"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
It had been a long, long time since this black stallion last felt the soil of Beqanna beneath his hooves. Long might have even been an understatement… it had been several decades, perhaps even a century. Lately though, he had felt a curiosity tugging within him… a strange desire to seek out the land he once knew. But he didn’t know if that world still existed, as he had occasionally wondered if the population of magical horses had since desecrated the land. And even if the world still thrived, he doubted that any of his old acquaintances still lived there, much less remembered him. He hadn’t be a very social guy back then… or more specifically, he felt no calling to involve himself with the game of thrones that the rest of his family seemed so enraptured by. In fact, he had wondered… would he even be able to recognize Beqanna again if he came across it, or had things changed so much that he would pass it by, ignorant to its identity?
These were the unexciting ponderings of the black horse as he discreetly wandered the shadows at the meadow’s edge. Occasionally, he peeked into the clearing between the trunks of the trees, but made no distinct motion to enter. After all, this meadow seemed like any other meadow he’d seen in his travels, and by now, they all blurred together. Though, he noted with some quiet amusement, this meadow certainly had some horses that were rather… unique. Definitely some strange characters, but nothing that sparked enough interest for him to investigate further.
And so he trudged along, hugging the perimeter of the meadow. Yet, right at the turn back into the forest, back to his nomadic journeys, he paused. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, drawing the crisp morning air into his lungs. His eyes snapped open. Hidden amongst the summer aromas of lilies and honeysuckle was the faint wisp of something strangely recognizable. He couldn’t quite put his hoof on it though. Curious, he found himself turning back towards this meadow, wandering slowly towards the clearing.
It took only one step back onto the familiar damp grass of the meadow for him to be certain: this was Beqanna. This was the land of his youth.
Finding a home is one thing. But friends, finding them, that can be much harder. Keeping them, well, Corin hasn't managed to so far. But then, he hasn't managed a lot of anything so far, and he's working hard on changing that. There's only so much time that one can spend alone before madness seems to set in; the stallion can feel the tendrils of insanity pulling at him and he is desperate to stave that off.
Which is why he ends up treading that ancient path towards the meadow, the sun warm on his back, his white and gold legs moving effortlessly forwards. It has been only a few years since he has been here – a mere blink of an eye to some, he knows – but it has changed since his last visit. The trees are taller but otherwise the whole land seems smaller, more compact; horses seem to cling together in groups, not grazing separately, talking in pairs, memories he has from before. He stands for a few moments, deliberating – he isn't the greatest conversationalist, he has not got the way with words that so many others seem to have. No, he has to choose his words slowly, carefully. He doesn't want to approach an established group, so he just watches, wondering if he should turn and leave, when another lone stallion walks into the meadow, stopping a few hundred meters away.
Corin moves quickly, before he can change his mind.
He puts his most contagious smile across his face, and nickers softly to the other stallion. “Hi there,” he says as he comes to a halt, taking in the black stallion, wondering if those eyes are as old as they look. He also, briefly, wonders if that's a rude thing to think. “My name is Corin. It's nice to meet you, who are you?” It's the stilted, innocent dialogue of his youth; in his defence, Corin hasn't had a lot of practice.
Yael remembers a time when the very idea of magic was foreign to her; every miracle was bestowed upon them by Adonai, their God. He protected her tribe, and in turn, they worshipped him. Every trial and tribulation was because they must have done something wrong, committed a sin or perhaps was simply because Adonai was testing them, to determine the measure of their faith. It all came crashing down with the fire - what kind of God punishes a little girl like that? Eventually her faith returned, but it had morphed into something else, and it was in large part to B’kanna, and the sanctuary she’d found in its sands.
To some, she is old, having been born well before the first Valley War. To others, to the immortals, she is simply one of the newer magicians and still young in her years. She has much to learn, both in regards to her power and the ways of the universe.
Today, the golden woman is taking a day for herself, trading the constant heat of the sands for the warm, but shade-offering meadow (at least on the fringes). Alone with her thoughts, Yael stands beneath a large maple tree, giant gilded wings tucked against her sides while a light breeze gently lifts silver tendrils of her mane off her neck every now and then. Her mind is… everywhere. Literally. Expanding her awareness to take in all the horses in the meadow, she is more like an invisible blanket as she observes, than a petite, shiny mare. It’s a terrible habit (alas, also terribly useful), but she eavesdrops on their thoughts, gleaming bits of information and pretending that she’s looking to see if anyone needs help.
They don’t. But that is always her cover story. Instead, she finds that someone is passing by her physical body, so the little woman opens her eyes and glances over at a black stallion who seems to have paused on his way into the middle. Interesting. A cursory glance tells her that he is one of the very old ones, which means that he has stories - stories that Yael is always eager to hear, if she can pry it out of her victims. So she takes a couple of steps forward and calls out to him from behind, a gentle and inquisitive smile on her lips. “Xello.”
