"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
I wanted to leave something besides a blood trail,
besides prayers growing stale on my tongue.
The master was gone.
The father was gone.
She awoke that morning to find these things, or rather the lack of these things. Her chin was damp with the cold dew of the dawn and there was a depression in the grass where her master had been only hours before. Time had flown by without her notice since she left her motherland to follow him and now he had abandoned her. Had her servitude been less than satisfactory? Had her tarnished offerings finally been too little, too late for him? She would have thrown herself to the fires just to curb his hunger to see her commit violence upon others, upon herself. But now even her ashes are not enough of an apology for him.
The gray girl rises onto her tired legs and continues to stare, unblinking, at those folded blades slowly arching back up for the day. So, too, must she return. A slow sigh escapes her lips as she begins the journey. They had never wandered far from those familiar places and nostalgic scents but he had never dared to let her step foot into those territories. He had believed it would ignite a fire from those embers still burning in the kiln of her heart. That master, that fool had no idea that every weary spark burned only for him, for his glory.
The day drew on without her as she stood on that border and thought of what she would do. The sun closed in on the horizon and traded its golds and reds for the purples and inky blacks of night. She remained still as the moon cast its light over the scales on her hips and shoulders, creating shadows over her face as she watched the nomads settling in the field. Her eyes drift slow to the stars as they burned above her. Cellar wondered if they chose to stay there or if they were chained as well. Did love, in some twisted sense, keep them paralyzed in place?
She blinked and shrugged her shoulders to dismiss the thoughts before creeping further into her old home. Its face had changed and it wore the scars of decades just as she would some day. At least, in that sense, she was not alone.
I could give you my body, my flesh,
offer it up like a sacrifice, like a banquet.
I wandered around the field, grazing. I soon realized that I had wandered too far. There was a silhouette of a mare. There was something wrong. She was tangled. I walked over to her."Excuse me, but may I help you? I'm Chezter, resident of the falls. Its a lovely place.
Straia had her own master, of a sort, anyway. She would be lost without it, truly. What would the painted queen do if she could not serve the Chamber? That has always been her life. Even as a child, she served (albeit sometimes loudly, playing at being more spoiled princess than she actually was). As a child, there was no doubt where she would live. Even her father, who used all this children as pawns, trades with other kingdoms for peace, had not tried to send her away. For one, she wouldn’t have gone, no matter what he did. He could have exiled her; still she wouldn’t have gone. And two, even he didn’t want her to leave. She was too dedicated, too loyal to lose.
She cannot imagine life without the Chamber. She would be nothing and no one without it. Certainly, she could live somewhere else. She could serve and perhaps rule. But she cared little for other lands, less for other horses. The Chamber, with the heart that beat beneath the earth and the misty pines that stood sentry to invaders was the only place she loved. The only thing she truly loved. No horse could rank higher in her esteem than her home. Though there was one that came close. But he’s a different story.
Straia comes to the field mostly because she doesn’t come enough. In truth, someone in the kingdom is often out here long before she has a moment to herself to consider making the journey. The ravens keep her informed of who is where, and it is quite useful. She doesn’t waste time with a journey that she does not need to make, because the painted Queen has little free time to spare. Such is the life of a Queen, and she does not mind. The Chamber flourishes every day, and she cannot wish for any other life.
Today though, it is actually not day at all. Her kingdom has settled into it’s nightly routine. The ones that do not sleep patrol the borders, and the rest settle in for some rest. She finds that tonight she is not particularly tired, and the ravens have mentioned a four-legged snake in the field. Interesting. Straia knows it’s a horse, not actually a snake. Perhaps this one is scaled, perhaps just slippery. The ravens aren’t exact in their grasp of language.
She decides wings are enough for the evening, and she sprouts a pair of overlarge raven wings and takes off. A few of her raven’s flock around her, making the journey as well. However, when the bay and white mare lands, the ravens stay in the sky, heading off in different directions to scout for anything that Straia might find interesting.
She lands some distance from the mare, another already approaching her. She catches the words, though doesn’t join the group until the tail end of Chezter’s speech. “Straia, from the Chamber,” she offers, and then settles in see what this mare in question (scaling, she notes) is looking for.
I wanted to leave something besides a blood trail,
besides prayers growing stale on my tongue.
