"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
12-27-2015, 05:19 PM (This post was last modified: 12-28-2015, 12:18 AM by Corruption.)
Night has always pushed up day. You must know life to see decay. But I won't rot, I won't rot. Not this mind and not this heart.
There is great power here.
Storm gales and those who fight against them; so beautifully evolved to live in this wild frontier. Mighty darkness and light... and isolation. Clouds and mist wrap around the below, cloaking everything in thick obscuration — such utter isolation. His time here leaves indelible marks on him. An untamed, windblown imprint; the scent of petrichor and ozone; the development of his wings and shoulders, rolling with surplus muscularity. He peels away from his company of blackbirds and watches them off with sad eyes, pumping his wings back to hover for a second in that comfortable peace. That cold and windy remoteness.
He does not come down often. He has never stayed long. Just long enough.
There is a muffled whooshing sound of displaced air and a flurry of churned up snow, and the heavy thud as the black stallion meets the ground, again. Unfamiliar hardness, gentled only by the thick blanket of unbroken, fresh snow. He feels newborn — shaky and uncoordinated. He feels the dives and whirls of flight — phantom and mocking sensations shivering through his network of nerves, driving him upwards. Corruption disembarks from his flock to eat and sleep almost exclusively, unfitted to their high-up perches and nests. He is separate from them, though deeply intimate, he is what he is. And what he is demands the touch of soil, no matter how alien it feels to him now during long layovers. He is not young anymore. The black man has not been young for a long time, and though remarkably fit for his age, he no longer has the endurance for extended flight that he once did.
He takes a stiff step forward, his powerful wings stretch out impossibly large before folding at his side, coughing quietly and feeling the tender exhaustion in them. How strange... how magnificently steadfast they feel, until they are stilled, finally allowed to feel tired. Corruption closes is dark eyes tight, for a moment he questions the wisdom in this. In being here — this strange and desperate place. In his departure. He glances up, the bright grey sky clear and wintry; bleak and empty, save for a singular resident bird leaving the piney woods for the beyond somewhere. He turns away, every movement like that of a mountain, ponderous and slow. He will not stay grounded, but he needs a place to roost. A place to become older, because he is not immortal. Every day he feels the weightiness of age, he finds grey feathers salting the black.
He takes in a sharp breath, pulling in the crisp scent and wondering why he thinks he might find something in there — there is nothing left. The air has been bled of everything he once knew. The heavy black stallion shifts his great weight, an unapproachable combination of power and unease. This land has been cruel, and it has been gracious to him in many ways. Now he must find a place. For himself, away from and within his memories.
This land houses ghosts aplenty, moving through trees and breaths. Reminders.
Corruption. I won't rot.
been a long time since I played the old guy, so I'll get acquainted fast hopefully. just no Gates, I have someone I think I'm bringing over there when the time is right. and no chamber, but that's probably obvious.
Typically the svelte form moves easily among the throngs of equines in the field. Sharp amber pools raking over forms and faces as she sought strong souls and minds for her homeland. But nowadays the salmon tinged female moves a little slower and cautiously. Life was growing inside that young belly but still the pretty dove had a job to do.
After her humble beginnings, the mare had learned to read faces silently. Like fingers over braille she can see what lay before her and know the entire story from cover to cover so as her eyes drift they stay upon that of a inky black stallion. He is older than her. More weathered and experienced but this does not deter her. Carefully she picks her way over the thawing grounds from winter to near the male with a soft smile. With a dip of the delicate tiara she awaits his acknowledgement before proceeding a few paces closer. It was polite, after all.
"Hello." Tones like and feather as the very wings that lay across his back. Large eyes seeking his own gaze as the small smile blooms across her lips after the first bit of invitation. "I would say what brings you here but you and I both are educated and old enough to know that is silly." A soft laugh follows with a glint in her eyes. His stoic features and grump demeanor is what firsts green the smaller woman he reminds her a bit of the Texas. "I'm Ygritte and I would like to extend an invitation to the Dazzling Waterfalls." She ends her statement with small smile. "We are a small group but we are strong and loyal. Perhaps you would like to see the Falls first hand first?" The young mare tilts her head slightly, the coral painted tresses flushing over the smooth copper neck as she waits for the onyx stag's reply.
12-27-2015, 11:23 PM (This post was last modified: 12-27-2015, 11:24 PM by Hurricane.)
He knows, perhaps better than most, the allure of the sky. It is a haven one can escape to, even when the ground is fraught with worry and strife. There is a unique perspective one finds of the world when viewed from so far above. A deep seated realization of just how small and insignificant one is in the grand scope of things. Even one who has lived as long and well as he has.
He spends too much time among the clouds, this he does not doubt. It is an excellent place to keep watch, to stand sentinel. Most often over his own kingdom, a sharp eye kept on the comings of goings residents and strangers alike. There is an ache in his bones when he is forced to ground, when the wind and snow grow too fierce for flight. But the sheer freedom and beauty of those escapes more than make up for it. There are few places more perfect for flight than the endlessly open expanse of the Tundra, even in spite of the chill.
But today, rather than play watch dog for his home, he makes his way to the field. It has been too long since his last visit. It is true that his home has been demanding more and more of his time even as it expands and grows, as new members join and take up rank. But that is no excuse. Even for himself - perhaps most especially for himself - he will countenance no excuses.
