"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
The favor of the gods was fickle and feverish, deciding to drown you in blessings in one breath and leaving your soul to starve in the next. Vanquish has tasted the sweetness of power and the spice of lust in the richest of life’s flavors and he has been choked by the bitterness of treachery, loss and death. But the dragon had been reborn from the depths of the dead and he would spend this gifted time atoning for the mistakes beholden to him as a young and rash king. The Nightwalker would pay his penance in whatever ways he could – the most poignant of his fuck-ups were long ago gone and buried; Lyric, Nocturnal, Quark. There was no sacrament that he could give to amend those, no, those would be his to be shamed beneath forever.
The dragon-king casts a giant’s shadow across the Gates’ bleeding sunrise as he crests the horizon, stepping easily from the sky to land at their borders. Upon his re-crowning he had been told of the ill fate that had befallen the Gates’ queen and of the war that had begun to brew in the north. During Vanquish’ first reign, while Rodrik ruled as king of the Chamber, the Deserts and the Chamber had saw value to ally themselves with each other and did so for many years. Truly, the alliance had been born more out of the two king’s mutual dislike of the Valley than tangible political reasons. But it seemed the Chamber’s relationship with the Valley had sugared considerably since his old friend’s daughter had come to sit upon the throne.
Whether it is his own personal need (had he once not been called the Knight King?) to rally beside the underdog or something deeper, a tally on his book of atonement – he is here. And though his kingdom is still but only a few, he was here to offer what Yael had already pledged to them before – the Deserts support of the Gates if war broke upon them. Support in that it would probably just be he and Yael coming but the Deserts king and his magician queen were more than enough to be reckoned with. Talon-tipped wings pleat down against his ribs reflexively as he drops his head down to rip away a jaw full of sweetgrass, calling out for someone to come and take him to their king between mouthfuls.
He couldn’t accurately describe what the Deserts loyalty meant to him. True, they were small in numbers, but so was the Gates. Mast knew that power came not only from numbers wielded, but from the hearts within. His own heart was fiercely loyal to his kingdom and he knew without a doubt that several of his own members shared the same sentiments. He had been in Beqanna long enough to know the stories of Yael and her lover Vanquish, and what a formidable team they had made on the Deserts throne. The Deserts had once thrived under their care, and certainly no one had been foolish enough to test the limitations of the once-queens magic. And now they were standing behind the Gates and their cause, for it was a cause that would help all of Beqanna. If the Chamber and Valley were not stopped, they would keep plundering their way across the lands until all that was left was ash and ruin.
Morning in the Gates was by far his favorite time of day, and a sunrise in spring was hard to beat. The sun was a fearsome competitor in its battle for the throne of the sky, casting reds and yellows that the moon couldn’t hope to compete with. The eastern sky was aglow, and for just a moment the gray king gazed at it. It wasn’t long though before his view was interrupted somewhat with the silhouette of a winged black horse. A giant horse to be specific. Mast wasn’t afraid though; to the contrary he smiled, already making his way towards where the stallion had landed. He knew the stories of the dragon king of the Deserts. When he arrived to find the stallion tearing at the new spring grass, sending vast amounts of it down the elevator that was a horses throat. “You’ve come at the right time. You’ll be hard pressed to find grasses sweeter any where in Beqanna.” said the gray king with a chuckle. He dipped his own head, quickly snatching up a mouthful and swallowing. “Mast…and you must be Vanquish. Welcome to the Gates.”
Under the reign of Vanquish and Yael the Deserts had always been a sleeping, grumpy giant. Only clambering down the mountain from their slumber when roused or provoked. The Deserts had become hungry and bare-boned beneath the two queens gifted the crown in his death – but they would be fed full soon. The Deserts had never quaked beneath the threat of another kingdom, nor had they ever balked when left to choose between idealness or action when faced with a friend’s enemy. But Vanquish had been gone long enough for his first-bones to turn to bleach white and frail and so treaties had to be renewed on vow and tongue and alliances re-forged.
When the stallion comes, ripping at the grass alongside him, the titan merely grunts a dragon’s grunt at the comment about the sweetgrass. After a few more unceremonious mouthfuls he lifts his thick neck and grins a grass-lipped grin at the smaller king, “then you must come to the Deserts and let me show you to my cactus fruit patches.” He indicates to his swollen sides, “after they’ve grown back of course,” he adds with a heavy laugh. “It is good to meet you, Mast of the Gates.” He says, with a dip of his gothic face, wings shifting at his sides, “I know Yael has already assured you of our support but I felt it important I introduce myself and offer my condolences on your kingdom’s misfortune.” War was brewing, hot and slow in the north – but soon it would boil over and burn its way down, “are you ready?” He asks candidly, as if the two were old friends and not strangers who wore intangible crowns.
When it pertained to war, he was far beyond his depth.
