"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
Careful steps needed to be minded when you walk on ice. A false judgement of soil or a doubt in your own character could lead you to a pitiful disaster. The pale silver gold stallion knew this first hand not soon after he had made his way into the tundra threshold. He was moving quite easily only to mistep and send his large frame sprawling. He attempts to find his feet and save himself from little embarassment affected him and looking around but there was no other equine in sight so no harm done.
With a shake, he dusts himself off and minds his steps now as he looks for another face in the chilled enviorment. Ragnar seeks such a place for his own well-being. The tundra suited his desires for excell. The cold lands drove his need to achieve and become great. These brothers here could teach him and guide him without distractions.
A low call is given when he scents other equines to announce his presence. It was only polite to do so. "Hello." Not a question but a greeting to possibly unseen bodies. His vocals light and clipped with each pronunciation of the syllables due to his nordic accent. Silver threads of the male's mane catch a cool kiss from the winter winds and drive a clot of hair across the visage of the stallion. Ears movin to catch sounds of others that would hopefully greet him civilly.
the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love
great clouds rolling over the hills
and if you close your eyes, does it almost feel
like nothing's changed at all?
He is present. Ever present, really, like a bad song stuck in your head forever.
He told himself he was staying until the Tundra froze over again, to once again summon the great ice wall to protect his Brothers. And then he was staying to rid them of the madman they briefly called King. And then his continued presence was in support of Errant, a man to whom he was willing to pledge his loyalty despite the many problems of their past. But yet all of these things have passed, and still Brennen stands poised at the top of a cliff, frosted in ice from being stationary for too long, and he is quiet. A hibernation-like state in which he has immersed himself many times before.
But even an immortal grows bored of stillness, of silence, and he flexes his wings to crack the thin sheen of ice that has settled there, blinking his eyes open and shaking vigorously to rid himself of the snow that has settled on his back and head, leaving him nearly invisible in the weather. Spreading his wings the stallion drifts down from his mountain ledge perch, watching the stallion proceeding awkwardly into the Tundra, before landing on the permafrost with a creak of frozen ground under a creature that weighs nearly a thousand pounds.
He’s behind the other man, though surely the creak would have alerted him, and he forces words from his long-dry throat in response to the query. “Hullo.” is his response as he stretches his wings all the way to their extent, enjoying the feel of them loosening from long-held stiffness, before folding them once more flat to his sides. “Welcome to the Tundra. I’m Brennen.” He perhaps has to right to greet a newcomer in his current state of long disuse, but he is more native to the Tundra than any of its current residents. Not born here (the Beach will always claim that honor) but he has been here since childhood, and his life is longer than they know.
The two Tundra men are similar in their steadfast dedication to the frozen land, both remaining loyal even when not actively present. He had stumbled into the Tundra as a much younger man (a man very different than the one he had grown into), never knowing what hold the place would have on him. But that had been ages ago, in a time remembered only the furthest and dustiest reaches of his memories. And still he remains. He will always remain.
The palomino’s entrance into the Tundra does not go unnoticed, nor does Brennen’s arrival. In truth, he is grateful to see the other man awaken from his slumber. While they had not known each other well, he had respected the scarred stallion.
He is quick enough to arrive, strong wingbeats carrying him swiftly through the air until he reaches them. Dropping from the sky, he lands near the duo, settling his pale wings against his side as he does so. The yellow stallion seems unsure on his feet, though that is not uncommon with newcomers. Becoming comfortable walking on the perpetually frozen ground of the Tundra is a skill mastered only by time and practice. If the man stays, he would learn soon enough.
Brennen greets the man cordially, freeing Hurricane from that responsibility. Affability has never been his strong suit anyway. With little fanfare, he introduces himself directly after the bay stallion.
