"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
bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
Perhaps it is boredom that drives him to this land.
Perhaps it is a scientific curiosity—a desire to learn more about the workings of those he surrounded himself with. He had been born into a kingdom but never understood that loyalty that ties a soul to a piece of land, that straps down a mind to it and forces it to bend to another’s will. He had watched full-grown stallions become nothing more than dogs to those they deemed their better; he had watched them cow before the will of another, taking their burden upon their shoulders as if they had no other option.
Such things hold no interest to Woolf.
He has no desire to become an order taker for another—to carry out commands mindlessly.
But, even he cannot deny that boredom has begun to still his blood, making him lethargic and dull. He has watched the time-lapse of the meadow over the last few weeks—horses coming and going and leaving no real imprint. His emerald eyes have glazed over and his pulse slowed so that he nearly atrophied.
So perhaps it is not surprising that he finally shook the dust from his coat and began to make his way toward to land of faux opportunity. His heart was not yet sold on the idea of a home, but he could not longer deny the curiosity at what offers would arise from the venture. His behemoth body was made for war but the promise of Woolf was not in the physical strength but that rare magic that simmered in him.
For a land clever enough, he could be an interesting asset.
At least for as long as they could hold his attention.
When he finally reaches the field, he does not make his way toward the center of it. He, instead, sticks near the edges of it, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful. Mindlessly, Woolf slices open his shoulder, the blood welling to the familiar wound and dripping onto the ground, and he pulls a small gathering of trees together—forcing the trees to grow thicker and bending their branches together to provide protection.
And then, he waits.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
honestly, idk. probably not tephra? but anywhere else.
09-08-2018, 04:36 PM (This post was last modified: 09-09-2018, 06:55 PM by Electra.)
Electra
She is so fucking bored.
There are fewer and fewer men to fuck around with during the frigid season. They are bundled up in their little prissy kingdoms, fornicating with one night stands. But Electra wants something more in her life, than simply screwing every eye candy in sight. She wants a little edge to her life, perhaps something a bit more thrilling to enthrall her, and she wasn't going to find that in any of the common lands. The men there just far too bland.
So she finds herself venturing to the field, and while on her short journey, she decides a change in style wouldn't hurt. She quickly constructs a look in her mind, something simple yet, eye catching. The dark verdant of her coat fades away engulfed by the mix of ink and ivory. An Ebony splash, tied together with a bright azure mane, that filters down her her neck on either side, rather messy but relatively neatly groomed. By the time she reaches the field, she has finished refining the masterpiece, that is her coat.
Yet she feels lost here in the field, all these kingdom goers shuffling about in a hurry. She has no purpose to be here, rather than to find another obsession to her warm her bed. She observes from the edge, her violet gaze meeting with a rather handsome mulberry creature confined in the shrubbery, rippling with muscle. And with curiosity and interest she saunters towards him. Keen on meeting him.
As she approaches, she allows a gentle smile to tug at her lips, breaking away from her RBF (resting bitch face). She inspects the foliage cradling him, the branches of the trees bending at his will. How curious, and how hot. She thinks to herself, biting her lip."Hey whatcha doing?" Her tone is sweet, but a little rough around the edges.
Life, after six decades of it, becomes repetitive. In recent years the mare found herself comfortable in stagnancy, reclining in a seat made of yesterdays that blended into her tomorrows seamlessly; in her mind, absolutely nothing could happen that would ever compare to the dramas of her youth. She'd witnessed the brutal death of her mother at age four, had fought a dragon and been consumed by flames, fought herself in the plains of the questlands; she'd loved, ruled, battled, waged war, birthed children; she'd died, come back to life. But since that time of return, things had genuinely settled into complacency; wars, though threatened, never came; and though the crown shifted tectonically, she'd been ever stable as Nerine's second in command.
A chance encounter - embedded with enormous amounts of unstable magics - changed that irreparably. In the depths of her would-be barren womb, the stirring of life had began: and she knew it wasn't her husband's. Because she hadn't slept with her husband.
They'd stopped trying once they realized their infertility.
She'd never considered that Brennen's magic could change that - like a damned fool.
The winter burrowed bone deep this year, turning her charred skin first blue and then red as frost bite sunk its teeth into her. The grotesque appearance of her reopened wounds - even fifty years later - helped to disguise the tiny bulge of her barrel, though that would change soon; no amount of flaying skin and mottling flesh could hide a pregnancy where there oughtn't be one. She considered cloaking herself in twilight, giving her body a chance to recover from winter's cruelty - but of course, as all who have done wrong will, she thought she deserved to suffer. She'd been unfaithful. The least she deserved was the discomfort of frost bite.
