"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 watches his surprise, uses the awe he displays to sooth her angry pride. She see’s no sign of fear, no nuance of the typical cower most display when they know their life could end at any moment. She mocks him with another syllable before leaving him to think on his idiocy. One last whip of her tail and her ruffled pride settles back into it’s slumber.
The path is narrow, yet she feels the warmth of a body coming up to her side. She huffs her annoyance, flicking her ears back against her skull. As if it couldn’t get any worse, the narrowness does not allow her to escape the tight press of their bodies against one another. She tries to bring out her armor once more, but all that comes is a few sparks and heated skin before dying out. They told she would gain control in a year, and the end of the year can’t come soon enough for her, even if it’s so much better than when she had first received the gift. There have been many times has she needlessly embarrassed herself because of the out of control reaction it gives off from her emotions.
He speaks, and she can feel his voice in her bones. Her eyes flick towards him, it seems that her grumpy highness isn’t allowed to be grumpy anymore, for every turn of the corner someone is there either making her feel better or pushing past her limits without thought to what they risk. Each time they do this she ends up letting it slide. Hestia can’t recognize herself anymore. This is not the tough Amazonian who could take on the world and laugh about it at the end of the day. Now every thought is completely consumed, and in a way, she resents it. She liked being carefree. Why did she agree again? Oh yea, because Nayl’s daughter asked her to, and she very well couldn’t look Nayl in the face if she’d not let the girl take her leave as she needed. Plus there was the matter of her own desire for redemption… putting all the complicated messy situations of life aside. The real reason for resentment is that she now needs to confine her thoughts, and not let them run from her mouth without first considering all the damage they could do. THIS guy however, a wry smile crosses her lips at some point. She thinks even his kingdom would forgive her for lacking control here. If he has a kingdom that is.
He says the magic words that pull her out of her sullen ramblings, Frigid? it comes out quietly, but her temper is slicing through her tone. She is familiar with the saying. Has heard it many times, but it is not something that she ahs heard used on her since she’s risen to her current position in life. She must like it though, she doesn’t burn him to a crisp, nor does she tell him exactly who it is that he speaks too. At this point she’s gotten tired of trying to lose him, they are losing daylight, and it’s to late to make the meeting now. So she begins the trek home. The silence is beginning to wear as well, but how does one save face and manage to strike up a conversation at this point? She’s been silent to long to make a complete 180 now.
When they arrive at her borders she hesitates for a moment, not stepping from the cover of trees and hills. Instead she turns to him feeling a little tiny bit vulnerable. This is her home, does she really want to bring this stranger here? She has a feeling that should she cross that border with him something more is going to change in her life. The black hag has had so much change already, can’t she be selfish this once. One last time she looks into his strange eyes and this time her voice lacks the sharpness, its just simply quiet. Why have you followed me so far Murc?
HESTIA
The devil whispered in my ear, you’ll never survive the storm I whispered back, I am the storm
She is quiet but her body vibrates and the air nearly crackles with the electric fire that coursed through her veins. She is a thing of glory, celebrated in another world, worshiped in a distant life. Murc can taste the essence of her cool demeanor like water-smoothed stone. Her skin is sleek and dark and something that Murc wants to drink rain droplets from but he would not confess any of this so instead he would steal glances from time to time as he simply walked at her side.
He does not know where he is going and he is not sure why he walks with her. At first it had been in jest, to tease a name from between the tight lips but instead she walked on as she attempted to ignore him and eventually the man continues for he simply felt the walk to return to the forest was too far to return to for the evening.
The man's thoughts are easy and light as he walks with near silence near her smaller frame. Had the man known that she referred to herself as 'hag' it would have been devastating. Yes, the mare, queenly in her own right, was far from the wretched shape Murc would ever consider a hag. Those creatures, women of sour tongue and loose 'morals', where the haggish. Murc would not spend a moment aside foul harpies with poisoned wombs.
Their walk is a ruffle of decaying leaves and cold air. Murc is nearly lulled by the sounds till the emerald eyed mare is suddenly halting in from of his with a body much smaller but much stronger. The lavender-grey eyed beast blinks as though he was clearing a fog from his eyes. He regains focus to meet the hard gaze of the dark hell-cat, her face nearly glowing and glassy beneath a full moon. "You are special. You do not fear me." His words are a low rumble of thunder as he plucks the words carefully from the sky like lightening bugs. He returns her gaze with his own weighted one. Murc was not a creature of magic but a product of dark rage and sometimes the savage, feral thing that gnaws in your belly is far scarier than what could be met by the eye.
