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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


    [open]  could i use you as a makeshift gauge - Castile
    #1
    The dark haired kelpie stands knee-deep in the surf, watching the tide come in. The sky overhead is clear and blue, which is not typical for this time of year. Ivar is accustomed to the strong winds and grey clouds of springtime, but this year has been unusually full of good weather. Perhaps it is nature attempting to balance out the Plague, he thinks.

    He has not yet been stricken with illness, and so surmises that he must be either immune or uninfected. Neither seems better than the other, but at least he is not coughing up blood like some of the horses he has seen on the mainland. The kelpie is leaning toward immunity though; he has gotten rather near those hairless and pock-marked creatures beneath the waves.

    Ivar yawns widely, shaking away the allure of sleep with a toss of his head. Behind him, he knows is the large mass of Ischia. It is a far larger island than he is accustomed to, and the governing is rather dull. Time to pass it off to someone else, Ivar thinks, but to whom?

    A child? None of his are old enough, though the sapphire scaled king means to test Lothbrok soon. One of his consorts? Neither Jhene nor Carwyn seems capable. Karat had once been a strong contender but she'd left him (an offense that he will address in time), and Isobell is still so newly returned.

    All this thinking gives him an ache in his head.

    Ivar growls and plunges his head beneath the water, snapping at the little redeye goby that swim between his feet. They aren't a satisfactory distraction, so his golden eyes continue to rove the horizon until they detect some small bit of movement.
    Reply
    #2
    and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
    a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
    It’s the scent, the familiarity, which causes the dragon to shift in his arduous flight. The wind caresses him like a lover, but it also plays the strings of his memory as Ivar comes to mind after so many years of having it slipped far from his grasp. They had been so close once, near inseparable, but life peeled them apart as it does to so many others. The kelpie lured Isobell into his embrace, an odd sensation of anger but content clouding Castile’s judgment. She returned one day smelling of him with slick scales where hair had once been.

    His sister coupled with his friend.
    His friend pulled his sisters into the depths and altered her natural beauty.
    What is one to make of that?

    And yet, when he reminisces of Ivar, he sees them playing in the tide and mocking along the shore. Above all else, they had been friends, so Castile struggles to suppress the curiosity that is piqued upon drawing in the familiar odor.

    Castile’s body has since shifted into its norm. The claws are replaced by hooves, his hardened scales by hair. Only his draconic wings remain as he descends heavily onto the sand. It hisses beneath his weight as he steadies himself. A fever is climbing through him, slowly, but for now the most prominent symptom is his fatigue. It eats away at him, exhausting him even on the most trivial excursions. Drawing in a deep breath, Castile straightens himself and adopts a rather stoic expression, not quite sure what to even expect.

    ”Hello, Ivar.”

    castile
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    #3
    His clearest memory of Castile is the most recent: the pair of them engaged in battle. Ivar still bears the mark of it, a flame-shaped marking on his left elbow and a bit of his barrel, dark scales that have never returned to their pristine white despite the years that have passed in the interim. Their last meeting before that had been as boys, just before his turning of Isobell. 

    The kelpie blinks, unable to miss the familiarity of his lover’s face in the strong resemblance to her brother.

    “Castile.” He says, nodding his head in greeting without making any effort to leave the warmth of the clear water in which he now stands belly-deep. The tide is continuing to rise; in a short while he’ll be beneath the water entirely if he doesn’t move. The piebald stallion appears to be in no hurry though, and shakes a bead of water from the golden tip of his sapphire ear.

    “First Isobell and the children, now you. If Raul and Santana come back tomorrow, I’ll know for certain that the past is playing a trick on me.” That’s not to mention his brother and the dark-eyed girls that he suspect might be sisters that he has seen at dawn a few days ago. There are other residents on this island, other families that – like Ivar’s – had managed a life unbothered by the brotherhood. It is those that he needs to find, those that fill his head with far too many thoughts for comfort.

    He snorts again, lowering and raising his head in quick successive movements, feeling the chattering pops of the sea foam against his now damp chin. “Did you ever find Sabra?” He asks mildly, suddenly recalling his Riverside run in with the pretty mare several springs ago. “She was looking for you, but that was…a while ago.” Despite the length of time that has passed since their last encounter, there is nothing in the kelpie’s mannerisms to suggest that he is anything but at ease with the sudden arrival of a dragon on his island.

