"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
Burn slow, burning up the back wall Long roads, where the city meets the sky
She doesn’t remember the years. Three, to be exact. In fact, she remembers nothing at all, or shall I say, knows nothing at all. Three years dedicated solely to the alternate dimension, frozen in time. The girl knows nothing of this; she knows nothing.
The sands are her first sensation, much as they were her sister’s (these sands, however, are blazing; Vi’s were damp, granular). The particles cling to the newborn’s damp silver-roan fur, as though she has been freshly birthed from the Desert’s very depths. A shock of magic disturbs the acrid air as the child apparates into this dimension, but Volcan takes no note of it; the girl’s mind tolerates the magic, just as it has for three years.
Shivering despite the great heat of the kingdom, the small bundle blinks incessantly, blinded by the great light of this reality. Twisting away from the sun, the child bleats quietly to herself, disgruntled by the suddenness of her existence. Managing to open her slivered blue eyes as her resolve hardens, the filly snorts, sand billowing about her face.
The noises, of course, are washed away by the great winds of the Deserts. Ears pinning neatly to her skull, the newborn snaps at the invisible current, teeth clicking together uselessly. Snorting once more when the wind does not obey her silent command, Volcan becomes aware of her appendages and their many uses, and she scrambles to them messily. She does not fall.
Almond-shaped eyes scanning the endless horizons as she teeters and totters, the magically altered newborn shuffles awkwardly forward, unsure of her destination but positive that, out here, no one will find her. As her movements solidify into real steps, the sand between her joints begin soring her baby-skin. Pausing with irritation, she spreads her legs and violently shakes her still-damp body; logically, not one grain ought to have fallen from her. Yet the girl’s sheer will – and hidden powers – bid every particle fall until at last she stands with roan fur glistening with her mother’s moistness.
Badger-face determined, she continues her trek, hoping the grumbles in her stomach will be away soon.
This is not the end, this is just the world Such a foolish thing, such an honest girl
Any shock of magic, especially one following Camrynn’s disappearance into the world of the Gods, is one that is going to immediately attract Yael. The child is birthed from the Desert itself – or perhaps spit back out, as an owl regurgitates vole bones – wide eyed and blinking furiously in the harsh sun. It (no, she) reeks of magic, though Yael cannot tell if it was maliciously done (she surmises so) or not. Stranger things have happened in these sands; she no longer blinks twice at half of them. After all, the sands were once pink, and her husband was once dead. The apparition of this child is more of a boon than a curiosity.
One by one their kingdom grows, but only if they can keep them alive.
Yael could take away her hunger, or she could demand that her own body produce milk and feed the girl herself. Something feels off about that, though. The golden guardian cannot figure out what it is that sets her teeth on edge at that thought, but it does and so she comes up with an apt solution. While hovering protectively over the toddling filly, she draws a pregnant camel away from its herd. Its offspring bleats piteously and chases after her, and Yael is loathe to stop it from following. So the two hump-backed horses approach the girl and when they are nearby, the mother camel stops, allowing her child to nurse. It will stay there until Volcan decides to emulate the other newborn, and then Yael will just have to figure something out for the future.
But for now, her needs will be taken care of until Vanquish arrives. Briefly she wonders how he feels about all the running around he must be doing. One crisis always follows the next, and it will never stop.
The wraith-king’s time as of late had been spent mulling over the brewing war and grooming the gift the god’s had given him. At first, he had soured at the realization that his super-strength had not been returned to his bones when they had been rebuilt. For close to thirteen years the power had been soaked into his marrow and without it, his new body had felt lighter, more fragile - at first.
But there had never been anything fragile about the Nightwalker, gifted or barren. The king had been practicing building perfect, to-scale replications of himself, made of sand and of cactus, of sandstone and bedrock. The exercises were taxing, leaving the beast swathed in in a slick sheen of white sweat on his shadowed skin.
Vanquish had been napping beneath his oak when the black smoke girl had been spat onto the sands of Deserts. And when Yael’s silky, intangible touch came to wake the beast it felt no different than if she stood before him. The king tilt’s his heavy head back, nostrils flaring as he picks out her scent. It isn’t hard to pick out smell of new life here – it is honeyed and delicate amongst the many hard spices of the Desert.
Dragon’s wings unfold from his sides, lifting him easily into the sky. Dark eyes catch the mother camel and calf as they uncomfortably linger beside a trembling filly. A sliver of humor passes his memories as he recalls the many days of chasing the humpbacked beasts through the dunes. The Nightwalker steps from the sky a few long-legged steps from the trio, he knew the camel’s wouldn’t spook away even with the giant’s descent – not with Yael’s sway over them.
