want to go seek out his sister. If Erebor were in Killdare's position, he isn't sure that it would have even crossed his mind.
"Will you have to return to the land of Calcordia?" he asks, his voice polite but still curious. "Or, are you barred from returning?" He does not ask if the stallion would want to return or not. That would be too personal, prying too much. He may be curious, but he respects the unwritten rules.