    @[Castile]
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    #4
    and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
    a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
    It’s odd to be here again, to face Ivar in a non-combative manner. It has been so long since their last civil meeting, but he supposes life always interrupts their plans. Although their friendship had been so strong once, it teeters with adulthood. They’ve simply stemmed in different directions. Ivar had always been one to find a home and forge a family while Castile roamed and made futile attempts to love. Somehow, Ivar always had what Castile craved.

    There is no ill will, however, but a stoicism as the kelpie roots himself to the sand offshore, savoring the warm water kissing his underbelly. Quietly, Castile watches where the beach is mildly damp. His mismatched eyes glance between the stallion and ocean, wondering how long until the kelpie decides to submerge or step away. His time is lessening with each passing second, and Castile can’t help to wonder how long the reunion will last.

    ”My sister?” His heart lurches having heard her name. It has been nearly a decade since he last pulled Isobell into his embrace and pressed his lips to the curve of her neck. ”Is she here? Now?” Castile immediately looks back across his shoulder and toward the palm trees. A breeze rustles the wilted leaves; more signs that the plague has reached beyond the mainland. Reconsidering his option, he looks again at Ivar as his head nods, his chin dripping water now. ”You’re surrounded by my family,” he chuckles, amused by how his kin seem to find the kelpie, ”It appears that you cannot escape us.” Would he ever want to? They’ve only known their lives to be somehow intertwined. It would be odd for that tether to be cut.

    With the mentioning of his sons, it only seems appropriate for their mother to arise in conversation. Castile edges closer to the water, letting the tide hug his pasterns. He considers the recent events, trying to map out timelines amid this horrific plague. A cough rattles through him in the pause before finally responding. ”I did. I’ve been with her since,” they’ve reconnected and he has met at least one of his sons. Then things went awry. The memory flashes across his mind, bristling him. ”And then she was murdered.” He adds through clenched teeth before swallowing the fire in his gut. A smugness creeps over him then as a malicious smile darkens his hooded features. ”I killed him though.”

    And because he cannot help but wonder if he is the only one that has changed, he asks, ”Have you killed anyone, Ivar?” Even in murder, they are brethren.

    castile
    Reply
    #5
    The kelpie's gaze turns swiftly from the sea back to Castile, drawn by the sudden change in the dragon's demeanor at the mention of Isobell. Ivar had been equally surprised by the arrival of his long absent mate, but his attachement to the piebald kelpie more is far less emotional than what he hears in Castile's voice.

    "She is." He replies casually, but his golden eyes are sharp and do not leave Castile's face again. "She brought our children with her too. Did you know you have nephews and a niece?" Ivar hadn't discussed where Isobell was during her time away - for all he knows she had been with the equally absent Castile a world away.

    'You cannot escape us', Castile says, and the corner of Ivar's pale mouth turn up into a smile. He has never tried to, and with Isobell returned he doubts he ever will. She'd also brought Mist with her, but the girl was young enough that Ivar wonders if Castile would even know she was his sister. The two stallions had left Nerine before the girl's birth, after all, but perhaps Castile has been back to Nerine in the meantime.

    As the dragon edges closer to the water, Ivar returns the favor and moves a bit closer to the shore, making conversation between the two of them easier. He finds himself almost surprisingly at ease with the other stallion, an odd quirk of his kind that has categorized Castile as family and therefore not a threat.

    Castile has found Sabra, it seems, and Ivar tilts his head curiously at the mention of her murder. He'd rather liked her (and would have taken her if not for Castile's earlier claim). Perhaps his lack of concern at her death is telling enough (women die, it is simply something that Ivar has grown accustomed to) but he also appears unconcerned at the dark smile that crosses Castile's face at the mention of killing Sabra's murderer.

    'Have you killed anyone?' Castile asks, and at last Ivar looks back out at the sea.

    His kind are cautious, careful. To reveal themselves is to invite danger, and a kelpie's sense of self-preservation is second to none. Has he killed anyone? Perhaps a better question is can he remember all of those he has killed, and the best answer to that is: probably not. Does Castile remember each blade of grass he's eaten? It is no different for the jewel-toned sea creature.

