"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
07-10-2015, 02:26 PM (This post was last modified: 07-11-2015, 11:58 AM by Shannisoran.)
i am the steel no enemy can shatter
The glaze of pain and shock has begun to fade, just as the bright colors decorating his body have. Though the torment of those days (weeks? months?) with the demon child would remain with him for the rest of his life, the ordeal had made him stronger. He is young, but he has been tempered in the fiery pits of hell (which look astonishingly like a princess’ bedroom). He knows what it is like to be rent limb from limb, knows the limits to which a body can stretch, and he has survived. The quiet, happy boy has been replaced by a hardened young stallion forced to grow up far too soon.
His recovery is well underway, and with it comes a determination to find purpose. To find a home. To train. To become strong enough that he would never be at another’s mercy again. With these goals in mind, he turns to the field. The place where life, purpose, home, can be found.
His strides are long and sure as he makes his way into the sun strewn tract. The bright light glints off of his body, the silver of his torso slowly fading into his original bay tones, his teal legs darkening into black. His scars, however, remain bright. Three legs are a mottled mess of silver and teal. A large scar across his haunches as well as a smaller scar encircling his muzzle shine bright silver in the sunlight. Telltale markings that would showcase his ordeal for the remainder of his lifetime.
He does not flinch or cower away from the light that exposes his numerous imperfections. He stands tall, unashamed and unafraid. His body, lanky with youth, is still, disciplined. His dark eyes shine like flint from his silvery red features. And he waits. He waits for those he knows will come.
shannisoran
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She doesn’t know the tale of the latest quest yet. She knows her son has come back changed from it. Bright red, with blue and green streaks in his mane and a tail. A normal mother would have run to him, made sure he was entirely alright. But Straia was not a normal mother, and really, Erebor was not a normal son. He was perfectly alright. He could see heat and control fire. Instead of worrying, she honestly just laughed. Her stoic, man-child of a son looked like a paint store threw up on him.
But quietly, she was proud as hell.
She will catch up with her son, but he’s busy catching up on kingdom business first and she won’t interrupt that. So instead, Straia makes her way to the field. The newer recruits have been stellar about recruiting, and Straia has found herself here less. But still, she does come now and again, because she will not ask her subjects to do anything she does not do herself.
Plus, now she can fly here. It’s endlessly faster. She sports large black wings today, made of raven feathers, and circles the field from above until she spots a boy. He’s strangely colored too (though it’s fading), and she wonders if he too experienced the same thing as her son. He’s still alone, and so she dives to the ground, landing some feet away so as not to completely startle him. She keeps the wings, and they look quite normal, like she’s simply a horse with wings rather than a horse with magic. Well, raven magic. She couldn’t do everything, but she could do a lot.
“You remind me of my son,” she says, in a strange greeting. Normal horses say hello. Straia can rarely be bothered with hello. Her body is brown and white and black, normal other than the wings. Though in Beqanna, wings are normal as well. Her mane is long, falling on either side of her neck haphazardly. But still, she is beautiful in a wild way, in a careless way. “Too old for your body, and brightly colored.” She grins, not judging, but amused. “I’m Straia, from the Chamber.”
She should, considering her heritage (is Carnage not notorious, and did he not cause one of the more recent quests?) but she does not. In fact, she barely even understands the way that powers work here in Beqanna. Goodness knows, she doesn't consider what she has to be a power – if she were to think on it she might call it more a disease, a condition – it's simply something she was born with, and something that follows her, like a black cloud.
But luckily for her, Aletheia doesn't mind black clouds. Sunlight can be so very bright and draining.
Bright and draining as it can be, it's also a fact of life. And on this sun-soaked day, as she has so many others, she decides to head for the field. She may know nothing of the way the world works, but she knows that kingdoms thrive on warm bodies, and the Valley seems to be sorely lacking such.
