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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    my heart never stops beating for you; ivar
    #1
    the night is my companion, and solitude my guide.
    She stands where the craggy rocks meet the water, frothing waves gently coaxing and pulling against the silver-blue of her long legs. The fast-moving river has yet to solidify from winter’s freezing cold, unable to stop the water from rushing on its way. The water is clear; so clear, in fact, that she could see the grey pebbles that line the bottom of the river. The stones’ are smooth with the steady flow of the tremulous waters, their different shades and shapes creating a pale mosaic of ashen gray, silver, and near white beneath the surface. A lazy mist hangs loosely over this particular calm twist in the large, winding river. It clings to the trees and rocks, as well as to the greyness of her body, dipping into the soft and curved lines of her shoulders and hips. The moisture in the air causes her mane to grip tightly in its dampness of her neck, her black forelock plastering against the bridge of her nose.
     
    The silver and white mare stands stoically as the quiet world envelops her, the darkness of the wood behind her and the slow-moving fog muffling all noise except the sound of the rushing river before her. The trees surrounding the river are an eerie silver against the white mist and the early morning darkness that lingers with it. The tall trees are near black with the weight of winter’s cold, the bitter air nipping at her flesh. The water is cold against her skin, icily moving past her with a purpose that is unknown to her. She remains quiet and unmoving, not wanting to disturb the beauty that is going on around her. 
     
    Augusta finds the solace of the river enchanting, as it was different from the forest and the cave that she knew so well. Her mother and father had raised her in their quiet home, pleased with the soundless forest and all it has to offer them. Augusta has been staying there too, despite their absence, content with wandering the silent trees and bubbling streams. Here, though, the silent wood opens to the river and she almost prefers it: the sound of rushing, rapid water loud and lurid in her ears. 
     
    Quietly nestled in the river’s bank, in a little alcove where the water was not too rough and swift, she searches the clear water with her nose to its surface, her almond eyes watching as tiny slivers of minnows dart through the pebbles and rock, their scales shining silver when the sun’s light catches them. She maneuvers herself carefully so that she will not trip on any pebbles that roll beneath her hooves, and so that the small fish become accustomed to her presence, nibbling not only at the algae she has kicked up, but also at the tiny hairs above her hooves. 

    The cold doesn’t bother her, or at least she pretends it doesn’t. 


    @[Ivar]
    Reply
    #2

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
    He has always enjoyed the fog.

    It was often thick in Sylva when he had been growing up, and it always tasted of the sea. It drifted through Taiga and into the autumn forest, and Ivar had spent his childhood finding out exactly how high off the ground he needed to be to rise above it. The rocky outcroppings of Sylva had afforded him plenty of opportunity, and when he finds himself lost in the low-hanging clouds, he always remembers the experience fondly.

    Today is no different.

    Ivar dozes, one scaled hip pressed to the thick trunk of an ash. He had not slept the night before (he never does) and the weariness has begun to catch up to him. He’d considered making it back to Loess, back to his spring, but the trip had seemed daunting in the pre-dawn light. Instead he has settled by the river, and it lulls him to sleep.

    Something rouses him, but whatever it was does not appear to be worth any sort of alarm. Brown eyes, flecked with gold, blink open and shut again, focusing on the glinting silver river ahead. There is no one nearby, he finds, and the piebald stallion yawns and shakes away his sleepiness, feeling rather rested despite the brevity of his nap. The yawn reveals too-sharp teeth, but they are soon hidden behind a pale mouth and a handsome face. Nothing to worry about, his supernaturally good looks say, don’t be afraid.

    As he steps forward to take a drink, movement upriver catches his eye. The fog is thick, and it takes a moment for the weak wind to shift it enough that he can make out a distant figure. They are standing in the water, and Ivar does the same, wading through the knee deep and icy water until he rounds the bank where Augusta watches the fish. He assumes that is what she is doing, at least, and he keeps his distance lest he startle them back into the depths.

