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  • Beqanna

    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


    the shadow proves the sunshine || wound
    #1
    we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight
    The sound of the volcano often lulls Warrick to sleep. As smoke and ash tumble carelessly from its glowing top, the stallion finds himself matching his own breathing with the gentle rumble of lava gushing slowly from the depths. He has always been attached to the fiery mountain and savors the intense heat that it brings, feeling desperately cold and frigid when away from its scorching breath for too long. When sleep would find him (which was incredibly rare, unless tucked away beside Tangerine), Warrick would most likely beneath a sluice of molten rock, facing the ocean. It was no coincidence that the navy and bay stallion kept returning here every day, long before dusk, where the thickness of smoke conceals any attempt at seeing the night’s sky. He would try, sometimes, to stargaze and map the constellations like he so often did when he was younger (who was he to pretend that everything was the same?), but he found that the air nearest the volcano would begin to sting and burn his eyes and he began to use the pain as a buffer to keep him from searching the galaxies in pointless longing.

    Even then, with the night sky hidden from him and the groaning of the mountain as his lullaby, Warrick’s slumber was always fitful and restless; often intermittent with nightmares and terrors that kept him from truly resting. Dreams of dismal and dark days ahead, unperceivable upon waking but leaving him covered in a sheen of sweat.

    He sighs, almost comfortably, as he descends onto the familiar blackened shoreline, the warmth of the sunlight touching his back with gentle fingertips –  though the heat was not nearly intense enough to match that of his precious volcano, his silent and vigilant guard. His brilliant irises of cobalt shimmer blazingly against mahogany lids and black forelock as his gaze sweeps over the beach, the winter’s chill elsewhere leaving Tephra’s skies sunny and clear, with less humidity in its breath than ever before.

    Time passes and it is now near sunset, where the sun still clings wearily to the sky yet pricks of indigo were starting to emerge. Beneath the golden light he stands, stoic and ever enduring, the hardened lines on his face growing dark as the sun’s rays play shadows across his auburn and navy body. He was standing near the golden shoreline, frothing water rising to meet his hooves then falling back, then coming to meet him again. The constant rhythm soothes him. It was this time of night where he truly came alive; where the sun’s rays begin to kiss the horizon and stars begin to brighten with clarity as the light of day retreats, leaving them to shine boldly. He welcomes the sun’s dying light happily, thankful for the coolness that night would soon bring. Though Beqanna lies under boughs of snow and ice, Tephra is left untouched: salty, sultry air presses against his skin, warm currents of air from the ocean bringing in the everlasting heat.

    The night begins to whisper to him, a soft, clear voice that only he recognized; a voice so gentle, but yet seems to come from everywhere, even in the rustling of the tropical trees around him. The salty breeze brushes against him, twisting and curling the dark tendrils of his mane and tail carelessly on its fingers. In the distance, the volcano looms like a slumbering giant, groaning with life as smoke billows from the top, the bold gray melting into the red, oranges, and pinks of the clouds. He watches the volcano thoughtfully, his mind drifting as it always does.
    Warrick


    @[wound]
    #2
    T
    hey meet so often upon the shore with the stars dancing above their heads. She’s beginning to wonder if it is just their time of day, a trademark upon their friendship, like some families have their thickets among the brush and some spiders have their favorite corners to weave their webs. It’s a warm thought, not entirely cast out from the happiness of her mind, and she reflects upon it as she approaches him from behind.

    They have come so far from their first encounter, Wound and Warrick. Her soul still clung to the shadows of the forest while his did not yet know of the king he would become. She had been timid to reveal herself to this island at that time, spending her days wading in the waves where her deformities could be hidden by the salty embrace of the sea. Little did that doe-eyed woman know of the courageous diplomat she would become.