The journey to the field does not take her long, even though it's quite a hike from the Valley. She leaves a trail of wilted plants in her wake, the legacy of her own little power-disease-condition, but the little bit of life she siphons from them strengthens her as she continues on the path that has become so familiar. She's seen more horses here, she muses, than she's seen in her own kingdom. But so it must be. She doesn't hesitate to work for the Valley. It's a trait she gets from her mother (and, arguably, from her father), not that she has any way of knowing that.
She pauses for a moment, surveying the field. There are so few horses here these days, it is hard to be particular. But it's not more than a moment before one catches her eye – literally. His colors are bright, almost impossibly bright, and the cracks that run through them brighter still. He stands out not just for the markings, not just for the color, but for the sheer sense of the unnatural that seems to waft from him.
Aletheia likes the unnatural. Aletheia is unnatural. She decides instantly that she is going to approach.
She's beaten to the punch by another unnatural, this one with wings. She lands and approaches before Aletheia can get there, and the girl watches with dull interest. She's developing a very solid blank stare, the kind that manages to look entirely uninterested even as it follows the brown and white and black mare's landing. She's close enough to hear the mare speak, and then introduce herself. When she reaches the little gathering she nods to each of them, her face still emotionless.
"You don't remind me of my son." she offers, so dryly it's impossible to tell whether she's joking or not. "But then again, I don't have a son." she offers with a slight shrug and a small smile. The plants at her feet wilt gently. "I'm Aletheia, from the Valley. What's your name?"
07-13-2015, 08:47 PM (This post was last modified: 07-13-2015, 08:58 PM by Wichita.)
Wichita found herself in a place she didn't frequent often, the field. She had scarce wandered anywhere outside the Gates since the incident with Khaos, but today was different. She had to simply suck it up and move on with her life, or else she would likely have no life at all.
The butter colored mare trekked with foal in tow, her lavender and robins egg blue mane adding a candy effect to her appearance. The little filly next to her was solid black, gangly, and shy. The cub clung to its mother's side, trying not trip itself over its own feet. Wichita had decided to try her hand at recruiting, she was nice enough so that wouldn't be a problem, but she was terribly uncompetitive.
She looked for a long while, gathering the courage to approach one of the stray horses. Finally catching sight of one she liked, a lovely thing, streaks of silver or teal glinted upon her body. What a pretty colorshe thought, whickering merrily, she was pleased with herself. "Come on Tioga, let go talk ta that one over there."she indicated the multicolored bay with a nod of her sunshine dial.
She pulled up short, having taking so long deciding, two other mares had beat her to the punch. It was also, awkwardly to her displeasure, that she noted her error. What she had taken for a multi-hued mare was actually a stallion. She wished she could disappear, to take back her approach, still very untrusting of males. She was here though, everyone could see her, so stay she must.
She was rigid and uncomfortable, Tioga digging into her creamy barrel, but she spoke."Hello there, I'm Wichita from the Gates, nice to meet ya. This here is Tioga."gesturing to the black babe. She dipped her head to the other mares, one a patchwork cloak with wings, the other a stark grey.
07-13-2015, 10:17 PM (This post was last modified: 07-15-2015, 10:03 AM by Shannisoran.)
i am the steel no enemy can shatter
As he had predicted, they come. It does not take long before a shadow falls upon the ground before him, followed quickly by a tri-colored mare. Regarding her in silence, he waits for her to speak. He has never been much of one for words and even less so now. Words can be so trivial, meaningless. Action speaks all. He will allow that words can be useful in their time and place, that communication is important. But so many spill words like a sieve spills water. There comes a time when the endeavor becomes pointless.
It does not take her long to speak, to tell him of how he reminds her of her son. He does not know her son and therefore cannot comment on any similarities or lack thereof. He does not even know that others had been subjected to the same torments as he had. To her second comment, he can relate. He has not even seen two summers, yet he feels ancient, worn. And very brightly colored.