Her breath span in tufts before her molten eyes as they pierced through the dimness of an over-cast winter day. The flat expanse of the field held dozens of memories for the legend, ones that brought back painful memories as well as joyous ones; it didn't matter which at the moment, just that it distracted her at all. A month ago, she would have been suave and confident in her step, mysteriousness in her grotesque image, a blunt representation of the Leviathans that any could recognize with a single glance. Today, however, her aura told a different tale, one of brooding and distrust and malicious insecurity. The usual red-yellow of her eyes glowed only faintly now, the burnt burgundy of a fire nearly out.
In the depths of said dragon-eyes, she spotted a creature worth noting. He stood with a sullen interest, one the perhaps mirrored hers. It is interesting to note that the man was technically - and legitimately - family; the son of her cousin, Tarnished, but also the son of her son's wife - lawfully, her grandchild, even if he was a bastard. Still, the exact weavings of her family line remained mostly shrouded in mystery, for she'd had many children and many of them had more still; the chance of her ever finding out their relations was small, but that tiny pull in her gut towards this mulberry creature grew and grew until she could no longer deny its forces.
A woman - gorgeous in her physique, stunning in her countenance, a seductress in the drawl of her voice - reached the man in question just before Scorch. The stark opposition of their appearances did not need pointing out, for it remained there glaringly for inspection and interpretation. Where the minx's gleaming tobiano coat sat, decades of scarring and even freshly peeling wounds decorated Scorch; where Electra's voice came smoothly and enticingly, Scorch's came like rock against rock, grating and harsh.
"I too would be interested in your answer.."
Scorch
Once Khaleesi of the Amazon Jungle
Why do I sit down to write easy posts and suddenly they're novels. So sorry.
bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
Woolf has never paid particular mind to whether or not he is handsome. He does not care that his coat stands out with an unnatural hue. He does not care that he is sculpted as a war horse, his neck thick and arched, his chest wide, his back broad. He has rarely had the need to resort to physical violence. He is not against it, necessarily, but why dirty your hands when he can carve up a man from twelve lengths away?
In similar fashion, he has never paid much mind to the look of others. His eyes don’t follow the curve of a woman’s hip when she passes and he doesn’t hunger for their attention. They are merely bodies—more often in the way than not—and he finds that the one who finds him is no exception. He feels her coming, but he still looks at her with a blank expression, his green eyes just blinking slowly.
“I’m standing in the field,” he answers dryly, his voice tinted with disdain.
For a moment, he furrows his brow and tilts his head, considering her, before his attention is caught by the hairless mare who approaches, the years of her life practically tattooed onto her body. She may feel a tug in her gut at their relations, but his magic draws upon it, and he quickly follows the trial of it, branching out the family tree to find the threads that connect them. His interest is piqued by it, and he dives into her head—at least enough to find her name, find her home, find necessary information.
“Scorch,” he greets her, his smile wolfish as it spreads. “I hope you come with an offer.”
He glances briefly at the other woman, dripping with an offer he doesn’t quite understand, and he decides that he at least needs to hear her out. “I would be willing to hear whatever you have to say, as well.”
Such a gentleman.
woolf
I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste
um hi sorry he is kind of a dick sometimes. :| love you both.
09-10-2018, 06:29 PM (This post was last modified: 09-10-2018, 06:34 PM by Electra.)
Electra
She could finish a man with one look.
But the man before her is different. Only making the chase much more enjoyable.
He holds no intrest in her rather, it seems he prefers the company of the hairless hag who approaches. The burnt creature swells with child, her body encompassed with scars, and frostbitten wounds. The stench of the sea riddles the air, no doubt she's a Nerinean. Her smile fades into something fake, she can't stand these kingdom folk. Gallivanting around with their so called authority, just because one fucking crown gives a damn. Her gaze hardens into a glare, although relatively neutral it's as cold as ice piercing through the mare's frost bitten skin.
The familiarity in his voice, angers her. Her temper welling within the depths of her chest, while her expression is unchanging. She wants him, and he will be hers. She bites her lip, as to her hold her own tongue releasing an ever so silent sigh from her angered lungs.
"I have an offer." Her smile returns as her deep violet eyes fixate upon him. Her tone becomes airy, embellished with flirtations. "I'm looking for something or someone to take the edge off." She takes a few steps closer to the mulberry stud, his musk intoxicating her. Her hips swaying fluidly as she inches closer."You up to the challenge?" She hums. Her gaze flickering with a provocative curiosity.
She shares a glance at the bald creature beside her, one solemn thought burrows in her mind. Try me bitch.