She had seen him moving in her direction, kept a careful eye on him from her peripheral. From afar, he looked like any other face in the crowd and even moreso in the dark of the night. Cellar turned her head as it became clear that his path was meant to lead him to her but she said nothing during his approach. Another, this one splashed with two colors instead of one, approached with wings the color of the gaps between the stars. There had rarely been more than one creature in her presence and it made her somewhat nervous to be amongst them then. The girl maintained her usual blank stare, though, as he spoke and her pale head tilted lightly to the left in response. Help? Did she need help?
Her eyes blinked slowly as she considered his question before the other's lips parted to extend an introduction. Perhaps now it was her turn to speak to them as well?
"I am Cellar, servant of-" she paused only for a moment, realizing her mistake, "Former.. servant of my lord Tyrael."
Her voice wavered slightly on the new words but she did not look away in shame or sorrow, rather choosing to keep her eyes trained on each of them as she stared from beneath those long eyelashes.
"I was born to serve, so a new master is needed."
Cellar knew she could always free herself of any chains a master might cast upon her but she found a sense of comfort in having no control. She slept easier at night if her life was not her own to command. Even if it meant killing or stealing another creature, her heart never sang quite so beautifully as when she obeyed. It almost birthed a sense of pity in her that others would never know her peace.
I could give you my body, my flesh,
offer it up like a sacrifice, like a banquet.
"Will you come with me to the falls? At least to see if you like it there." I said. If she needed a master, surely Her Majesty, Shatter me would be a perfect transition onto a free life. I had encountered many mares, but none to call my own. Maybe I stood a chance. But, with this husky steed, probably not. I wasn't all that half bad. I just mean, well, you know. He was a famous titan. I was a newcomer. He probably has a thousand mares, I don't even have one. I stared at her, trying to figure out if I would be going too fast if I had asked. So I risked it. "Will you live with me at the falls? You have a kind spirit, I wish for you to join. We need more of those at the falls"
The mare is quick enough to respond, and direct in her response. Something Straia has always preferred to wasting words. The mare introduces herself as Cellar, former servant of Tyrael. Straia can’t pretend she knows the name, but she could always ask the ravens later. Perhaps one of them was familiar with the stallion, though at this point, Straia’s best guess was he’d been gone from this land for years. Decades, really, since she was old enough to have seen more than a decade pass.
Not that this was particularly uncommon in Beqanna. Everyone seemed to live forever. Cellar probably followed him to the ends of the earth, and like most stallions are prone to doing, he left her there to rot. They just wanted you to follow to prove that you would. A characterization that she knows, of course, is not actually true. There were plenty of kind hearted, loving stallions out there. But not the one she chose to keep company with, and not the kind someone with a servant was likely to be.
This Chezter seemed like one of those kind-hearted stallions. He’d follow the mares to the ends of the earth, rather than the other way around. “The Chamber is always looking for more to serve the land. And unlike a horse, the Chamber never leaves.” She cocks a foot slightly, her tail swishes behind her. “If you really need a walking, talking sort of master, I’ve been known to be in the business of adopting. Though know I serve the Chamber, and by proxy you would as well. If you hate it, you can always leave.”
I wanted to leave something besides a blood trail,
besides prayers growing stale on my tongue.
Cellar was polite enough to let him speak of his home. Her eyes did wander or boredly stray to the queen beside them, but rather examined him silently as he extended his invitation. There is a pause before he repeats himself, adding that he believes her to be kind. The words make her face draw up slightly in concern and confusion. She had never been kind to anyone in her life. No, she was blood-stained hands and nights of sleepless regrets all in the pursuit of happiness to call her own. The joy of others meant little to her.
"You are mistaken, Chezter of the Falls. I was made to break things. There is no room for kindness here," she explained without any sort of change in her voice. Cruelty was not one of her talents but neither was softness. She managed to dance along that strange in between of the two characteristics, occasionally dipping her toes in one or the other.
But then the other female speaks and Cellar's eyes drift to her as she listens. Neither has described their home but their personalities say a decent amount about them, she supposes. The word 'adopting' makes her stomach turn, though. Her father had given her to Tyrael before she had reached her first winter. He had adopted her, in a sick sense of that word. The serpent girl shrugs her shoulders to dismiss the thoughts as she had done earlier before examining to queen.
"I'm afraid I'm too old to be adopted," she says with that same empty tone of hers. "I'll follow you for a while and decide if it suits me to serve your Chamber."
Truth be told, she isn't sure either of them is capable of the tight grip she so adores, but she's willing to let the raven girl try her hand at holding the leash for a time. Cellar knows the Falls would be too peaceful and idle hands are the worst kind of a good thing for her.
I could give you my body, my flesh,
offer it up like a sacrifice, like a banquet.