Let’s keep it simple for once, shall we?
[yeahhh... couldn't help myself when i saw that you'd posted ]
From the corner of his eye, he noted the approach of a light colored figure. At first, he did not pay too much attention, assuming it was just a passerby. Yet, the other horse did stop, and with quite a cheerful greeting as well. Berlin could not help but smile back, for Corin’s smile was indeed rather infectious. In fact, his cheery nature reminded Berlin of himself and his small band of buddies from centuries back… buddies whose jovial laughs and innocent banter existed now only in his memories.
“Hey there!” he found himself nickering back, his voice more youthful than what would be expected of an old man. Oh, the burdens (or is it blessings?) of immortality! In fact, while he often felt like he had lived a thousand years, his body, aside from his eyes, still remained relatively unchanged from the days of his youth. Perhaps it was a testament to the lack of quarrels he had experienced compared to a typical herd or kingdom stallion, having to defend their own or fight as ordered. He knew many prided themselves on their battle scars, but he never was envious. Perhaps that was a fault for a stallion, but he never received too much attention for it. He was too much a lifelong child at heart to have trusted himself with real responsibilities.
“It’s nice to meet ya as well,” the black stallion merrily continued, his voice calm and accented with a slight drawl. “My name’s Berlin.” His gaze flickered over the uniquely colored stallion, whose golden stripes were now more apparent. It was definitely a strange coloration, but Berlin found it quite gorgeous. His eyes then returned to meet the smiling Corin’s as he continued. “You seem in a good mood. It’s always great to see a smiling face.”
Those words had barely escaped his lips when he noted the arrival of a golden mare. She was rather stunning as well, and something about her reminded him of his long-ago palomino friend. (And with a quick internal chuckle, he questioned himself: Was everyone in Beqanna gold except him?!) With a quick step back to include her into their small circle, he found himself nickering amicably to her as well. Corin’s mood was very contagious indeed! "Hey,” he responded back. “I’m Berlin… pleasure to make your acquaintance.” he repeated, not knowing if she had caught his earlier statement.
He didn't expect as bright a response as he received. From what Corin has established, in the short time since his return, most of the horses here – stallions, especially – seem to prefer heavy words, filled with something darker than Corin can imagine. He does not understand it, this current mood that seems to have swept the occupants of Beqanna, but perhaps that is because he has been back such a short time. Maybe, given a few weeks or months or years, Corin's eyes will be brimming with brooding; but for now, he is full of cheer, though feeling a little shy.
His shyness is not helped when another horse – a gold mare – approaches the pair of stallions. But he, as does the black stallion, steps backwards to allow her into their conversation, his grin widening.
“I'm Corin,” he repeats towards the mare. He watches the other two, and what a strange group they must look – one black, one gold, one striped. He has seen many unusual colours but nothing like himself or the gold mare. And he has not yet met anyone who looks so ageless but with such an ancient gaze. It takes, he supposes, all sorts; and he expects that in the course of his lifetime he will meet many more sorts. He knows that magic and power runs through this place like the streams through this very meadow, and briefly he considers asking these two horses if they have anything like that. But he isn't sure if that would be considered rude, too – his mind is still so young, he is stuck in that impulsive thought-pattern but he is fearful of offending anyone with too many questions.
So instead, he lets his thoughts drift back to something he is still hung up on; homes. “Where are you both from?” he asks, because surely that cannot be a rude question. He looks from Berlin to the unnamed mare and back, ears pricked intently, awaiting their answers. They both seem older and wiser than himself, so surely they must have homes somewhere.
He is certain that a few years from now will find him settled somewhere, with friends and family around him. He is too young to realise that not everything turns out like it might be expected.
Where was he from? He knew he was originally from Beqanna… that was the simple answer. Too generic though? But he could not for the life of him remember anything more than that. He remembered bits of specific lands… he vaguely recalled the warm, safe scent of his mother, and following her around their first home. He remembered the waterfall that led to his best friends’ valley. And he vaguely recalled some sandy world that he ventured into once or twice. But as for specific names? Unfortunately, long forgotten. The only land he did recall? The meadow… this meadow.
“I was born here in Beqanna, but hadn’t been back for quite a few years.” He began, his voice still light and cheery. “Seems like some things have changed since… lot more magical horses than I remember,” he chuckled with a grin, his eyes gesturing to the vast scene before them filled with mythical creatures. Who knew? He wondered… maybe both of them had magical traits as well.
Yael is just as surprised at Corin is at the stallion’s exuberant and friendly response. She’s used to the stoic, slightly grouchy, or just plain strange companions. They have a lot of those in Beqanna these days. Gone are the days when the Light were sugary sweet and the Dark had a serious attitude problem. Now, the Dark can be reasonable and borderline kind, while the Light can kill, so long as they have a smile on their face and it’s for a ‘good reason.’ The Neutral always remain neutral - that, at least, will never change. Yael has learned that she will kill, if there is no other clear option available. It is a last resort. She’d rather teach lessons than take likes though, and those lessons usually brought the other’s pride and ego to their knees. Either way, they eventually learn not to mess with what is hers.