She doesn’t dare look him over, scared that he might note her inner turmoil., and vulnerability It’s a trick she long ago learned to prevent others from catching the small nuances that give away one’s thoughts. Don’t look over the other, and there will be no reactions for them to catch. It also prevents them from catching and holding a gaze. Though, she’s pretty sure that she feels his every now and again slide over her skin. As the hours slip by she loses a bit more of herself to the dark thoughts that roil over an over in her brain every waking hour.
They become cumbersome, make her feel dirty, and self-absorbed. If she’d just turn her attention elsewhere… But the world is so… insignificant. There isn’t much else to do other than reflect and ponder, occasionally taking up a task to break the monotony. She really knows how to pick em. The tasks she undertakes that is. Kingdoms, family, death. Yes, they do break the monotony. The crickets sing their praises to the moon, who leans in close soaking in the adoration offered to her. Her soft glow, pregnant nearly to bursting with the impending events that will unfold in the days to follow. She watches over the world tonight in rapt attention beckoning her children to gather close and listen as a new kingdom takes up the old standard and dedicates itself to the old ideals. They twinkle in their excitement, eagerly awaiting the mortal’s fates to unfold.
Turned to him, she often does refer to herself as a hag, as that is exactly what she is. She is old, she is dark, her soul twisted and ugly, full of scars, she has few, if any, morals. She isn’t loose with her body, but she certainly pimps out her intellect, which should be considered just as bad. Her scars that are healing, but still ugly to behold. It’s ironic that Scorch’s radiant beauty would be buried under the ugliness of her outer shell, while Hestia’s ugliness creeps in the shadows; leeching off the worlds suffering under a blanket of ageless satin.
If she had not been immortal, she’d be simple bones on the sands of the old world, bleached and crumbling to dust. Really nothing all that special. Beqanna would have folded her into itself and carried her to its nurturing breast in endless oblivion. Taking her from time and space, to be forgotten. But those are not the facts, and she is immortal and able to hide her secrets from prying eyes. Scorch is radiant within and it cloaks herself in a light that Hestia finds to be refreshing. Something to aspire to. Even if she doesn’t believe herself capable of achieving it. Those around seem to think she can, and because of that she tries. However, it doesn’t change the fact that she is inherently snobbish and selfish. Doing things only when she deems the world ready for her headstrong ideals.
She flicks her tail lazily the ocean breeze catching it and toying with it along with her mane and forelock. She’s taken on a wildness that matches that of the oceanic kingdom she resides in. No time to prim over her looks, the wind steals away any work she’s done to keep herself presentable. So, she gives up allowing the breeze control of her hair. He calls her special, it’s a word she’s never heard in context with herself and its odd to think of now. Impossible for her to dwell on, she brushes it aside to mule over another time. A time when she can brood and fuss and generally just grump over how untrue it must be. She does focus on his other words, fear you? I fear no one. Her lips thin, a moment passes. That came out a little to fast, the snark in her voice biting, aiming to prove that ‘special’ does not exist. But fearing no one? That is not entirely true. Maybe one she fears… even him she finds herself growing less afraid of even going as far as to search him out.
There’s a story for the grandchildren, Grandma’s gone to look for her murderer and invite him to live with us. Yup, hag. Who does that sort of thing? It’s not like she’s forgiven him, and she would love to see him dead. But then, he punishes himself quite enough for her enjoyment, that she can let the past just be bygones. But she wonders, could it really be this simple? Could he really have no ulterior motive for following her? Just simply that he found someone intriguing enough to follow. It would be…
She shakes out her mane closing her eyes in the process. Fluttering open she finally chooses to look him over deciding on what to do. A small part of her still wanting to incinerate him, the other kinda liked having someone close again. A selfish bit wanting to steal a few more moments of closeness. It’s been so very long… Before she begins walking again, this time towards the trail that will take them to the cozy caves along the cliffs on the beach. She murmurs, If you plan on staying you should probably know my name. I’m Hestia. Its then that she turns around, embarrassed with stinging pride at caving in this moment. What if he just walks away having gotten what he’d originally wanted in the first place. She doesn’t dare look to see if he’s there following her towards the trail, to afraid that her monsters threw one too many fits and succeeded in chasing him away.