    “Catch anything yet?” He asks with a small smile, his head titled curiously.


    kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis
    minimal grullo tobiano king of loess

    Reply
    #3
    the night is my companion, and solitude my guide.
    How long has it been?

    Her shadow-prince, nameless and haunting, hasn’t visited her. He had been her life (he still was, that mysterious presence), her whole entire world, and then suddenly...nothing. He vanished from her, but not in the way he normally does. She could not smell him, taste him, hear him - he has gone.

    So she busies herself, like she did before her prince had found her. She stares into the waters, looking purposefully but at the same time, thoughtless. She idly passes the time, the icy cold waters of the river numbing her legs, but not allowing herself to leave to find warmth. He will come, he will lay beside her, he will whisper to her, her shadow will come…

    ‘Catch anything yet?’

    It should have been his voice, but it wasn’t. With a small sparkle in her eyes (she never turned down conversation, despite her disappointment that her shadow still had not joined her) she lifts her head quizzically, her silver eyes quickly finding the pied stallion that stands before her, wading in the frothing waters just as she is. A smile finds her darkened charcoal lips, a bit sheepish as her eyes dart downwards - it had been awhile since she had a conversation with anyone besides her shadow-prince, and looking into the eyes of another left her heart racing for a moment. 

    A laugh reverberates in her chest, soft and gentle as windchimes in the breeze. “No, not yet,” she admits quietly, surprised at the smile that continues to pull at her lips. “Are you much better?” She asks curiously, inviting the kind-faced stranger to join her.


    @[Ivar]
    Reply
    #4

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
    Something about her is familiar.

    Ivar cannot quite name it, but for a while longer than necessary he meets her gaze without blinking, trying to determine what it might be. He settles for not knowing with a small shake of his head that coincides with the timing of her question and doubles as an answer.

    “At catching fish? Not at all. They always seem to know when I’m coming.”

    He demonstrates that by moving forward, and the fish scatter. Like a shark in the water, his mother had always said with a chuckle. She’d probably not laugh anymore.

    The water against his legs is uncomfortably cold, but it is marginally better than the frigid air. Were he to sink below the cold water, he knows that his heart would become slow, and his blood sluggish. A rest at the bottom of the river would become irresistible, at least until spring came to thaw the world. So he stays in the shallows, preferring to be alert, and glances back at the not-quite-familiar mare.

    “I’m Ivar,” he tells her with a smile, and then, because he cannot let go of the puzzle: “Have we met before? You look familiar, but I don’t know how.” The not-quite-memory has more than the usual amount of red and gold to it, so he adds: “Were you ever in Sylva, maybe two or three years ago?”


    kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis
    minimal grullo tobiano king of loess



    ooc: ivar met augusta’s sister Luster and (i thiiink) one of their brothers when he was growing up in Sylva? So that’s what he’s “sort of” remembering about her being familiar Big Grin
    Reply
    #5
    the night is my companion, and solitude my guide.
    She suddenly feels the chill now; perhaps it is the presence of this stranger that makes her realize the world around her - that the frigid air is unmerciful against the mottled silver-grey of her skin, tight and unforgiving in its cold grip, that the water is numbing her legs as it splashes against them. A tiny shiver runs down her spine in response and for a moment she wonders if it is too forward to ask the black and white stallion to come just a little bit closer. 

    He does come closer, however, but the cold of deep winter permeates deep. She smiles however, grey eyes sparkling with laughter as he demonstrates his lack of fish-catching abilities, the fish darting away from the area in flashes of silver, the cold and clear water the only thing left between them now. 

    “Augusta,” she offers with a little lift of her chin towards him, storm-gray eyes inspecting him with gentle interest. The winter’s fog had hidden most of him until he had come closer, and now she notices the way his coat lays completely flat against him - the winter’s breath seems to not have created any sort of thickness to his fur. She notices, as her gaze flickers to his handsome face, that something a lot like scales are hidden between the black and ivory patterns, and a curious smile finds her dark lips. 

