"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
For a moment, there is only silence. And then the bells sound.
At first you think that perhaps they are not real. They are so faint, so easy to ignore. And then you blink. The world flickers. You blink again. A deathly silence has fallen. Into that silence, those bells chime. The world is still the same yet so very different. Gone are the creatures, the sun and moon, your friends and family. The trees are dull and listless, the wind refusing to stir. It is Beqanna and it is not.
The bells grow louder, more insistent. They say ’Come… You must come now.’
You do not know where they lead, only that you must follow.
There are others. Others like you, the ones who have been called. The bells continue to sound from all around, now thunderous in its intensity.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch sight of the oddest creature. A lamb, so small and innocent. But you look closer. You can’t look away. Seven horns curl back from its small head, seven eyes glow as they stare back at you. But then you blink and it is gone. You wonder for a moment if it had even been there in the first place.
Silence falls like a fist, deafening in its suddenness. Into that stillness sounds a booming, bodiless voice.
”Behold!” it says. ”The end of the world is nigh!”
”You are the chosen ones. Will you accept your fate?”
Please respond by Thursday, January 14th at 4:00pm CST. There will be no eliminations in this round, unless your respond after the deadline.
Things to know
You have been pulled into what is essentially purgatory. It still looks like Beqanna, but there are no living creatures besides you, the other questers, and whatever creatures you may meet in the quest.
You have been pulled into purgatory at whatever location you are currently at. For this initial round, you will need to describe how you end up before the bellringer.
You are aware of the other horses and may (are encouraged, even) to interact with them. You may collaborate ooc on these interactions if you wish.
If you have any questions or need clarification, please PM me or post them in Connect (ooc).
Bells ring, cool metal against cool metal, a gentle sound at first. A small smile gathers at her lips; there are people here. There have been no people, not since Rhy and Magnus. She nearly rethinks her decision to seek out the latter once more, for their first impression, though lovely, seemed impossible to live up to. Resolve hardening, the Pegasus continues towards the faint noises.
Her lithe hooves meet the border of the Gates, and she blinks; the world flickers. Cinzia blinks again. No one is here. The grass stoops as though tired against her hocks; the bells chime. The air tastes stagnant, lands like weights in her lungs with each inhale.
’Come… You must come now.’
Brain emptying, the woman obeys. Nothing remains inside of her as the bells intensify. If this is death, then so be it; it seems yet no worse than life. Lips parting, she breathes from her mouth. Wings relax to the point of dragging next to her, creating divots in the remarkably unremarkable land. A trail, a trace, a map back home, should death turn sour.
Grey-blue eyes happen upon the lamb just as the bells cause her to wince. A blink later, and the creature of sevens disappears. Death is not so bad if it is made up of only strange creatures. Cinzia looks away.
Breath catching in her crushable throat as the boom of the voice washes over her, Cinzia thinks momentarily of Magnus, of Rhy, of the living. Her eyes meet with the other figures around her, the ones who must also be dead. The woman knows no one. Choking softly on the memories left behind, the mare brings a single hoof forward.
She is growing fond of the playground. It’s a good respite from being Princess of the Chamber. Perhaps it is a meaningless title, without power or any real responsibility. At least, that’s what it seems like it should be. But that’s not true at all, at least for anyone that loves his or her kingdom. And oh, her mother loves the Chamber, though Weaver herself is not yet sure.
Every day is a learning experience. Every day is another lesson, another diplomatic meeting. Soon there will be spars with the army as she learns to fight, to protect herself and her kingdom. She’s a hair young still, and small, to fight against the full grown horses of the Chamber army. But soon, Mother says. Because Mother doesn’t coddle. Children should get bruises and scrapes. It makes them stronger, after all.
Weaver loves the Chamber to a point, sure. But she also rather loves just being her, holding her own court in the playground with Lilin. Hardly a court at all, but she’ll pretend.
The raven caws from the tree nearby where it’s perched, watching the black and white girl play. She’s never on her own, not completely anyway. Mother has an army of babysitters. Though Weaver has grown fond of her personal babysitter. Perhaps the raven is a good thing. Mother never stops her from doing whatever she wants. Weaver can come and go as she pleases. The price is just a watchful pair of beady, black eyes.
At first, she doesn’t hear the bells. The chimes are too quiet. Weaver is too used to ignoring the surrounding sounds (she gets tired of the cawing of her raven). Perhaps she registers the sound somewhere in the back of her mind, but it doesn't catch her attention. It could just be the sound of laughter on the wind. There are plenty of children around, after all.