HESTIA
The devil whispered in my ear, you’ll never survive the storm I whispered back, I am the storm
He can scent vulnerability, taste fear, smolder in the density of exasperation. Murc should be bones in the sand but some magic of Beqanna kept him alive. If they could count the granules of sand through the hourglass, Murc would have twice died over by the time a sweet, young Hestia had been born but the lavender-steel eyes man had been simply stored away in a dark, damp place until one light a light appeared and plucked him from the endless ticking away of seconds.
Murc watches her, his eyes unwavering, his lips thinned by her jagged words and poisoned glare. He does all he can do to keep from grinning broadly and scooping her against him. The man does not know why he drawn to the butter vibrations of her demeanor (perhaps it's the sway of her hips?) Murc does not sway. She is a smaller thing, womanly with her physical capture but her essence is strong and cold as the ice in the Tundra. Murc is amused by her expression.
Ears flick forward as he listens for her reply. She seems to struggle with herself but his eyes never falter from the twitch of her lips or the pull of muscles in the thickness of her jaw. He can watch how her pulse races just beneath the oil slick of her skin and it is exciting and causes the man to want to stare further, a stiffness in his loins suddenly making itself aware though he tries to stifle the reaction that was natural and shameless. The large man clears his throat, shifting his form so that his gaze rests now upon the beach with it's dark sands just beyond her, weighted. He no longer steals glances with a boyish grin.
"Is that so?" Murc replies casually, his mouth moving slowly and deliberate as he murmurs the words for her alone. The paleness of his eyes reflect the horizon with a soulful deepness. Nerine was quite pretty and he finds that he likes the scent of salt in the air and the way the shoreline's breath tugged at the length of his tangled mane. He can feel her gaze finally dare to explore his dark body, to follow tributaries of scars from a life he lived long ago, one she would not be able to remember though he still retains them despite the decades of confinement.
Murc contemplates his folly to follow a woman so clearly hellbent on his disposal. She was a contrary, beautiful, coarse thing with tattered edges and the prettiest green eyes he had ever seen. Murc shuts her out with a seamless effort, stonewalled flawlessly...till she gives her name. The dark man twitches an ear, his muscular form shifting so he may look upon the smaller woman once again with her hard mouth and scrutinizing eyes...
Murc smiles, nearly lopsided as the edges tug at one corner of his lips. "It's lovely to meet you Hestia." The beast bows deeply with great dramatic sweeping feathered hooves, his nose touching the ground so he rests below her momentarily before rising once again to tower over her. She may be the phoenix but perhaps it is he who is the thunderstorm to quench the heat of her thirst. The man easily covers the space between their bodies, he draws his head up tightly so he is nearly thatched to the broadness of his own chest as his lavender-grey eyes search her own momentarily before taking her side without hesitation to escort her wherever she may desire to go. "Show me my new home, Hestia." His demand is a soft probe as he asks with the gentleness of a lamb's bleat in his voice, his eyes begging with a nearly lustful desperation, knowing he would spend more time at her side if she indulged his request.
Beqanna time is not the time of other worlds, its non-linear aspects split and muddle, shift and slow. Sometimes it speeds past you in a blinding whirlwind and other times winter months can be winter years. It’s a moody thing that no one pays much mind too. She watches tantalized by the expanding of his chest. Is he… is he scenting her? eyelids widen while nerves twist around in her stomach. Thoughts whizzing through her mind. Does she stink that badly? Her tail clamps down hoping to prevent the wind from carrying any scent his way. Even as she knows it wont help, it makes her feel better. Almost like a self-hug, if horses could do that sort of thing.
His lips harden and she thinks its in anger, her breath hitches. She doesn’t like it when others are angry at her, which is a riot considering how angry she gets at others. She is in some ways a walking contradiction. All hard edges and cold piercing words. Yet she likes warmth, and happy people around her, or at least quietly broody people. She wants the desire of most mares, but often finds herself preferable to her own company. A walking contradiction. Instead of being happy with who she is, was, she strives and hungers for more. Almost like she wants to always be unhappy. But is that true? She doesn’t want to be that way, she wants to find peace and love and all that. And right now she thinks maybe she is at the closest to achieving and accepting it. She’s teetering on an edge she doesn’t understand, rolling back and forth almost falling from edge before finding herself at the opposite end once again.