He has not circled the wintry expanse of the field for long before he spies a likely candidate. This in and of itself is unusual. He has gone entire days without finding potential recruits before. But then, when one is recruiting for the Tundra, this is as unsurprising as it is common.
He wastes no time in joining the pair, hooves landing softly in the powdery snow as settles his wings against his sides. He steps forward, dipping his head in a brief nod of greeting. He catches the young mare’s greeting in his approach, rather appreciating her boldness. It would, hopefully, make the frankness of his own speech less blunt.
”And I am Hurricane, from the Tundra. Since we are being so forward, I would offer an invitation as well. Though in all fairness, I should be quite honest. It is a hard land, not for the faint of heart.”
He pauses a moment, steely gaze flicking over Ygritte briefly before returning to the darker stallion.
”First though, I suppose we should know your name.”
12-28-2015, 01:28 AM (This post was last modified: 12-28-2015, 01:29 AM by Becca.)
The Golden Princess
I'm not a princess, this ain't a fairy tale, I'm not the one you'll sweep off her feet, Lead her up the stairwell This ain't Hollywood, this is a small town, I was a dreamer before you went and let me down, Now it's too late for you and your white horse to come around.
She was not one to recruit too often but, simply living in her kingdom began to bore her. One of her children had disappeared when she bore another, and the other was merely grown into a yearling herself. Things had become bland in her beautiful life, season after season and nothing changed. Yet now she felt it was time to change, time for a new face to join her elegant homeland.
The dark chocolate women weaved through multiple crowds of bodies circled with conversation. The immense amount of scents overwhelmed her nostrils causing her to become a bit queasy. Perriwinkle azure eyes searched through the masses of equine, stuck together like clumping mascara. Searching for someone who had at least been confronted by two equine, so she could easily join the fight.
She searched through the clumps quietly, and strode with caution towards a trio of equine. Two of which were winged stallions and one a dainty little mare. She stood quiet for a moment catching the name of one of the winged equine, Hurricane who held an invitation of the tundra. The other had not spoken his name, while the mare she was unaware of hers either.
As she intruded she felt horrible interrupting their brief questioning of asking the darkened brute what his name was. But she felt the need to introduce herself, since Hurricane seemed to be skipping ahead by extending an invitation might as well do so. Interrupting, the elegant chocolate beauty added into the conversation, "I'm Becca of Heavens Gates. I would also like to extend an invitation. But I must warn you, a war is brewing between my kingdom and The Chambers." She ended quietly.
All kingdoms had their flaws, hers was just more troublesome with the extending danger of an attack at any minute. But hopefully the problem could be resolved there was never a need for war.
Her invitation now extended, she allowed a polite bow to both of the other equine advertising their kingdoms. And a settle dip of a head to the old stallion in a kind welcome, allowing a sweet smile to unwind upon her muzzle.
Night has always pushed up day. You must know life to see decay. But I won't rot, I won't rot. Not this mind and not this heart.
He cannot say he is pleased when they come to him, if only because he does not find this a pleasant undertaking, and because he has had naught but blackbirds by his side for a very long time. He is tense when the little salmon-tipped mare comes to him, fatigued and sore. But she is right, they both came here for a reason. So he lowers his head to her, whiffing into the cold air in greeting, and listens to the sweet, forwardness of her invitation. She is young and heavy with life and he is the opposite — old, often feeling more overburdened by his size than advantaged by it. It makes him sad and nostalgic.
“Ygritte,” His voice is a gravel rumble, a mountain shaking rocks from itself; and he thinks he has probably seen the Falls from up high but never from his feet. He makes to reply, but they are joined by another and the big black stallion tucks his chin to his chest and sighs white breath around his face. It is not anger, and the hulking man has the air of eternal patience. He is no stranger to waiting, and to taking things in stride.
The Tundra he must know too, aerially. But he has been above many wastelands of differing character; deserts, brush and ice. Everything melds together, but for a few places marked with x's in his mind, places that glow red and hot and call to him. Hurricane meets frankness in kind and Corruption does not mind. He nods to him and shifts his great weight, “Well met both of you,” It is rough and unpracticed, but the words do not come across as insincere. He makes an understanding sound in his throat as the grey stallion warns of the Tundra's ruggedness. He has landed in hailstorms, cut through wild west winds; he is no stranger to demanding frontiers.
When the second mare arrives he begins to feel a press, beginning to grow strained. “Becca. It's Corruption,” He shifts his wings, winching a bit as he does. Her warning of war seems to pass him by with some indifference, his years of detachment have left him forged in iron, piecemeal. He is too old for war, but too perfectly made for it. “I must offer you a warning of my own,” He looks at Hurricane with dark eyes, clouding a bit in the centers, “Your kingdom's nature does not scare me, I am... well suited, but I am old.” He unfurls his wings, a gesture of departure, “If that is of no bother to you, then I will follow you there. Or otherwise find my own way, if need be.”
The worst thing about this place is that at least one emissary has always wasted their time, and time is precious. He turns to the mares, young (much younger than himself, anyway) and pretty, and he suddenly does not feel so bad for them. “Good luck.” There are no ghosts waiting for him the Tundra, of that he feels quite sure, only the one that follows his flanks wherever he walks. She will not be shook, he would never try.
Ygritte