He was not a fighter, not by any stretch of the imagination. Whereas others had been born for the clash of sword on shield, he had been born from foolish love. By all the normal standards he was physically and mentally inept when it came to war. But beneath the soft exterior lay a loyal heart, and that above all else would help him push through. Lord knew that Fiasko had dealt with far more pain that he ever had, and while she wasn’t the lone reason for the impending war, the transgressions she had been dealt were certainly a breaking point. Too long the Chamber (and Valley, by association) had run unchecked. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that if they weren’t stopped, they wouldn’t stop until all of Beqanna cowered under their tyranny. As long as their was a breath left in his sleek body that day would never come. It was high time the evil kingdoms began to reap what they had sown.
To the outside eye he was sure they looked strange, the giant king and the delicate king. They were a picture of contractions, all the way down to the opposite color of their coats. Despite the size difference Mast felt comfortable in the titans presence, so much so that he cocked a hind leg and relaxed into the stance. “I’ll be sure to take you up on that offer, King Vanquish.” he said with his own chuckle. How odd, to be talking about exotic foods while war knocked at their doorstep. “Yael has been kind to us beyond measure. I am eternally in her debt for everything she has done for us.” he said, nodding towards Vanquish, his voice loosing the chuckle and becoming much more somber. Van’s next question brought a heavy sigh from Mast’s lips, as if he were shedding a thousand feelings in that one breath. “War is not my forte, Vanquish. So can I honestly say that I am ready for its arrival? No. But I am ready to see the wrongs that my kingdom has been dealt righted, and if war is what lies within that wish, then yes, I am ready.” There was yet another change to his voice, something akin to strength tampered with a small dose of fear. Yes, the thought of war frightened him, but the possibilities of the Chamber holding them all under its collective thumb was much harder to swallow.
Their last meeting had been informative, but nothing had truly come of it; the radio silence from the Gates ever since then has been more than a little unnerving for someone who has thrown all their stones into one bucket. This time should have been spent planning and training and strategizing. Preferably in the safety of the Jungle, which was refreshingly raven-free, thanks to their own magician (who has since disappeared, but that is another thing to worry about, entirely…).
Without someone to request their presence in the Jungle, Lagertha has no choice but to seek the Gates King instead. Luckily for her, she finds him easily enough (and with a familiar dragon-winged figure to boot!) at the edge of his Kingdom. “Just the Kings I’m looking for,” she says with a brief chuckle, moving to make the duo a trio. She's about to unapologetically become the battering ram that most of her sisters are familiar with. “I don’t mean to interrupt your meeting or step on any toes, but we need to talk about this so-called war we plan on waging. We can do it now, if your General is around, or we could go back to the Jungle or the Desert, where magic can protect our conversation. Either way, I think we need to get a move on, or we risk some sort of revival in the Valley.” Lagertha is tired of waiting. She’s tired of guessing who will side with whom, tired of the non-response from the Dale, tired of wondering where her daughter is. Non-action drives Lagertha up and over the proverbial wall, and she's ready with her grappling hooks and rope.
The steel-gray warrior has never been one to bluff. She isn’t about to start now.
02-15-2016, 08:54 PM (This post was last modified: 02-15-2016, 08:57 PM by Vanquish.)
A shadow’s smile pulls on the draft’s black lips when the gray king cocks a leg and so he lets his wings drape down off his sides, talon-tips trailing into the grass. The tradition was so antiqued and yet he still found it obligatory – indispensable even. Who were you to another if you could not bother to show them your face? If you could not lend your voice to their ear so that they may hear the earnestness in your voice?
Mast mentions Yael’s kindness and the Nightwalker holds back a chagrinned smile, he doubted anyone knew the magician’s benevolence as he did. The golden queen’s mercy had been wasted on him more than once but the black king had learned eventually the error of his choices – late and the hard way as the stubborn often do. “Yael is filled with more grace than I am with pounds,” the dragon laughs, “she is naught less than a saint to deal with a scoundrel like myself for more than two decades.” The joviality of the conversation slipped into a harder tone as Mast answered the giant’s earlier question with a grit in his voice.
“You know,” he begins, “It’s always been eternally ironic that I’ve ruled the so-called “good” kingdom now and for more many years before that,” his raven-black gaze hold’s Mast’s steadily, “I am neither good nor bad, I lead my flock neither to wickedness nor to righteousness – I merely lead. And sometimes that path may lead to fighting off the wolves but as the Shepherd I do my duty.” He says, just as the iron mare appears on the horizon, probably summoned by the talk of war he thought to himself with a chuckle.
“Queen Lagertha,” he says with familiarity on his tongue, head dipping ceremoniously as was his custom. He had come to get used to her uncouth way and even appreciated her brusqueness with a tolerating grin – the Nightwalker had always loved strong women. A grimace slips past his lips only briefly as his thoughts travel to Lyric before he anchors his attention on Lagertha, “The Deserts is the closest if you have no way of concealing our conversation here,” he turns to Mast, “the time for planning is now while the wind is still in the North.” The Valley had been the quieter of the two lately – although Demian had thwarted his daughter’s attempt at stealing the mare Rhynn. The Chamber was the one that carried the heaviest concern for the titan, “shall we go?” He asks, gaze wavering between the king and queen that stood before him.