She flicks her tail flipping her ears back to her skull. Stubbornly she flashes daggers with her eyes. She doesn’t answer him. Can’t bring herself to answer him. Not at first. But looking into his lavender gaze, she takes a breath, a small one, y-yes, I no longer fear anyone. This time it’s a bit quieter, not so edgy or biting in her candor. She watches him look around the land and finds no abhorrence or distaste present when flicking from one thing to another. She licks her lips, itching to explore those scars, and the little nuances of his… skin.
In gazing at him something inside her shifts and she finds herself more aware of her body, more present in her own skin than she has felt in years. This body, this form has always had a sort of distant feel to it. Never has she let herself be grounded or brought fully into this world. She is not familiar with it or herself. It’s a strange and somewhat uncomfortable feeling she experiences. Like in her spirits absence here has grown to be so that there is no room for it when she comes back. Or that she has drifted so far from knowing herself that every little thing is as the world is to a new born babe, Hestia can’t tell which is the more accurate statement. The thoughts are just too much. Something about it is pleasant and makes her want to stay. Another all too familiar piece begs to be let back out, to separate herself from this grounding, and be set free as she can’t handle it, overwhelming to the point of pain. This reaction is so familiar, so strong she doesn’t know how to grasp and hold on to the pleasantness instead latching to the familiar tug to separate and distance herself from her own skin so that she may breath and find her control once more.
His gentle thrum begins once more, soothing and taking the pain from her, gently bringing her back into herself before she can run completely away and begin severing the sensations she experiences with him completely. Her ears warble and she shifts, she can’t find any words to snap at him. She’s a little to pleased at the way he say her name. and the way he demonstrates his respect for her, even without knowing who she truly is, touches her even deeper. She doesn’t fight this time, slowing her steps purposefully to make his eating away the distance quicker. Secretly settling into their side by side rhythm of stepping they’d picked up on their travels to Nerine. Her flames spark at his demand, her eyes flick to the side glinting with challenge at his choice of words, but then he practically whispers her name and she finds she can’t truly stay angry at him. Besides his tone is so gentle she doesn’t think that he could possibly have intended to insult her and make a true demand of her… and when she sees his face its confirmed.
No possible way could he have been attempting to be disrespectful. Especially not after what she showed him she could do to him should he try. She doesn’t quite realize the lust, even as she feels it wrap around her in a soft warmth making her desire to slip in close to him a surfacing itch that is harder and harder to ease. To naïve herself in the ways of lust and love to even realize the flirtiness that could have been read into from her words. To preoccupied by her nerves and general pride to pay any mind to the darker, more male look he gives her. And in her naivety, she continues their conversation still finding herself unaware of all his intentions. Where did you live before deciding on here Murc? Genuinely curious, her attention is divided between picking her way down the path, listening to his voice, and every so often brushing against him as if to make sure he wasn’t the voice in her head taking shape and fooling her. I mean heck she even let the past get in the way of a fling with Castile, AND Walter. How is it that she doesn’t do so now? He’s here now, and stubbornly not letting her slip from him. A small part of her leaps for joy at this.
HESTIA
The devil whispered in my ear, you’ll never survive the storm I whispered back, I am the storm
He is bold but he knows no other way (nor would he try to be. Nostrils flare enough that there is a small sliver of pale pink flashing. Hestia, this woman, would not be able to escape him for he had come to her home, joined her side, and made himself comfortable beneath her gaze despite standing a head or so taller.
He breathes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
She is a saffron and chai. He wants to taste her fire and let it consume him but instead he watches her, baiting with his pale gaze and not missing he motion of her tail. The dark salmon of his tongue escapes briefly to run over the scars of his lips. Murc straights his body tall, the summer air catching knots of his tattered mane with the occasional bit of a hungry insect but he does not flinch away from her.
She is beautiful.
Murc grunts softly as he rolls his hips so one leg cocks slightly, relaxed and letting his lavender-grey gaze drifting off to the salt encrusted shores toy with the shattered white edges of the water. He wants this woman in the waters, wet and slick, beneath him. Murc lets the silence nestle between them for a moment before he sighs, his hips clicking softly as he rests his weight evenly now and walks to the smaller equine. "Woman, come here." The voice is low, masculine, husky. He does not ask.
