"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
Magnus has lived under the burden of his guilt for years.
Guilt for those he has let down. Guilt for those he has disappointed. The kingdoms he hasn’t been strong enough to protect. The loved ones who wanted more from him than he was willing, or able, to give. The hunger that bites in the back of his mind, driving him forward, reminding him of everything that he has just simmering beneath the surface—a darkness he has always turned his cheek to, always ignored.
He is tired of bowing his shoulders beneath it. Tired of bending down and accepting the weight for things he cannot control. He feels the shift in him every day, like a film being peeled from his eyes, and despite these responsibilities that he shoulders, he finds himself standing straighter. There is a spark in his eyes that has long been dulled as he relinquishes his white-knuckled hold on his demons, on his regrets.
There is a fire in his belly as he leaves Tephra this night, slipping from the protective shield of her and turning to a recklessness he has long since abandoned. He shoots forward across the border, powerful muscles bunching beneath the scarred, golden sheen of his coat. The milky light of night illuminates his path as makes his way first down the border between Sylva and Taiga, then through Loess, and then finally to the forest. He doesn’t slow as he runs, the hours bleeding away, his muscles screaming with a familiar burn, the exertion turning him to a crushed gold, darkening his coat and the darkest points of him.
He doesn’t stop until he is deep into the forest. Until the trees have cradled him and his breathing comes in deep, rhythmic pulls. He tosses his head, still riding the wave of adrenaline, his tangled, matted mass of mane lifting and then falling down both sides of his curved neck. His hooves come down hard on the forest ground and he takes several dancing steps to the side, lips curved wickedly with enjoyment as the rush of adrenaline sweeps through his veins, reminding him of the joy of life he has denied for so long.
11-26-2018, 10:32 AM (This post was last modified: 11-26-2018, 10:33 AM by kota.)
Like many nights before this one, she is a ghost. The mare is pale and silent in shadows cast by ancient trees, shifting without sound between the pillars of chrome moonlight. Since the plague has spread its icky grip across the flesh of Beqanna, the healer has stayed within the Cove with the rest of Hyalines residents. Tonight though, she has decided to see what is beyond. She did her traveling when the sun began to rise and arrived in an old familiar spot, the Forest, as the moon started to ascend in its place.
She feels him first, the rumble beneath her, the vibrations of each hard strike against the ground creeping up her legs. Like a ghost she is silent and still, the only movement being the subtle twist of her ears to follow the pounding sound as he came up the path and eventually passed where she stands off of in the distance (off the path). He stops just before he would have flashed out of her view, but as chance has it, she can see him still; she can hear him heave each breath, his hooves still slashing the soft dirt.
She waits a few minutes before taking up a walk to emerge on the path somewhere behind him, standing in the center looking at him while the breeze sweeps her hair off in one direction. Her glass blue eyes do not seem to move, as perfectly still as the rest of her save for her twisting and dancing hair. She blinks, but nothing more, breathing softly while she watches.
Kota
those great whites,
they have big teeth
@[magnus]
so their other meeting thread seemed a little aged, plus THE PLAGUE {:
i wanted her to see him again so, here she is lol
He can almost feel her—there, existing, on the peripheral of his vision.
He can almost feel her as she watches him with calm eyes, pressing onto the edges of his consciousness although she says nothing. He sees a slash of onyx and ivory as he runs through the trees and when he stops, head tossing, he twists his head back, watching as she emerges from the shadows. Once, he may have apologized for disturbing her. May have felt guilt for the disturbance as he ran, but such days are gone, and he just regards her with his own feral eyes, something growling in the pit of his belly.
“Hello,” his voice is husky, roughened and whisky-dark, remembering her from their brief encounter in his home. He begins to walk toward her, his motions slick and easy, the step of a stallion wholly assured of his own strength, regardless of the lack of magical power to bolster it. “Not many choose to walk into the unknown these days,” he tilts his head, a corner of his lacerated mouth tilting upward.