Before she has finished speaking, the second mare approaches. And though she walks, she is no less gifted. His gaze shifts to her, glancing her over before landing on her feet. It is a curious thing, the way the grass seems to wither away from her. Something to remember, to stash away for consideration at a later date. She speaks too, after the first mare gives her name, a pithy reply to Straia’s comment. Inane small talk. Her lack of a boy-child affects him not at all. But then she gives her name and asks for his. This question, at least, has purpose. So he replies, I am Shannisoran.
And finally a pair approaches, a mother and child. His quiet gaze flickers over the two, inspecting them in a glance. The mare introduces the both of them, indicating the black child when she speaks her name. The mare herself is a riot of colors, much like Shan himself. Perhaps she had fought the same evils as he. But that is not what he is here for, not what he wishes to ask. He is here searching for a purpose, and so he tells them. I am looking for a home. A place to train. Can you offer that?
shannisoran
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They flock to the boy, as they always do. It’s an inevitable state of the field anymore, which she hears once burst with life. Now, life merely trickles in. Sometimes she wonders if it’s actually always been like this, and the stories have just gotten twisted, as stories do, throughout the years. She suspects that this must be at least something of the truth, though perhaps the whole truth is the mix of both. In part, because the field really was more active and in part, because stories change over the years.
The next one to approach has a stony face for one so young. It’s a different type of stony than her son. This one is blank, almost vapid (though Straia doesn’t think the girl herself is necessarily as vapid as that look). Her words are deadpan. Maybe a joke, or maybe just because that’s how the girl is. Straia leans toward the latter, but isn’t sure yet. Either way, it does amuse her, and she cracks the hair of a smile.
The second one, Straia knows without knowing. This is the one Killdare had mentioned. The one they had collectively decided they could not help. At least, it appears that way. Though Straia doesn’t know this at all, doesn’t have an inkling. Perhaps her raven’s would have told her, but they know to stay away when she’s not in the confines of the Chamber or specifically called for. Straia does not flaunt all her talents. Just a select few, like wings. So very innocuous, those wings.
Either way, the next mare to approach seemed very much like she didn’t want to be there. But she introduced herself as the other’s had, and her son. But it’s the boy’s turn now, and he doesn’t waste time with extra words. She’s always been a fan of such a thing. She’s blunt and honest, even as a diplomat (unless she really must be otherwise). Straia would rather ask the direct question than waste time dancing around it. No one ever got the answer they wanted without just asking. Or, having ravens to go find out.
He says he is looking for a home, a place to train. Nothing more. Not very specific, and so his options are pretty damn open. “I suspect we can all offer you that,” she says with a slight grin on her face. “I certainly can. The real thing to decide is what kind of home you want. The Chamber for its part is very determined.” Some might call them evil, though Straia didn’t. They weren’t evil. They simply did whatever was best for the Chamber at the time. “You won’t find a huggy, lovely dovey family waiting for you there either. But you will find a kingdom full of loyal members, who will have your back when you need it. If that sounds like something you might like, come and look. You can always leave.”
There were no vows in the Chamber. The horses there served out of love for the kingdom, not out of fear of a tattoo. She susposed the Amazons didn’t fear their tattoos either. But rather, she didn’t find them particularly necessary to demonstrate loyalty. And she didn’t see any reason to make someone swear to love a kingdom forever. Come, stay, leave when it makes sense. As long as you love the Chamber while you serve, she had no qualms. Plus, she found that most who stayed never left anyway.
The grey girl is unaffected by the other two mares. She does not ignore them, but they are merely stars passing by; there is no gravity for her in them. But she does not miss a thing. She sees the way that the first mare, Straia, smiles ever so slightly at what might or might not have been her joke. She sees the way that Wichita doesn't quite feel comfortable being here. She sees the way that young Tioga curls into his mother.