    His robust voice, gentle and welcoming, brings her a few steps closer to him, bridging the gap between them. She presses her lips together thoughtfully, trying to sift through memories and years for a moment that might enlighten them as to how they were already familiar. “Sylva?” she repeats quietly. She hasn’t thought about Sylva or her family in many moons, and the thought makes her fall silent. She thinks carefully; the last time she had been in Sylva was to visit her sister, Luster.

    She hadn’t found her. 

    Clearing her throat (realizing she may have been silent for uncomfortably too long for sweet Ivar), she finds his gaze. “I grew up there for awhile,” she says gently, “my sister, Luster and I. But then my parents, after the reckoning, moved us to the forest. I went back to Sylva a few years ago to try and find my sister, but...” Her voice trails off and her eyes become downcast, brows furrowing pensively. 

    “Maybe you have met her. We look a lot a like - that would explain why you are familiar with me.” She takes another step closer to him, her recent loneliness and talk of her sister creating a certain sort of sadness that did not look right on her face.


    @[Ivar]
    Reply
    #6

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
    Augusta, she tells him.

    The name is not one he knows, but it sounds pleasant in his flicking black ears. It reminds him of heat, somehow, of warmth that is very much lacking on this cold winter day. When she comes closer, he remains still, knowing that in this icy season, it is often best if he does not make the first move. Others are warier now, without a fog of pheromones to cloud their senses, and he does not want to scare away the roan mare. He is cold as well, slower, lazy despite being above the water. The cold dulls the hunger, and the reminder that he has provisions in Loess is enough to make them equal – as much as is possible for a hunter and prey.

    Accustomed to being the cause of long silences (and often of uncertain or awkward ones as well), Ivar is not at all perturbed by the time it takes her to answer. If anything, he finds that her pause gives him more time to try and piece together the puzzle of her familiarity. It is futile, of course, but the way that she had repeated the name of the golden kingdom gives him confirmation that perhaps that is where he knows her from. So many of the memories of his childhood are blurred, a combination of time and willful ignorance.

    Luster though, that name is familiar. A pretty dark face, a bright smile that was somehow also sad.

    It is the very same expression that Augusta now wears.

    He had wanted it gone from Luster even though he was only a child, and he finds that he also wants it gone from Augusta. Ivar considers stepping forward, brushing her dark hair out of her eyes with a wordless command to not feel so sad but he refrains. He is not sure why he wants this, but he has never put much stock in emotions that are not useful.

    “I know Luster,” he confirms, “but I’ve not seen her since I left Sylva. I grew up there as well.”

    “We don’t have to talk about that though, if you don’t want to.” Ivar offers an alternate topic, taking a step to match hers so that they are closer, and the fog of their combined breath drifts out to where it meets the low-hanging clouds over the river. “Where are you living now? I moved to Loess, which is about as different from the forest as I could get.” Not as different as the sea, he does not add, but there are some things that are still out of his reach.


    kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis
    minimal grullo tobiano king of loess

    Reply
    #7
    the night is my companion, and solitude my guide.
    She wishes she could find a memory crumpled up inside her mind, dusty and forgotten, and then pull it until it unwinds and becomes clear - but unfortunately, there is no recollection of the handsome young stallion before her. Her lips curve into a slight frown; she had hoped that maybe there is a connection between the two of them, that perhaps he truly isn’t just another stranger. For some reason she wishes she could give him recognition, as if that would have pleased him greatly.

    Hearing her sister’s name on unfamiliar lips causes Augusta to lift her head in surprise. Deep gray eyes watch him carefully, widening slightly as he finishes giving her a glimpse into his past. He brushes past the topic, obviously noticing the twinge of sadness that has (and seems to reoccur often) permeated through her. A half-hearted smile, sheepish and oh so small, manages to flutter onto the darkening angles of her face, lifting her chin slightly. “No,” she says (a bit more forcefully than she’s used to, almost decisively), “it’s nice to meet someone who knew her. I like to remember her.” A tilt of her head, ebony tendrils of her forelock falling into her gaze. Fragile as ever, but Augusta is not weak - she does not allow her missing family - despite its tragedy - keep her from reliving wonderful memories or speaking their names.