“So much fear and uncertainty about what lies outside of the safe lands.” He can feel it now, simmering beneath the surface, the danger of it a whisper on the wind, a promise of things to come. “You are either immune,” his gold-flecked eyes search her face, “foolish, or brave.” He lingers on it, his face a little wild and a little unreadable in the shifting of the moon’s milky light as it washes his crushed gold hide.
12-03-2018, 10:46 AM (This post was last modified: 12-03-2018, 10:47 AM by kota.)
When their eyes meet it is the land around them that shivers. Both wild in their own way, but of different worlds, both etched with a certain savagery not matched in others. Breezes ruffle evergreen needles and blow their spiced smell from the west, her head cocked just lightly to watch the stallion carefully as his voice rumbles clear and low. She nods to the hello but until the end of his words she has little more outward reaction.
“There is no word in this language for what I am.” Her tail swats gingerly behind her, her aqua eyes slide from east to west and back to him. “And tonight,” She coos, “pray tell...what are you, Magnus?” Her voice is low like his but without the subtle roll of thunder. Hers is milky, smooth and slow, a purr instead of a growl.
She makes no move toward or away from him as he steps closer. If he was infected without sign she was prepared to meet it with the quiet resolve she met every sickness she’s ever come across. If it kills her, it kills her, death is nothing to be avoided.
She has the spice of another world, another life, and he finds himself intrigued by the calm flow of her words, the way she does not react at all to his somewhat prodding words. His gold-flecked eyes darken and then spark with pleasure at her reaction, his crooked smile warming as he nods.
“I have a feeling that language truly fails you.” He laughs, low and deep, the husky sound natural as a muscle jumps in his jaw. “Perhaps I’d prefer you tell me what you think I am.” Humor weaves in and out of his gaze, the tangled locks of his onyx forelock slipping from his broad forehead to rest near his cheek.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve heard the honest appraisal of a near-stranger.”
Not quite a stranger—after all, the two have brushed across each other’s paths before in the name of diplomacy—but still separate enough. She does not know, he would believe, of the lives he has lived and the sins tattooed upon his very flesh. The wars he has done his part in starting, the murders committed by the hands so many believe to be wholly good. Such thoughts, murky and no longer stained with the weight of regret, darken his smile, make his eyes nearly unreadable as he watches, letting silence stretch.
12-31-2018, 08:29 AM (This post was last modified: 12-31-2018, 08:29 AM by kota.)
She lets the wind sweep between his words, a ghoulish whisper against the rustling of leaves and gentle sway of shrubbery. Her blue eyes do not leave the deep gold-flecked gaze, only calmly blinking with no other movement but her breathing. He cannot be read like everyone else, it seems. His details are not plucked so easily from his canvas and his enigmatic eyes are veiled by a vault of something she does not possess the key to.
Kota’s refined head tilts to one side; curious.
“You,” her voice is smooth like warm cream. “…vodun.” Her accent is ancient and only applied to this one word. She watches him, wondering if he could feel its meaning. He most likely isn’t familiar, but the definition isn’t important.
In some ways, Magnus is an enigma. There are few who truly understand what churns beneath the surface with him. For some, he is the kind, hardworking leader of Tephra. Someone who wanders the borders daily. Someone who stops to talk and visits the field and does what he can for his home. To others, Magnus is a creature of the old Beqanna. A prince of two well-known royals and the arrogant boy brought up amongst the jungle. To others still, he is a murder victim. To his brother, he is a murderer.
It all depends on which angle of the kaleidoscope has caught the light.
On whose hand tilts the vantage point.
His head tilts when she speaks again, when the word flows from her and into the air, when her ancient tongue wraps around it, the accent lilting and beautiful and powerful, in its own way. He doesn’t know the word, has no way of knowing what it means, but the meaning pierces him all the same and he nods.
There is something knowing in his gold-flecked eyes.
Something that shifts beneath the surface, like an undercurrent.
“Perhaps you see me after all,” he says, scarred lips rising in a corner.
![[Image: gqYjsHr.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/KjqNDKxc/gqYjsHr.png)