Perhaps she's simply here to observe all these things, so banal to the others gathered, and so strange to the frozen star-child. Perhaps she's here to soak it all in, to absorb it, to teach herself the things that slipped from her mind with the rush of memory. Perhaps she had been this way once; perhaps she'd curled into a mother, walked a field.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
The boy speaks again, saying that he wants what any of them want. Straia is quick to respond, and Aletheia knows she is right. But that doesn't stop her from tilting her pretty, chiseled head in response to the tri-colored mare, icy eyes regarding Straia with an unconscious coldness as the other woman makes her pitch. Aletheia knows that she knows little of the other kingdoms, and she's hungry for any information she can gather.
Not that you'd know it from looking at her. Her face is that same mask of neutral interest, a look that Straia had appropriately pinned as vapid. How embarrassing for Aletheia, when she finally realizes that's how it's being taken. She doesn't mean it, Straia is right about that too – Aletheia has never been wanting for activity. She's simply not accustomed to faces, to expressions, to the way one is meant to look.
"Straia is right," she acknowledges easily, her voice unhurried. "Any one of us could offer you what you ask." She tilts her head to the other side. Chamber, Gates, Valley – how different were they really, especially with the changes that had so recently been made? "The Valley offers you an unparalleled opportunity to define yourself and an unparalleled opportunity to define your kingdom." she pauses for a fraction of a second, watching the boy. "We are not the weakest of the kingdoms, but we can and should be far stronger than we are." she pauses again, smiling slightly. "As a member of the Valley, you'd have the opportunity to help shape the kingdom while building your own skills among some of the best."
She tilts her head again. "The members of the Valley will not coddle you. We push each other to be stronger, and we rise to the challenge. We may fight and we may bicker, as all families do, but in the end, we stand together." she wishes for just a moment that she had something more to draw on, some kind of history that she could cite. Her face cold as ice, her eyes wide and sweet, she is reminded that she knows nothing. When she speaks again, her voice is soft, almost a whisper. "I cannot imagine a better home." Her honesty is as piercing as her icy blue eyes.
Wichita splayed her ears, folding them down and out. She was crestfallen at the stags words, for she simply didn't know that they had what he sought. The Gates was not particularly known for its warriors, at least not at present time, if in the past they had been, Wichita was unaware. The extent of their defenses consisted of Jason and his magic alone, she had not gained word of anyone joining the war caste. Could they fight if hard pressed to do so? Perhaps, though Wichita knew she herself was dismal at such tasks.
She listened closely, which was of little surprise. The butter colored mare rarely strayed from the Gates, and it had taken much resolve to even venture out today. She hoped that after the others had had their turn, she would by then have thought of something positive for her home. She is given some small speck of hope when the first speaks, the dual colored female. She seemed to think they could all provide the young stallion with a place to train. She supposed that it was technically true, there was indeed plenty of space in the Gates. When mentioning her residence, Wichita's heart dropped, her legs feeling rather weak. If no one noticed the way her pillars began to shake it would be a miracle.
The next girl spoke, the grey ghost, a faraway look adorned her visage. She speaks to him of the Valley, a place she is not inclined to ever visit if she can so avoid it. Her opportunities are to define oneself and one's kingdom, well if anything sounded like an army recruit, that surely did. She can't linger long on the validity of the others offers, because now it was her turn.
She shifted her weight uncomfortably, appearing to consider fleeing once more, until her orbs fell on the black pup next to her. Her daughter, all that was right in Wichita's seriously messed up life."There's plenty of room in the Gates for trainin', but that's not the problem." Her chocolate brown eyes glance away from her daughter, turning instead to look at the male in the eye. Something she rarely did. "You'll have ta tend ta most of your own training, but you won't lack for a home there. A real home, not just some place you return ta each night ta rest. We may not be thought strong in the Gates, but we are a family. If you need a purpose, we can give you one. You can learn to fight in any ol' place, you don't owe us anything, but you could protect those that need protecting."She let out a deep sigh, as if some immense weight had lifted from her. She knew he was not like to follow, but she would await his declination instead of running.