    "Your sister." Ivar finally says without emotion, tracing the edge of the horizon. A true answer, if not a complete one. "It didn't stick though."
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    #6
    and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
    a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
    ”I will find her,” it isn’t a question of permission that is sharply barked into the space between them, but a promise more to himself than anyone else. It has been so long – too long – since he last nuzzled his sister’s face or pulled her into his side. For years, while they’ve been apart, Castile hoped that she would find him upon her return. Humming in the echoes of his heartbeats, he hoped that he would remain a priority to her, but it doesn’t seem to be true. Not anymore.

    She has Ivar. She has a family.
    Yet another in his life that has acquired everything he could ever want.

    Castile remains reckless and nomadic. A failure in mother’s eyes. There is no land held in the palm of his hand, and no heirs. He wanders to wherever the wind leads him during his flight. While Nerine continuously calls back to him, beckoning him, it has since become questionable since the contagion. A realization hit him. His family are scattered across Beqanna because he hasn’t been able to provide a unified front. In a desperate attempt for love and life, Castile fucked few others but left the women responsible for the children’s upbringing and whereabouts. He fled when they needed him most, unlike Ivar who has time and time again been able to grab a land and mark it as his own. He has women, he has children. He has Isobell. Castile’s heart twinges when he hears his nieces and nephews – another failure of his brought to his attention. ”No,” he confesses through clenched teeth and diverted eyes – not angry at Ivar, but at himself. ”You, or Isobell, will have to tell me about them. I want to know them.” He was raised to love family and yet he has never before felt so isolated.

    Some of his family is here, some in the Cove, some in the Riverlands, and some in Nerine. Sabra herself is tucked away on an outcropping of rock that he put her on – or, at least, her limp corpse. ”I isolated Sabra while she has been healing,” he answers nothing because Ivar didn’t ask much else about her and yet Castile still indulges him and extends his possessive nature. ”Admittedly, I want to keep her that way, and all to myself.” He blinks and stares beyond Ivar toward the open ocean. Sabra’s pretty face comes to mind and how she nestled against him when she awoke from her death as though it had been a simple nap. How cruel is it to keep her imprisoned for his own entertainment and selfish needs? He wonders, but doesn’t ask.

    His attention is immediately retracted from the sea so that he may look again at his childhood friend. The muscles of his jaw coil like snakes beneath his taut skin. ”You killed her,” he confirms with a heavy breath while trying to imagine the day it happened. If only he was present. If only he intervened.

    ”Why?” He harmlessly growls, not intending his voice to fall so low and gravely. ”Why did you try to kill my sister?”

    castile


    @[Ivar]
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    #7
    The sharpness in Castile tone doesn’t alarm the kelpie; he has nothing to fear from the dragon and he does not begrudge him the affection of his sibling. While Ivar has never been as close to his own blood relatives (something confirmed with the arrival of Lochwood in Ischia) he recognizes that the dragon-born have tighter bonds than his own. Isobell is only dragon-born, after all; she is kelpie now. And his.

    He is looking out at the sea when Castile admits he does not know of his niece and nephews, and while the piebald’s tone is less than pleasant Ivar does not glance back. It is not the kelpie’s fault that Castile does not know them, and any guilt he might feel about denying him the knowledge is entirely absent. Isobell had kept the twins from him as well, after all. He barely knows the two children, but he knows enough to cherish them. Well, to cherish them as well as such a creature can.


    The mention that Sabra is healing – and not dead – does finally draw the kelpie’s gaze away from the moonlight horizon. So the winged mare is immortal then. It would explain her near-impossible recovery after her return from wherever it was that she had gone. Ivar had never asked – again, the apathy – but he had kept her sons safe as a good uncle does and had never probed further into the matter. That Castile plans to keep her secluded does cause one raised brow from the sapphire-scaled creature, more out of intrigue at their similarities than judgment for the dragon’s actions. There is a reason Ivar has claimed this land, after all. He means to keep his treasures all in one place.

    The expression on his face smoothes to stillness as he takes in Castile’s response to his confession. There is no flicker of guilt, at least not for the correct reasons. If he’d done it better, perhaps she might not have chosen to leave him. Her stubborn refusal to play the mild kelpie wife has been a source of constant frustration to the piebald stallion, and he wonders if that is not partially due to the iron strength of her blood.

