"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
BETTER BEWARE, I GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT DEVIL-MAY-CARE WITH A LUST FOR LIFE
Spring manages to draw the normally private mare from the shelter of the forest. Her good eye, the left, is bright and warm with a glitter of interest. The air is sweet and the sun is warm upon the copper of her back.
She is blessed with eternal beauty, a gift offered from the gods, despite the age the once queen holds in her heart. She carries the volumes of knowledge in her head despite how a crown sometimes can weigh heavier. One salmon dipped leg draws her further into the open of the meadow with the tender grass tall and lush. Her pink lips reach to taste the shoots that tickle at her belly.
All around are mares with young suckling foals and there is a small year for a womb filled or the press of whiskers at her underbelly. It had been ages since she had seen her children or her long lost king...but the universe has a way of tying loose ends into a lovely flower wreath. She draws her breath slowly, tasting the scent, savoring the levels that merge to the create a perfumed atmosphere.
The begonias that cover her right eye are bloomed into a delicate shade of blush, the mare sighs, and a flick of ehr tail draw her into the meadow and away from the treeline. There are others here and the woman wishes to converse, if only for a short while, with someone who should like the company of a pretty mare.
05-25-2019, 01:37 PM (This post was last modified: 05-25-2019, 01:38 PM by Maugrim.)
He had become water.
He had melted into nothingness, into molecules that have a definite volume but no shape, twisting and turning into the churning, black waters of a risen Pangea. He had succumbed to the depths of the ocean, black as pitch, and remained untouched by the plague in doing so. Here there is something much more than silence; it’s so silent, that it is loud and thrumming, enough to pierce eardrums. But the ocean does not harm him; it never would.
Down here where the current and sunlight fails to reach, haunting and eerie invertebrates float, barely moving and almost as still as stone. He flickers in between the eyeless worms and the glowing giant squids, brushes past the anglers and other ghostly creatures. He is barely felt by them, his presence unnoticed. He waits here, in the deep darkness and solitude, awaiting the day where land could be once more accessible and his solid form could once again terrorize Beqanna.
He arises from the angry sea with kelp knotted in his mane and tail, the seawater kissing the pearlescent and evergreen of his muscled body, splitting the waves away from him with a single thought. For a moment he is translucent; half-ocean, half stallion, until he materializes completely. The sun stings his eyes, burns at the water-logged suppleness of his skin. He keeps the moisture with him as his hooves touch the sand, his body dripping eternally with his precious sea.
Even as he enters the meadow - with eyes as dark as the abyss he had secluded himself in - water spills across his coat, slickening him to where the springtime sun caused him to nearly sparkle beneath its rays.
Too long had he been beneath the surface; what little he had known before the rise of Pangea and his god has dulled into mere ferocity - he did not come to the meadow for casual conversation or to enjoy the springtime sweetness on the wind. He craved something else entirely; something feral, something dastardly.
She is beautiful.
It is the first thing he notices (besides the damn sunlight that still pierces his eyes, stinging madly), and like it was meant to, her beauty draws him to her like a moth to a flame.
Or a wolf to a sheep.
There is a rumbling of a growl in his chest - the sound is bubbling and terrible as his dark eyes rake across the soft pink and brown of her skin. The wetness of his lips - tinged with saltwater - do not hesitate to pucker and brush sweetly across the curve of her nape as she grazes, his eyes unseeing but his hunger leading him blindly. He exhales raggedly, pulling away from her with a quick upward draw of his neck, the smell of salt and the tide on his flesh. “You are...” his voice, rough and grating from disuse and unused to the dryness of air that pours over his vocal cords, slipping from his mouth like poison.
BETTER BEWARE, I GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT DEVIL-MAY-CARE WITH A LUST FOR LIFE
Drowned.
That is the first thing to cross her mind as she watches how the water froths before a horse emerges from the depths. If she were younger, perhaps she would have rolled back in shock and sputtered with whelps and cries. The copper and rose mare watches from her single eye as the creatures trudges from the water's embrace with a tangle of long hair clinging protectively to the curves of his masculine form.
The man nears without word or consent before there is a press of his lips to the peak of her neck. Salt and sea water drip and darken the penny coat of the smaller woman and she does reply with the clutch of her breath in her throat. He is waterlogged and sopping but she is not stupid and allows for him to taste the sweetness of her skin. If there is a threat, the mare could slip away in an avian form...perhaps tearing one of his own eyes out as a reminder to not take such liberties with women...but before Ygritte decides his intentions are becoming savage and lewd, the green painted man is drifting back like the tides her emerged from.
'You are lovely.' The words are garbled and uneven in tone, they bubble from a dead man's throat. Ygritte tilts her head slightly away with uncertainty. He is strange as he stands there dripping but his eyes are hungry. The bay and salmon mare places a girlish grin upon her tinted lips. Her single eye flits down under the length of long lashes as the other socket is filled with perfumed blooms. The mare is old, a once queen of the falls and founder of Sylva...but to the eye, no one could know this...unless they knew her so many years ago...but for now she is content to play coy with water man.
"What's your name, stranger?"
The voice is small and sweet, lashes lifting to watch curiously as the grin spreads across her lips in a pretty spread. He felt dangerous. When was the last time a man conjured this excitability in her?
06-11-2019, 02:21 PM (This post was last modified: 06-11-2019, 02:22 PM by Maugrim.)
Drowned.
Drowned in darkness, drowned in emptiness; it’s all he knows.
He only wishes to share the heavy feeling, the way the water presses so tightly against his skin that it leaves him quite literally breathless; the way the eyesight turns dark around the edges until it is all he sees.
Of course, Maugrim has the ability to survive such a feeling. Those he comes across - not so much.
Feeling slightly unnerved without a body of water close by, the poseidon grasps at the moisture in the air with barely a thought, bringing droplets into the pearled ivory and deep green of his patched flesh, unused to the heat of summer beneath the Beqanna sun. It keeps him damp, water still trickling gently from the tangled tendrils of his mane, dripping down his neck and muscled shoulders, to where it began to pool and turn the dirt beneath his hooves into mud. Her voice commands a soft twitch of his ears towards her, keeping his attention, but he barely hears her. His bottomless eyes still scour where they wish.
The mud squelches beneath his weighted movement, shifting towards her ever so slightly.
He’s already imagining her watery demise, a beautiful grave that he would create just for her. The bright tips of her mane would float towards him - like fingertips reaching for help - and the soft petals that adorn her empty socket would tear away to reveal pearly white bone.
Maugrim’s lips pressed together thoughtfully, nearly expressionless, before he decides a smile here would do quite nicely. His mouth curls into that fanciful grin - almost handsomely so, if the dried skin of his lips didn’t crack with the movement. Unphased, he runs his tongue across the deep rivets on his mouth, moistening them.
“My apologies, dearie,” he begins, feigning sincerity. She isn’t dim-witted; he knows that she senses the prickling feeling of unease that he brings, but he imagines that she would appreciate his attempt to appear a conversationalist. “Maugrim.” He even turns his gaze to her now, though the clicking movement of his eyes appears more sinister than charming.
Like a crocodile locking eyes with its prey.
He doesn’t ask her name. Perhaps she would share without his prying. It didn’t matter.
“What brings you out today? Surely not the company.”
Ygritte