The question he had asked is simple, basic. So much like his needs and wants are. It is true, nearly any kingdom could fulfill his desires. He knows this as well as they know it. But perhaps for that reason the question is deceptively simple. The ball is in their court. They will now be the ones who need to convince him of the merits of their kingdom. Had he known what he wanted beyond the basics, he would have simply gone to the kingdom that best fit his wants. But therein lay the problem.
Straia easily seems to recognize this. As she speaks, he stands straight and tall, the only overt sign that he is listening being his dark, flat eyes fixed upon hers. What she speaks of intrigues him. He is not an overly affectionate horse, so that they do not treat each other as such does not bother him at all. He finds her offer appealing, though he withholds judgement until the rest have spoken.
As Aletheia begins speaking, his gaze moves to fix upon the pale mare. She speaks strongly of the Valley, offering a similar, yet different experience. He finds her offer appealing as well, and he is torn. Though he does not seek greatness, the chance to help build and shape a kingdom is undeniably alluring. Still, he makes no decision.
Finally it is Wichita’s turn to speak. His dark eyes turn to observe her has she makes her offer. He notes that she looks unaccountably nervous, almost defeated. As though the battle has been lost before it has even begun. As though she is sure that he will not choose her home. If that is the case, she has made her own self-fulfilling prophecy. But he reserves judgement until all of his questions have been asked. He had learned well that announcing victory before you are safe is a sure prediction of defeat. And though this might be a different circumstance, he believes the same logic can be applied.
After the last word has been spoken, he glances between the three of them. All had offered mostly agreeable circumstances, but there is a point he needs to clarify before making a decision.
Would you have someone willing and able to train me? He does not expound on the question, nor does he feel the need to. It is obvious he is young. It can therefore be deduced that he has little experience. Experience is his goal. He will never be so helpless again. And unless they should ask, he sees no reason to explain.
shannisoran
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She listens as the others speak. There’s plenty to be learned in the field if you pay attention, and she doesn’t even need to use her friends as spies in order to gain some information. The Valley, it seems, has grown weaker since her last visit there. What a shame. Straia had rather hoped the two of them, as allies, could become powerhouses. Perhaps she’d have to go visit the Valley and find out exactly what’s going on in that kingdom. Eight might need a woman to help keep house, and all. Not that she could help, she had her own kingdom, but she could yell at him. She was far more his equal now than she had been the last time they met.
Though still, what the Valley offers isn’t that different from the Chamber. The Chamber was stronger than the Valley it seemed, but not without plenty of room to shape it’s future. She still needed an advisor and a general, and potentially a new ambassador if Kavi didn’t get off his love puppy horse soon and come back to his own kingdom. She didn’t tolerate disappearances forever. Certainly, there was a grace period. But her grace could only last so long.
Wichita, who barely seems like she wants to sell her own kingdom right now, admits that the boy will do most of his own training, and that he’ll gain a loving home. She isn’t surprised by this bit of information. The Gates has not been strong in decades, and her ravens tell her little has changed. It’s grown slightly under Fiasko and Mast, but not enough to be much of a threat yet.
The boy speaks again, wanting to clarify the issue of training. She grins slightly, because he had a fair point. They hadn’t answered him much, except Wichita. And she’s rather enjoying seeing someone so determined to train, to learn. If he chose the Valley or the Chamber, he’d be an asset to her either way. Though she can’t say she wouldn’t prefer he choose the Chamber. And he could certainly choose the Gates, she can’t read his mind. She can only answer his question.
“The Chamber can offer you training. In war, Erebor is reasonably well trained, but could use more practice and would help. And we have a newer recruit, Killdare, that is ready and willing to mock with anyone. In diplomacy, I’ll train you, and Kavi as well.” Hell, if she had to, she’d train the boy to fight too. She was no amazing fighter (Erebor would be a far better teacher), but she had served her time in the army when she was younger. She wasn’t entirely useless, at any rate.