    A smile finds her mouth as she comes to a halt beside Warrick. Her shoulder brushes his as she dips her nose down to touch the sea-froth riding on the quiet tide. The tang of salt and smoke in her nostrils is bitter but familiar, the beloved but not entirely appetizing cologne of home. Wound is quiet for several moments, allowing the peace of the twilight to absorb the unrest in the shadows of her heart.

    Finally, softly, she speaks. “Ischia is led by a good man.” She’s always considered herself a good judge of character and, even in the brief moments she had with Brennen, the new King seemed well-suited for his crown. “Brennen is his name. He reminds me of you, actually, though perhaps he’s a bit more military-like.” Those are some of her favorite qualities of Warrick — the pieces of him where a commanding behavior melts into warmth and sincerity.

    The night falls around them like a delicate blanket. Constellations twist above their heads, so numerous and dramatic that Wound can’t help but tip her chin back so her eyes can watch their splendor. She wonders of their daughter and how she must be faring in Nerine, but then forces herself to look back on her meeting in Ischia before tears prick at the corners of her eyes.

    “I warned them of Sylva’s growing presence. Brennen agreed that we’ll be friendly toward each other for now, as they have named Nerine their sister-kingdom.” Friends of friends, as Trekori had said. A soft smile finds the corners of her face as she thinks about the young stallion. He had seemed so full of life, a masculine (perhaps slightly less-enthusiastic) version of Wishbone. “I could see an alliance forming in the near future, especially if Sylva’s danger persists.”

    She is quiet then, content to listen to the waves lapping against their ankles and the nighttime cradle them in a warm, starry embrace.
    credit to nat of adoxography.

    @[Warrick]
    #3
    we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight
    She finds him in the dimness of dusk, the sun no longer a thought along the night sky. They are silent as they stand side by side, Warrick’s gaze upwards into the heavens while Wound peers into the familiarity of the ocean. An audible sigh trembles from his lips at her admission, and there is solemnity in the way his large head nods. A soft snort, somewhat of a chuckle in his nostrils, leaves him and his blue eyes fall to look at her with a sideways glance. “Good.” There is a smile that pulls at his navy mouth, gentle and purposeful. “Thank you,” here, Warrick reaches forward and presses the cobalt of his muzzle against the ebony of hers, nostrils fluttering, “for going to Ischia. I am glad to have you home.”

    “With Ischia being so close, it would be foolish not to partake in an alliance with them. It had been my original intent to solidify ties between us.” Before all of this. He sighs. “I will take it upon myself to speak with Brennen. I’m sure that they are feeling the pressure from Sylva as well, and if Nerine and Ischia are sister-kingdoms by bond, then it is only logical that we are as well.”

    His tail flicks against his navy legs and a slight ruffle of his feathers is noticeably heard, rolling his shoulders and tossing his head gently. He does not want to worry her, but she is not only Wound, but the Head of Peace. She must know everything he knows. “Kwartz and Krone are missing. Whispers say that Karat is, too.” The refugees who have found Tephra to be their safe haven in their time of need have fallen into the hands of perpetrators while Warrick was supposed to protect him. His ears fall backwards in disappointment, his jaw clenching tightly. “I do not know if it is Sylva, but I cannot see Ischia doing such a thing - not without a breath of diplomacy.”

    Wound is looking into the stars now, and silently the Overseer’s eyes follow hers. “Orion,” he says thoughtfully after a moment, his voice spilling into the night air as the constellation boldly shines before them, thrusting his chin towards it, “Wishbone always loved that story.” He pauses, chin still upwards but with a single blue eye turning to look at Wound. “I bet she looks at it every night; maybe even right now.” He remembers telling Wishbone of the stars and his ancestry, and he is sure that even as she grows, she will continue to look into the stars just as he does.
    Warrick


    @[wound]
    #4
    H
    er eyes slide closed as his mouth finds hers. These are the moments she treasures, when they can so quietly speak diplomacy and, in the same breath, friendship. A piece of her (jealous and seething, but altogether too small to truly be thought of) wonders if he whispers of Tephra’s politics to Tangerine in their lover’s bed. Does he keep his worried thoughts twisted away from his beloved’s ears? They are thoughts of the lonely woman held deep with Wound and she forcefully pushes them away before she might travel down a rabbit hole she cannot climb out of.