She is small and smelled of afterbirth although no mare’s scent accompanied it and even in its peculiarity it is not especially disconcerting. This is the Deserts after all, ruled by dragons and magicians and strange things are as common as tumbleweeds here.
“Do you know your name, little smoke girl?” The king asks, reaching with a membranous wing to tuck her shivering frame against his blood-warm side.
Burn slow, burning up the back wall Long roads, where the city meets the sky
They materialize much as she did, at least from her point of view. Nonexistent one moment, there the next. The bleating of the calf alerts Volcan of their presence, leading the small girl to flare her nostrils inquisitively at the duo.
The sun glares relentlessly upon the ensemble of four-legged creatures; Volcan decides that the sun in all its heated glory, is cruel. Weighing her odds of lone-survival against that of one with this exotic hill-horse, Volcan cautiously slips into the shadow the mother casts. She sniffs gently at the mother, and eyes the suckling motion of the calf. Imitating the bleat of the calf, Volcan nudges it; it skitters to its mother’s other side, leaving Volcan plenty of room to nurse.
Minutes pass with nothing but the wind and the suckling newborns to play in their ears. When the calf jerks away from its teat, Volcan mimics it, large ears quivering attentively. Before her honeyed eyes, a giant approaches. Leaning back, the filly lifts a single hoof, unsure of how to react; the stallion stands taller yet than the camel, hump and all.
As Vanquish begins to speak, the camels gingerly back off some twenty feet. Volcan glances to their retreating forms curiously; there seems nothing of great intimidation to this creature, besides his stature. And when the warmth of his wing emanates through her, Volcan finds that she has an answer, something she knows, something she always knew.
“I am Volcan.”
Daughter of Scorch. “Where am I?”
Princess of the Jungle.
This is not the end, this is just the world Such a foolish thing, such an honest girl
01-28-2016, 09:57 PM (This post was last modified: 01-28-2016, 10:03 PM by Vanquish.)
The camels had good reason to cower back at the sight of the Deserts king – he had chased and tormented them, without true viciousness of course, for well over two decades. The humpbacks told tales to their children of the Great Winged Beast to make them behave, only to have that same fable come back to life. They would come back when he was gone – or right now if he so wished it, but for now he didn’t even trouble them with a glance and merely held back a rascal’s smile. A subtle shiver of power radiates beneath his touch from the girl as he tugs her to his black side, a dragon’s wing cradling her, glassy and smooth with talons that held the promise of protection.
“Volcan,” he says with a smile and the grin is genuine amongst the sadness of the situation’s reality. “I like that name,” he adds, curving his neck to bump her silvery-black face with his endless black, “my name is Vanquish.” Once she has stopped shivering he unfolds his wing to gesture to the great expanse of his kingdom – conjuring up miniature horses made of sand to play and romp in front of her, “and this is the Deserts,” where you’ve been left, “this is your home now,” and you will be great.
02-05-2016, 12:00 PM (This post was last modified: 04-12-2016, 06:45 PM by Volcan.)
Volcan
Burn slow, burning up the back wall Long roads, where the city meets the sky
The king speaks her name, the sound vibrating through his enormous chest like a struck drum. She leans into him, absorbing the waves of his lungs as he speaks. The wisps of a smile decorate her badger face, the little anxiety left within her vaporising.
He likes her name.
Slivered eyes meeting the black’s as he curves his great neck, Volcan extends her delicate neck to lip fondly at Vanquish’s mouth – a babe’s fumbling kiss. Without missing a beat, Volcan transfers her lips to the titan’s shoulder when he straightens, lipping and nuzzling into the stallion’s side, appreciative of his protection.
When the weight and warmth of his wing lifts from her tiny body, Volcan stands suddenly alert. Her perked ears hear the wind howling once more, lips remembering how dry the air tastes. A stubborn snort erupts from her nostrils, and she steps closer to Vanquish. She has proven her independence, was born from the sands to herself alone; now she can only appreciate the value of company.
“Home,” The girl repeats slowly. Glaring tensely out into the group of sand-horses playing in the sunlight, Volcan casts them all back into the earth upon a whim. An unknowing face turns up towards the king, and a curious smirk follows. “Are there more like you here?” Her fore hooves dance in the sand, pushing the granules around uselessly. “More real ones?”
Growing serious, Volcan becomes completely still. Her tiny frame presses into Vanquish’s massive one, as if to try and highlight the severity of the matter at hand. “You’ll take care of me, right?” Her eyes wander out to the blank expanse of sand, wondering whether she could have lasted much longer without magical and physical intervention. “I can trust you?” Lifting her gaze to meet his, Volcan watches him carefully, heart thumping against her ribs.
Something tells her not to worry.
Something tells her she should.
This is not the end, this is just the world Such a foolish thing, such an honest girl
]