    “I miss her,” she admits tenderly, eyes sparkling with a quiet loneliness that has become her life. “I miss home,” she doesn’t say. 

    The fog drifts closer to them, hanging loosely as it sifts through the winter’s air. Feeling comfortable (and forever trusting), Augusta has found herself taking enough steps forward to stand directly before him, her stormy eyes tracing the smooth curves of his muscled shoulders and haunches that glitter hauntingly in the midday, despite the sun’s hiding place behind the snow-filled clouds. “The forest,” she replies, craning her neck forward curiously towards him (so close, she could nearly feel the warmth of his breath), the subtle sparkle of his scales enamoring her. “Loess? I don’t think I’ve been there. Just Sylva and the forest. Well, and the river of course.” She laughs gently, bringing her chin to her chest so that she may control the urge to stroke his cheek with the velveteen of her muzzle. “I can live anywhere,” she states pridefully, a flick of her tail against her shimmering silver haunch. “But,” she draws a breath as she pauses, eyes narrowing thoughtfully, “perhaps it is time to go back to Sylva. I really do miss being around others.”

    Of course, sweet Augusta knows nothing of the shift of the kingdoms, of Sylva’s new ruler and the hell that her childhood home has become.

    “What is Loess like, Ivar?” 

    She likes the way his name sounds on her tongue.


    @[Ivar]
    Reply
    #8

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
    Reminders of his childhood have been plentiful of late, and this conversation is no exception. While Ivar’s memories of his meeting with Luster are not his strongest or most cherished, there is still something intriguing about the sense of intimacy that being around her provides. It is not (entirely) sexual, but rather closer to something like protectiveness. Like family, like Kylin. The kelpie has long since abandoned any effort to sort out the meaning behind his instincts; he is simply along for the ride.

    Augusta is sad, and he wants to reach out and comfort her.

    He halves the space between them, an offer of an embrace that she can either accept or deny. There is more in his touch than a simple hug though, there is a gentle hypnotic command for happiness. He had done the same thing to Kylin when he had first been discovering his tactile hypnosis. The lavender and white mare had reacted poorly when she had discovered the deception, and since then the kelpie has refined his technique. Thana’s discovery of his gift had assisted in the fine-tuning of it, and now it is nothing more than a progressive feeling of warmth and general contentment.

    Augusta wouldn’t know what she was accepting if she did, but Ivar has never put much stock in consent. He doesn’t have to, not when prey throws itself at him on a daily basis. He doesn’t do it maliciously (that would require more emotional capacity than Ivar is truly capable of), and he is listening with genuine interest as she answers his inquiry into where she is living now.

    She speaks lightly of Loess, and the feeling of protectiveness is unfamiliar but not unexpected.

    “Sylva’s not like it was when we were children,” he tells hers, the lightness of the conversation dimming for a moment. “The crowd’s a bit less savory these days.” Ivar doesn’t elaborate, and in fact is grateful when she asks what Loess is like.

    “Beautiful, especially in the spring,” he replies, turning his gaze toward the treeline between the river and the hills. “Like a rainbow come to earth with all the flowers. It puts the red and gold of Sylva to shame, I think.” There is fondness in his voice as he speaks of the kingdom, and a small thoughtless smile on his face as he speaks.


    kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis
    minimal grullo tobiano king of loess

    Reply
    #9
    the night is my companion, and solitude my guide.
    She welcomes his embrace (she will hardly ever shrink back from anyone), stepping forward to close the space and to allow him the knowledge, however important it may be him, that she is trusting. For a moment she thinks of her shadow prince, she wonders if he is there, just around the corner, watching her - she hesitates, but just for a moment. Her sadness and loneliness has too long been kept locked up within her, and the silver mare wishes nothing more than the physical touch of someone alive, someone with a kind and handsome face she can see. Their chests meet and she sighs (whether it is because of Ivar’s hypnosis or not didn’t matter, she wouldn’t ever know), the warmth of his skin against hers soothing the ache in her heart, even if only momentarily. 