    She clings to Warrick’s words instead, feeling the rise and fall of his emotions with each topic they discuss. “I think that is wise,” she acknowledges in respect to Ischia. The kingdom and its King seemed like the opposite of Klaudius and Krone’s frantic, agitated accusations. Wound supposes their memories might have been twisted in light of leaving their own home. Her thoughts turn toward the lavender faces of the children and a soft sigh leaves her mouth.

    But the peace of the night unsettles itself from her heart when Warrick speaks of stolen Tephrans. Krone and Kwartz and, even Karat. A surprise snort startles itself from her nostrils. “So soon after they just arrived?” She wonders how anyone would know that the lavender family have found refuge in Tephra. “I doubt it’s Ischia.” Her tail flicks gently against her heels, reflecting again on her discussion with Brennen. The bay had been too pleasant to be harboring either a grudge or Tephrans in his borders.

    Yet they are silent now, two heavy heads looking toward the star-splattered sky. Warrick mentions their daughter and she feels the claws of longing touch her heart once more. “She would try to fly to the stars, if she had wings.” There’s a laugh on the breath of her voice. The twilight breeze is beginning to stir, tangling her silver-ombre mane and knotting it against her neck. “How have you and Tangerine been?” She’s met his partner a handful of times, yet the true depth of their relationship is one Wound is delicately unsure of.
    credit to nat of adoxography.

    @[Warrick]
    #5
    we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight
    His thoughts stir, cloudy and heavy in his mind, but somehow become clear when she reassures him. There are some days where he feels as if he still doesn’t know what he’s doing - that he could never be the ruler that Offspring had been, that Ellyse had been...even Magnus. There are so many things that could easily go wrong, easily slip through his grasping hands. But her constant presence reminds him that he is doing all he can and he must be content with that fact. He sighs, a rattled and constricting sound, as his eyes trace the stars. “I assume it is Sylva, then.” I’m not strong enough. “We must be prepared for anything, Wound.” His mind flickers to Marble, to Sibyl, to Wishbone. I cannot protect them all. 

    The Overseer flexes his wings, suddenly feeling extremely small beneath the brilliant expanse of night sky. 

    The conversation shifts, and Warrick prays that he will not have to think about Sylva and those he has failed to protect. His deep blue gaze scans the starlit sky, his cobalt lips twitching into the smallest of smiles. “Perhaps one day she will,” he murmurs, his voice soft with longing and dusty memories, of when Wishbone was just a child and marveled beneath Warrick’s grand navy wings. 

    “She is due any day now,” Warrick tells her, smiling happily knowing that Tangerine is tucked safely away beneath the grotto, with his Marble. A new child will be amongst them soon, and he finds the thought to soothe him in a way he cannot describe. He wonders then, if that is what Wound had meant when she had asked, and the stallion snorts softly. He pauses, lowering his chin just slightly and finding that his eyes are searching hers. “You are happy here, aren’t you?” With me? Warrick’s guilt finds his face uneasily; is the way he is to her enough? Is there more that she wants, that he cannot give?
    Warrick


    @[wound]
    <3
    #6
    S
    he’s known him long enough to sense the unsettlement from within him. While she has never met the previous rulers of Tephra, he has known those who came before him. He has served under mighty and wise leaders, those who have guided the sulfuric island before him, and she cannot help but wonder if he is constantly reaching for the stars they crafted in their prime. Part of her also wonders if he has already reached them — if, in fact, he has climbed above them — and he simply sees everything in a distortion that forces him to believe he is far below their constellations.