He greeted her by name, giving pause to her low-toned suaveness as she did a slow double-take and reevaluation of the mulberry creature. His appearance and his voice gave rise to no memories that Scorch knew of - true that there rang a tone of familiarity between them which had brought her to him in the first-place, but its echoing sounded so distantly that she felt it a hopeless cause to try and place him. Still, he followed his opening line with the request for an offer, a wolfish smile spreading across his lips; and indeed, upon seeing the expression which she often wore herself, there could be no denying that her blood ran through his spirited veins.
Fluidly, the wolf's grin spread her own lips. It lessened some as the sultry women did her best impression of a sex toy, dollish and cloying, but it didn't fade completely; after an initial glance to the gorgeous mare's antics, Scorch resettled her gaze on the nameless stallion, leaving their burgundy depths simmering there weightedly. He would either be swayed by her offer - her challenge - or he wouldn't be; though one outcome seemed far better to the Amazon, she kept her personal feelings about the matter carefully tucked away.
"I come with two offers, wolf," she began, ignoring the youth's haughty stare; she'd never been flirtatious or sexy - except to Hestoni - and dear GODS now was not the time for her to start trying. Her eyes bore into the stallion, and at her hooves, threads of light began weaving themselves in intricate patterns, tracing up her legs as she carefully worded her next thought. "Due to an alliance, I am obligated to offer the kingdom of Loess to you first and foremost..."
"...But if that is not to your liking, then my home is a perfect second." Her tone of voice - brusque and, in its own way too, sultry - clearly implied that there was nothing secondary about Nerine. With a cocked brow, she looked to the tobiano, knowing that she risked a flaunted reaction for her next words. "You might like it there too."
She held Electra's gaze for a moment longer, then looked away with a careful exhale which widened her nostrils. The threads of light faded suddenly to heavy, inked darkness, continuing their dance around her hocks. "We are called the Leviathans; and if either of you were alive before the Reckoning, you might benefit from knowing that we originate from the Amazons."
"There are places for the both of you there - if Loess does not interest you."
bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
The two mares before him could not be more different in looks or nature.
One vacillated between sickly sweet and steely anger, attempting to manipulate the threads of the conversation in a way that he could clearly see but not fully comprehend. What good did she expect to come of this? What did she hope to gain from it? He furrowed his brow in thought, staring intently at her, studying her face as if he could puzzle it out. At her offer, he just frowned further, the scowl deepening on his stern features. “That sounds more like you’re expecting an offer from me.” His voice rumbled in his throat, and he tilted his head to the side, heavy mane falling away. “I don’t think I have one to give.”
Her challenge though made him bark out a laugh, the sound as sudden as a bullet.
“I don’t see one,” he shrugged, failing to take the bait.
The bald one caught his attention once more and he shifted to look at her once more, ears flicking forward in the tangled thicket of his mane to consider her. The offer was plain and yet fairly empty, and he found himself mulling it over, not responding quickly but letting the words sink into the air between them.
It was then that he noticed the way she wove light around her, the delicate strands of it wrapping around her legs and upward. It was enough to pique his interest once more, and he drew upon their distant connection to pull on his own magic. The ground next to him began to growl ever so slightly, the dirt and the mulch crumbling and spilling outward. From deep within the ground, something began to grow, and one corner of his mouth quirked in amusement as a spear of light, as thick as a sapling, pierced the soil and shot into the air. It arched upward, the light blinding, and then fell back down as soft as drizzle, splattering the dirt with a mixture of the dusk that Scorch has so masterfully wove but moments before.
In the aftermath, the dirt took on a starry hue, constellations trapped and fading.
Woolf said nothing of the show, not even bothering to glance toward it, but pleased with the way his magic had risen from their familial connection, matching hers in his own way. “I suppose I would like to hear where you think I would be better suited.” An understated shrug. “I would not come empty handed.”
Remembering himself, he looks toward the color-changing mare, his gaze level.
09-12-2018, 07:03 PM (This post was last modified: 09-12-2018, 08:18 PM by Electra.)
Electra
She could never pinpoint why one would be so invested in a kingdom. How could one stand idly as their being walked all over like a royal's personal doormat. That's the ticket, that had always left Electra so hesitant to join such a monarchy. Once your initiated you become a pawn within the ruler's personal game of chess.
She knows what it's like to be a pawn. Chained to a master, damaged and broken. Her father used her to manipulate his victims with seduction, only to make their deaths ever so more enjoyable. She has had captives murdered upon her back, their torn jugulars spilling blood all over her body. As she trembles in both fear and shock while her father's maniacal laugh echoes cackling with satisfaction.
Never again.
Her glare hardens at the very mention of both kingdoms from the bald mare's lips. She cringes at the very thought of joining such a monarchy riddled with corruption. "I will not be a pawn." She mutters under her breath. Her eyes flickering a deep scarlet red for a few moments.