Murc is enveloping far quicker than she would expect and wrapping his large head and neck around her own in an embrace that could easily crush her throat but he would not harm her. She would probably fight him and possibly incinerate him but Murc has nothing else to live for. He had nothing all along. Perhaps in this moment, this could be the split second that could save them both from whatever lurked just beyond the sanity of their minds. He disregards her words and struggles (if any) before speaking, his chest vibrating his words against the breastplate of her womanly chest. "You will have to fear nothing with me by your side, Hestia." He nearly whispers the words as his dark lips draw close to her ear, tickling the soft tuft that protects the dark crevasse of their ears, scar lips brushing gently as he holds her. Murc would release her only after she demands it...or if she chose to burn him alive.
Her chest expands as she tries to taste the air around him, fresh with pine and something else she can’t catch unless she gets closer. She won’t lower her pride that much. Not even for that delectable scent. Still the little she picks up etches itself into her memory associated with the soft eyes that should be stormy. They are rhythmic, they remind her of the ocean, but their color isn’t the color of ocean or storm, but somewhere in-between yet no, they have a purple hue that speaks of the morning skies. A beautiful oxymoron that speaks of both chaos and peace. She can’t stop looking at them, and his scent… its hypnotic a deadly weapon formed exactly to fit her weakness.
She bares her teeth, he’s pushing his luck, and his demands are more than she believes she can take. She is raw, and sensitive, wanting to claw her way from her skin and drift back into detached control once more. At this moment she does not want to be touched by anyone, not even this peculiar male. She feels his low rumble against her skin, a fire pelting her hide on the inside ready to burst through at any moment. Then he does it, does it faster than she can recognize what is going on. He is there wrapped around her cradling her, melding her form to his. She can define that scent now, a thick musk spicy in its undertones but sweet in its over layer. A heady mix with the pine from the forest. It lulls her, he lulls her. Between shock and longing she can’t find the will to move.
The will to fight him off has disappeared from her, they stand there for a moment. She’s not relaxed, stiff in her stance, fighting within herself for the way to control. To remember who she is, and why she does not participate in dalliances such as these. She’s let this go to far, the black queen can’t risk being seen as weak, she cannot afford to trust. It’s with this thought that she finds the ability to steel herself against the onslaught of his affection. Hestia can’t bring herself to move just yet, but slowly she’s finding her footing. This talk in her head isn’t what snaps her back to reality. It’s him, his words, they shatter the moment even as her mind whispers that he is falling deeper into it.
No, this would not be good for either of them should they indulge in such frivolous pursuits. There is only one way this could end for them. She snaps her teeth at the thick of his neck, knowing it would not truly harm him. A mouthful of hardened muscle and scars soak her tongue in his flavor. I don’t need anyone to - and the next words have spittle flying from her lips - to protect me. The creatures warned her, she must be careful with her temper. Right now would be a terrible time to be born anew. Right now she can not, and I mean CANNOT be seen as weak.
Suspicion drives her forward. Who sent you? Was it Krone? Hestia reels with the implications, any number of people could desire to dethrone her. Right now would be the perfect time to do so. Right now she has not yet come to her prime, right now the people do not fully trust her. She is in a position of teetering on the edge of either a long and prosperous reign or a short and terrible demise. They look to her with hope, cautious in their following. They do not do so with blind faith. Not yet. She is still earning that. And he continues to try with her, continues to blindly seek her out, even after all her warnings. He pushes on, testing her, daring her. Who could know her weakness?
She cannot bring herself to burn him to ash, her soul can’t take another betrayal. They’ve only just met; how could this be a betrayal? No, it isn’t, she’d wait and see. Watch him from a distance, have her people report to her on his goings on. Hestia spits out the words, testing him, leave me. The queen in her rears its head, demanding, she will not be one to flee. Hestia does not flee. No, she commands, and now her voice carries that command. Cold and hard cutting off the emotion that had just been pouring through her just moments ago. No one should stir her this way, she cannot allow it.
She spends the rest of the day standing there at the oceans edge, contemplating, turning her mind to her work. Her work that she would throw herself into, body and soul until she is exhausted enough to not know one day from the next. Until she is susceptible to a demon that will take her mind and bring itself into this world. A storm approaches Nerine, and she will lead them into it, She will become the storm if she must.
HESTIA
The devil whispered in my ear, you’ll never survive the storm I whispered back, I am the storm
OOC: okay seriously don't know where this came from... :|
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