    She doesn’t say any more in respect to their preparation for war, but her face moves so her dark nose can touch the slope of his neck just behind his ear. She huffs there gently, blowing a few errant strands of his navy mane, in a sign of comfort and allegiance. Though Beqanna is tense, as though a thunderstorm were about to break over their heads but for now the dark, thick clouds only hang above them, Wound will stay by his side through it all.

    There’s another pang (this one is smaller, but still pricks at her delicate heart) when Warrick mentions the coming of another child. Tephra is blessed with many children and their laughing, smiling faces and it warms Wound’s heart. Since Wishbone, however, the silver-bay has been without a child at her hip and the thought leaves her empty and quiet inside. She is grateful for her Overseer’s fruitfulness and deep relationship with his mate, but she also hates herself for the longing that fills the grooves of her heart.

    “That’s wonderful news, Warrick.” The outer layers of her voice are warm and uplifting and she truly is happy to hear of another sibling of Wishbone’s. However, there lies an undercurrent of that same, deeply sorrowful feeling in the low of her stomach. His next question catches her off-guard, for the simple reason she didn’t think he thought enough of her loneliness to ask such a thing (but she’s always been doubtful of everything, deep inside).

    A shuddering breath leaves her lungs as Wound gathers her thoughts. Although she can feel his searching eyes on her face, she keeps her coffee eyes turned toward the navy sky and the pinpricks of light that shine there. “I love Tephra,” she says. The words are true — Wound will always be grateful to Femur for guiding her to the volcanic island and the brilliant, bright life she has found here. “I won’t lie to you, Warrick. I’m lonely.”

    Saying it out loud (the thought that plagues her throughout the night and into the days where she finds herself alone) brings a cold drip into her body and she shakes her neck roughly to rid the sensation. Silver-ombre mane tousles itself against her shoulders and then settles as she stops to turn her face toward Warrick. “I always imagined myself finding a handsome, sweet man to love… And who loves me.” The ghosts of what could have been (and what could be) dance quietly in her coffee eyes, but Tangerine always presses against the back of her mind.

    She takes another slow breath, feeling the haze of memory clouding her mind’s eye. “I saw a family one time, when my brothers and I traveled from forest to forest.” She suddenly realizes she’s never spoken about her life before Tephra to Warrick before, but the story is still rolling from her lips. “Two twins with the parents and the father had been playing with his children. I watched from the shadows and thought to myself, ‘That will be my family one day.’” Her eyes focus again on Warrick’s face, drawing herself away from the cobwebs of Beqanna’s forests and the smells of decomposing leaves. “I guess I just thought that dream would happen quicker.”
    credit to nat of adoxography.

    @[Warrick] ): <3
    #7
    we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight
    She wouldn’t lie to him; this, he knows.

    So his cerulean eyes explore the deep brown of hers, despite the fact that her gaze lingers elsewhere. There is a shuddering sigh that expels from the darkness of her mouth and though he had prepared himself, he had hoped it wouldn’t come. His brows come together with concern, stretching his neck forward to perhaps press the softness of his mouth against her cheek, but refrains. Her admission is not unwarranted (reasonable, understandable), but he cannot help the guilt that trickles into his stomach, souring there until he has to look away from her, and into the stars above.

    But now, even the stars hold no solace for him like they used to.

    The Overseer is holding his breath, clenched between his teeth and sitting there feebly, unable to do or say anything to solve any of this. It pained him, to know how truly lonely she feels on the volcanic peninsula, despite the Tephra’s thriving growth. She has turned to face him now, but his gaze has found the horizon, staring expressionlessly into the hard line between sky and sea. For a long time he is silent, listening to her as she quietly expels everything from her mind - there is no accusation, not malice on her voice, but Warrick can feel his heart flinching at each word that falls into the humid air, the force of his clenched jaw increasing steadily as he hears what he has long since thought about, but now is faced with the actual truth of it all.