    “Why do monsters do anything?” Ivar asks instead of answering the question, his golden eyes fixed on the mismatched gaze of his childhood friend.

    “Because they are monsters,” He adds, answering what might have seemed rhetorical. “I cannot change my nature anymore than you can.” 

    @[Castile]
    Reply
    #8
    and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
    a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was
    Ivar’s rebuttal stuns Castile, silencing him as he stands in the shallow water. They are both, in fact, monsters. They cannot subdue their instincts and primal needs. Blood is on their hands – again, united again as brothers – but Castile had been ashamed of himself for months afterward. Ivar, it appears, is content with all that he has done. He has accepted what he is, what he has done. For a heartbeat, Castile is envious of how easily Ivar lets his mistakes, and crimes, slip through his fingers with hardly notice. A murder is just another grain of sand.

    His confession had been so casual, his reasoning apathetic.

    Of course, they both have changed over the years, but Castile debates how much. With a raised brow, he inches a single step closer. ”True,” he agrees with a mild shrug, knowing well how treacherous they are. ”Does that mean you would try to kill me, Ivar?” The question is eerily calm, leveled by his stoicism. He would never follow him into the water where the kelpie is strongest. How, he wonders, could Isobell have been so foolish as to pursue him into the murky depths. Somehow, she survived, but what if she hadn’t? Castile’s stomach roils at the thought. Anger builds like a wall around him until he reminds himself that she is here in Ischia, alive.

    ”As long as she is happy,” he resigns, knowing that he has no control of her – or their – actions. Ivar is possessive of Castile’s sister, a quality that he now exhibits over Sabra and Sochi since having lost his grip on Solace. At least, he muses, Ivar can horde them all here on this island. Sweeping an observant glance across his shoulder, he takes note of the palm trees and the lapping waves still kissing his legs and deepening with the hour. ”How did you end up here?” He asks idly, remembering years ago their last real conversation. ”You lured me to Loess, and then you left. I thought you had a grand scheme in mind, but I was wrong.” Again, he was alone. Poor choices, he decides, that have created such a turbulent path to his adulthood now. While Ivar lives lavishly as a king of an island, Castile is nomadic and scrambling around searching for his kin.


    castile


    @[Ivar]
    Reply
    #9
    The kelpie is not a creature given to confessions, so it is only natural that the only one to whom he has made one is the sort to have such a minimal reaction. Castile’s shrug settles a concern that Ivar hadn’t known he had (two can keep a secret if one of them is dead, after all), and the question the dragon asks brings a genuine laugh from the golden-eyed kelpie.

    “Why?” He asks with a crooked smile, “Do you intend to pursue Sabra’s killer into the realms of the dead?”

    There is no appeal in unnecessary slaughter; Ivar is a kelpie, after all, not some hellhound. Drowning a stallion is no more appealing to Ivar than drowning a child: there is no satisfaction in it, no satiation of his ravenous hunger. There are exceptions, of course, (like the copper taste of the blue-eyed stallion who had looked at Jhene for too long) but Castile is not one of them. He is family, after all – he was welcome to Jhene and any of the rest of them were he so inclined. It is unfortunate, Ivar thinks, that Castile is probably less inclined to share. He would not mind finding out exactly how immortal Sabra is.

    Castile capitulates that all is well so long as Isobell is happy, and Ivar only shrugs – the piebald woman is as happy as she wishes to be. Ivar has long since abandoned attempting to make her anything that she is not. It will frustrate him for eternity, he is sure, but some things are as ceaseless as the tides.

    “How do you know my plan wasn’t to lure you there so I could leave?” Ivar asks, his habit of refusing to give any solid answer as apparent as ever. This is Castile though, and so Ivar is willing to lose some of his charming glibness out of respect for his childhood friend, even if it means venturing closer to honesty than he has come in years.

    “I wasn’t ever happy in Loess. It is too far from the sea. Maybe I should have stayed in Nerine. But Isobell wanted to see the ocean, and so we went. She disappeared a year later, and I came back here, to that island.” He gestures to the largest of the western island, just visible over the rise of a leaning palm. “And when the Brotherhood abandoned the main island to flee from the Plague, I took my chances and claimed Ischia.”

    @[Castile]
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