She is fiercely protective; after losing so much, so quickly, she has to be.
As for Corin’s reflection on the darker mood of B’kanna’s men, some of that she might attribute to war, and the rest to a general sense of heightened insecurity. Her own words are rarely colored in such a way, even if her tongue cannot make some of the sounds of their language. Her words lilt and purr and come from the back of her throat - as foreign and exotic as Yael herself occasionally seems. Not here, it seems, as she is in good, golden company. Which is incredibly rare. There are plenty of blacks and bays and grays, and even star-colored children, but gold is not so common. Even her children and grandchildren only have gold markings (and most of those are her doing).
She cannot help but smile, and replies easily. “Corin. Berleen. Lovely to meet you two. I ahm Yael.” The questions begin to fly, and Yael begins to find that she is enjoying such good natured company. Her ears swiel between the two, and after Berlin says where he is from, Yael eyes him curiously, saying simply, “A great number of years, I t’ink.” But then it turns to her, and her smile falters for a fraction of a second, but she quickly recovers. . “I leev een ze Desert now. But before B’kanna? Ahh… my tribe vas een anozer desert, very far avay. Ve called ze land Tzion.” They were the children of Yisrael. When once it hurt to remember the names and recall the place where she grew up, the ache has faded and she tries to relish in the joy she felt as a filly.
Corin has never wondered about the mythical and magical that dwell among them. His mother was a genie, a wish-granter, and so from a young age the stallion has been used to the weird and the wonderful. He supposes that, as a child, he wished that he had some special ability to separate him from the others; but, as it turns out, maybe being powerless is in the minority now. He briefly wonders about the other two horses.
From the way Berlin speaks - of times past, of years and changing and differences - Corin thinks he may have some sort of immortality. As for the mare, apart from the wings he has no idea. And he wouldn’t like to guess; he has learnt that you should never guess a mare’s age, weight or abilities.
He listens to the other two speak, waits his turns - what a polite trio they make - and then his mind runs through all the answers he could possible give to Yael’s question. What does bring him here? He wanted to expand his network. He wanted to hear about the lives of someone other than himself. He wanted to be something other than lonely, even just for a short while.
But none of that really sounds good when it hits the air.
“I wanted to make some new friends,” he finally answers, not sure if such a short response deserved such pondering. But he wanted to be honest, if these two are to be his friends. He doesn’t think that he is much younger, that these two may have enough friends, that they may be here for other reasons. Partly because it barely crosses his mind, partly because he doesn’t believe that an age difference matters, not here.
Partly because he still thinks that everyone wants to be friends with him, a throwback thought from his much bolder youth.
Yael huh? He tasted the name on his tongue, pronouncing it (or attempting to, at least) as she did with her unique accent. It was quite an exotic accent, very peculiar and beautiful in his mind. He wondered where she learned it from… unless Beqanna had changed that much in his absence, he couldn’t connect it to any local land. Luckily, she followed up with the answer to that – Tzion. He couldn’t say that he’d ever heard of that world before, but he wondered what stories and cultures and kingdoms lay there.
She had then asked them both a question, and Corin’s straightforward, brief answer drew a smile to the black stallion’s lips. Truth be told, the answer surprised him (everyone else here seemed so serious!), but brought a glint of delight into his eyes. “Same here!” he responded without hesitation, and then turned to the golden mare for her response.
But, perhaps due to the childish naivety he never escaped, he couldn’t help but grin foolishly at them both as he pondered his next move. Adult Berlin should know better, but he never became an adult. Not in his heart anyway. “Hey new friends… y’all up for some tag?” Without waiting for a response, he stretched out his muzzle and tapped Corin’s shoulder with a gentle nip. “You’re it!” With a lighthearted nicker to them both, he then leapt out, galloping off towards the nearby stream.
At times, Yael is far too serious. Perhaps she should be more like Evrae - do exactly as she pleases, when she pleases, and all others be damned. Out of all the magicians, she is certainly the most benevolent and the least capricious. How many of them could say that they had friends? Those that fear them, certainly - but friends? Like Quark and Kagerou and all of the old ones who have since passed on. Hmmm. Perhaps it is time for some new friends. Ones who don’t know much about her yet.
She laughs a little at their enthusiastic responses, chiming in at the end with a, “Yes, I alvays need new freends!” A few moments after Berlin mentions tag, she yells joyfully and pivots and takes off in a contrary direction. pulling her wings close to her sides (they would hinder her - but as neither of them had wings, she wasn’t going to cheat) and heading for the trees. All the while, she keeps an ear out for someone following behind her.
[sorry, idk where else to go with this. Corin, feel free to tag her if you want]
]