    “You deserve all that you dream of,” he murmurs to her steadily, though his voice lacks the normal gusto that accompanies his normal talk of hopes and dreams. There is a pause, hesitant and stuck in his throat, before finally: “I wish there was a way to give it to you.” I am sorry that it is me who cannot give it to you. He knows it should be him. He had given her a daughter, and though dutiful and loving father he is, he does not play the part of adoring lover - he cannot, for his heart belongs beneath the volcano with his seer, with Tangerine. If his heart could belong to more than one perhaps it could be possible, but even then, he does not think Wound would share her love with another - just as Warrick cannot.

    He still cannot look at her (or refuses to), and the deep ocean blue of his eyes still look out towards the sea, his mind and heart as tumultuous as the moon-lit waves.
    warrick
    credit to vel of adoxography.

    @[wound]
    #8
    S
    he understands. With every fiber of her being she can understand the guilt that plagues him. She is guilty too — perhaps more-so than him — for daring to long after a man with his own wife snuggled in their marriage bed. But he cannot love outside of Tangerine, not to the same level that he cares for her. Wound knows that if she had a husband to warm her sides against she would find herself equally as unwilling to subject her heart to another. They both harbor the types of souls destined to find their one true love and never toss that romance away.

    She wonders if she’s damned herself.
    She prays she hasn’t.

    When her eyes search for his they see instead the tight clench of his jaw. Wound almost chuckles at the sight of it; he often carries his tension in the marrow of his face and the muscle of his shoulders. On any other day her mouth might reach to press the rigidity away, to tenderly soothe his stress until it dissolves for another sunrise to deal with. But the tension carries itself in her own body too, and she merely watches the movement of his mouth as it forms words.

    Another sigh falls from her mouth, this one carrying less heavy cargo. “You’ve already given me enough, Warrick.” There’s warmth in her voice now. Though Wound still feels the ache of her sorrow like a chill in her bones, she has learned to move past the agony of life in order to reach the bliss. “We have a beautiful, thriving daughter and Tephra is the best home I could ever dream of.” The constellations spiral above their heads and her face tips toward them, searching the skies once more.

    “One day someone will come along and this will all be a distant memory.” Her voice is quiet, barely heard among the hush of the tropical foliage and the chuckle of the waves against the shoreline. She can’t tell if she’s trying to convince him or herself. “You’ve known all of this, deep inside,” she admits to him. She’s seen it in the depths of his blue eyes, in the fleeting expressions she glimpses of him, in the moments before Tangerine arrives to the kingdom meetings. “I don’t want me saying it out loud to ruin our friendship. You’re one of my closest friends in Tephra and I don’t think I would be happy without your friendship.”

    While she can’t have him for the love that could blossom, she still wants him for the deep friendship they already have.
    credit to nat of adoxography.

    @[Warrick]
    #9
    we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight
    But it is not enough.

    He does not argue with her, however; perhaps this is something that he will always carry, coiled tightly into the beating of his heart, draped with guilt and forever heavy-laden across the stirrings of his chest. For now, and for her sake, he matches the warmth in her voice with a trickle of a smile on his cobalt lips. It would never be a distant memory - not for him, the bringer of her hopes and dreams and also the one to crush it in one fell swoop. The idea that perhaps it could be (for her, at least) brings some sort of comfort to the winged stallion, though the idea of comfort seems to be something he is unworthy of, and feels almost selfish for trying to find relief in it.

    Warrick’s brows crease together and he turns his face towards her, the smile fading as seriousness fades onto his mouth. “You could never lose me.” His confession is final and abrupt, a sharp snort exiting his nostrils. There is something to say for their relationship, despite it not being the one that Wound had dreamed of. There is a friendship that runs so deep and is bonded so strongly, that Warrick is not sure he could ever part ways with her. It is something even more than friendship, a true family bond that ties them together for all eternity. Warrick’s eyes close momentarily as he inhales, exhaling a rumbling sigh against the familiarity of her mahogany cheek.

    “Never,” he repeats.
    warrick
    credit to vel of adoxography.

    @[wound]




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