Her gaze softens, turning towards the mulberry stag as he began to speak. Her brow furrowing in minor irritation to his response. Is he fool? Can you not see what's practically sitting on your door step? How pathetic. The chase is over, she's over it, he's not worth her time. Despite the fact how rather mysterious and sexy he is. She can tell her offer is misread, or perhaps he's too smart. She smirks, a wicked smile forming on her lips, "Your loss loverboy." She teases releasing a girlish giggle as she moves on.
She's about to make her departure from the meeting when he speaks up, does she have any questions? She hovers for a moment or two before stepping back into conversation, "Scorch." She taste's the mare's name as it rolls off her tongue. "What are your kingdom's dynamics?" She asks out of mere curiosity.
At first, Scorch worried that she'd been too quick and concise in her delivery of potential kingdoms. The mare scoffed, muttering under her breath with a roll of her spectacularly coloured eyes; and the stallion looked bored. When his eyes caught the threads of light-gone-dark however, something besides political interests came into play; and the ancient mare felt her breath catch in her throat as his own magic flowed forth, far surpassing anything she'd ever dreamt of doing with her own.
Aesthetically, anyway. But as you could tell by the looks of her, aesthetics had never meant much in the first place.
As the shimmering remains of his magic dissolved atop the snow, the outline of the tree imprinted on her retinas, though it faded quickly due to their dragon nature. Although they spoke not of this impressive display, the grin that strung itself across Scorch's lips said it all. She wanted him; she wanted him in Nerine.
But it would never be simple, would it? The life in her womb kicked, as if to emphasize that point. The yet unnamed stallion went on to ask an undesirable question. Lessening, her lips found their contented and cunning line again, ears flipping from mare to stallion as she considered her response. When the girl - seemingly retreating - took pause and then added her our question, Scorch inhaled and treaded her next words with care.
"My opinion on where you're best suited is not a reliable one." Her charred lips lilted up at one corner, an unabashed smirk. "As you could guess, I'm rather biased. As for the dynamics of each land, well, that I can tell you about."
"Loess, under its current rulership, functions as a kingdom for hire. The reason why I am recruiting for them is because of our year-long alliance, though it's more of a trade deal. They did us a favour, and now we're doing them one. To my understanding, there are limited positions there, each with specifically outlined expectations, etcetera." She paused, glanced between the two, and continued. "As you can imagine, they aren't typically hired to give hugs and kisses. They dabble in the darker realms of politics."
"As for Nerine... Our ideology is that loyalty and camaraderie between members is superior to individual progress within the ranks. We are interested in building a nation stronger than many strangers gathered in one land." A moment passed as she allowed this information to sink in, before smiling darkly and continuing onto her last tangent. "We are a blood sisterhood, and a force to be reckoned with. Many of my daughters daughters live there," she added this last part for the magician's benefit, eyes finding him thoughtfully. "But in the end, you are free to visit either in search of a home."
bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze if you must drink of me, take of me what you please
The girl appears to lose interest in him, and Woolf cannot bring himself to care one way or another. She had been mistaken in thinking that he was easy prey—or, rather, prey at all. He was not something to be caught or tricked or manipulated. He was not some simple-minded man who was easily distracted by the curve of hip or promise of a night. He did not bend to the whims of a woman, nor was he interested in becoming their plaything. So he doesn’t bother to call after her as she begins to make her way toward the edge of the field, but neither does he mind when she chooses otherwise, deciding instead to stay.
It is, like so many things of this world, of little consequence to him.
He is a single-track minded stallion and his green eyes drill into the Amazonian mare, watching her as she begins to explain the kingdoms, the deal, and the puzzling reason behind why she would offer up a place for him to stay when she did not reside there. At her explanation, the magician merely nods, huffing so that a plume of fog rises. “An honorable contract,” is all he comments, because he can at least see the value in the exchange. The trade of goods and services was black and white with little emotion involved.
His interest admittedly piques as she explains that they serve as a kingdom for hire.
He was not certain how he felt about being sold to the highest bidder, but it did promise an outlet for his boredom—a chance for him to flex his powers—and it did not require that he sign away his loyalty in an oath of blood. It was an interesting offer, and he mulls it over, dark eyes serious.
“You will be disappointed if you expect loyalty from me,” he is blunt, honest, massive shoulders rolling. “I can offer many things, but loyalty is not one of them.” The mulberry stallion is not cruel in the delivery nor ashamed of it and he holds the mare’s gaze evenly, letting the silence between them stretch on for a moment longer before he breaks it. “I would like to visit both before I make a decision.” He considers calling it a final decision but so much in his life is temporary—constantly changing with the cosmos—that he retracts the word before it ever breeches his lips. Instead, he gives a crooked smile.
“Does your contract include chaperoned visits or am I on my own if I’d like to visit Loess?”
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