    Maybe it is because Augusta truly wishes she could be happy, so the moment Ivar pushes in the tiniest bit of suggestion, she latches onto it hungrily. 

    She smiles into his neck, almost sheepishly at the closeness. But here is where she is able to inspect his glittering skin a bit closer, and realize that it is the scales that causes his luminescence. Without thinking, her charcoal lips touch them briefly, curiously, innocently. They are smooth and sleek, but warm. It fascinates her.

    The baritone of his voice reverberating in his own chest and resounding through hers causes her to gasp softly, not realizing she had remained silent throughout their embrace. She is not sure she wants to depart from him, so for just a moment longer she lingers, her breath condensing onto the warmth of his skin. She suddenly realizes how cold she truly is (how utterly alone), and though the thought is sad, her eyes do not dim nor does a frown find her face, for she does not know it, but she was told to only be happy.

    She would not question it - not now, maybe not ever. Just like she never questioned her shadow prince. Ivar is no shadow, though. He is no invisible entity that leaves her wanting and waiting, a mystery within a mystery - no, Ivar is a presence that is anything to be ignored, not meant to be hidden within shadows or darkness; his whole being demands attention, but he is gentle and kind and sympathetic, even to a little stranger like herself. 

    Augusta pulls from him, but only enough so that her stormy eyes could look up at him in curiosity, her meekness permeating throughout the gentle, sloping angles of her face. “Oh,” she replies breathlessly, the news of her childhood home bringing her eyes downcast, staring absently into the gurgling waters below them. But he continues the conversation and she is thankful. His voice is smooth and robust, it lulls her soothingly. “Oh Ivar,” she muses with awe, her gray eyes searching his. “It sounds like your new home is lovely,” She thinks of the myriad of colors he had just described, the warmth of spring and the golden sun on her back - oh, she is sure the sunsets are wonderful, and that the starry sky is brilliant and dazzling without large and looming trees to block them out. 

    Without knowing it, she had stepped forward again, and had been thoughtfully staring into the rushing waters of the river with her head beneath Ivar’s neck.


    @[Ivar]
    Reply
    #10

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take
    She comes closer, accepting his embrace. The quiet breeze of her sigh stirs a similar response in Ivar, though the breath he exhales as he holds her against him is muich more satisfied than he is relieved. The kelpie lets her pull away without resistance, and he traces the gentle lines of her blue face as she look up at him. Her emotions are as easy to read as clouds across a blue summer sky

    “Why don’t you come see it?” His voice is soft, with so little distance between his mouth and her ear he has no reason to speak loudly. “You’d like it.” There is certainty in Ivar’s tone, a firmness that is echoed in the momentarily tighter embrace. It is fleeting, and Ivar releases her reluctantly. The rising sun is warming the air and water around them; there is no long any need for him to shield her from the chill.

    “I want to show it to you.” Ivar meets her storm grey gaze, and it doesn’t occur to him that she might want something different. Ivar like Augusta (more than he remembers liking Luster, and that had been so long ago), and he wants her. Wants to keep her, keep her safe. Perhaps also to keep her still, so that he may always find her. She will like Loess, he reasons; she will like being kept.

    She fits beneath him perfectly, and Ivar lowers his head, drawer her more tightly to the curve of his chest. She smells of spring, of new growth and wet earth. He noses at a few strands of her dark hair, watches the way the sun streams through the fog around them.



    king of loess
    minimal smoky grullo tobiano | equus kelpus

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