But then the raven caws again, and the sounds comes to her from far away. She turns to look for it, blinking, and the world swims around her. She blinks again, trying to clear her head, thinking maybe she turned too fast. Blood rush to the head or something. Until silence falls. Lilin’s voice is gone. The sound of the wind in the trees and the cawing of her raven. Gone. Just like that.
“Raven?” she says, just a hint of panic rising in her voice, but she tamps it down as best a child can. Mother would tell her not to panic. Mother would tell her to think.
Finally, she hears the bells. They ring in the stark silence, startling her. A mess of too-long legs, she scrambles backward, trying to get away. Away from what? And to where? Think Weaver, think. she reminds herself. She looks around. Lifeless leaves hang from the trees without a breeze to stir them. Lilin is gone. Her raven is nowhere in the trees above her. And that is how she knows something is wrong. Her raven never leaves her side.
But the bells are calling to her. Despite the fear that pumps her heart just a little too fast, curiosity has also taken hold. So she follows. Leaves behind the comfort of her playground that’s not quite the playground anymore. Leaves behind the raven that she’s never once been without. Not that she’d know how to get back to that world anyway. Not now. She has no choice. The bells are right. She must come.
She doesn’t want to turn back, anyway.
There are others that follow the bells as well. A black winged mare with a blue sheen is already there, and Weaver follows her gaze to the lamb on the ground. The black and white girl takes a step forward, and then another, peering at the seven eyes and seven horns. "Oh," she breathes. She takes another step forward but makes the mistake of blinking, and then the lamb is gone.
Come back, she wants to say, fascinated by the creature. But the bells are too loud for her to be heard, and she doubts such a creature would ever listen to her anyway. If it had even been there in the first place.
The thought crosses her mind that she should be afraid of the lamb. But she’s not afraid. The day she was born, her undead grandfather and color changing Uncle came to greet her. Strange, unual things are normal to her. Death is normal to her.
Then silence falls, more deafening than the bells and yet merciful to her now ringing ears. The girl looks up at the sound of the voice, as if she can see where it might come from. It comes from everywhere though. After a moment, she turns her head to the others, trying to gauge their reactions. Are they afraid? Should she be afraid?
There’s a tiny bit of fear gnawing on the back of her mind, but still her curiosity wins. When she hears the words “chosen ones”, a grin spreads on her small face. Of course she’s among the chosen ones. How could she not be? It never crosses her mind that she’s just a child, that this is wrong, that she shouldn’t be here at the end of the world.
The blue tinted mare accepts first, hoof in the air. Weaver nods to the mare, still with that small, intrigued smile on her face. Besides, what choice did they have anyway? They were here now, and there was no turning back. So Weaver raises her head, addressing the muted world around her. "I accept."
You Should Keep In Mind, There Is Nothing Better I Do Than Revenge
It was a normal afternoon of recruiting. There was no use of tactic for the dark chocolate women, it was either a simple hello or a really forward invitation followed with the abundance of equine to confront whoever she approached.
Her burgundy lobes flickered, as her periwinkle hued iris's surveyed the active clearing. Her golden streaked mane swayed as the dark damsel made her way to a paint sabino stallion, he seemed quite bored with the current affairs happening about. elegantly striding towards him, she allowed a welcoming smile to spread across her velvet lips. "Quite a lovely day to be out and about?" Her words were sweet like honey as they gently flowed out of her lips.
No response from the stallion followed but, she stayed persistent. Perhaps a more forward approach would suite the chestnut blotched brute, ""I'm Becca, of Heavens Gates." She paused for a brief moment gaining her words, and slowly processing if she was perhaps speaking to a deaf stallion and being extremely rude in that case. "And I would like to extend an invitation, to Heavens Gates." She blinked staring at him in slight confusion, as he seemed to be just staring at her, his pupils were empty no sight of feeling remained in them. "Are you..." She halted in the midst of her words.
The field was vacant, the blades of grass frozen in place and the warm essence completely depleted. The once clear water of the waterfall that emptied into the lake below, had stopped feeding water into the lake. Along with that the water stood murky and black, bubbling and gurgling silently to itself. The ringing of bells followed, their loud vocals echoing in and out of her lobes causing them to quiver and pin against her golden mane to avoid the extremely loud rings.
An empty wasteland remains of what feels like Beqanna but, what is utterly not. Becca once again feels alone, almost empty inside. This place tears open healed wounds of the sweet mares past, voices echo within her mind stripping away her mental wall of perseverance. Some are deafening, causing the girl to wince staggering back. Her heart seems to mentally shatter as the sorrows of her past flood full force into her mind. Why had this place have to look so much of her past?
A voice rises above the rest, she couldn't tell if it was real,'come.' It seems to hail her name. She had already given into her dark past, if anything could get worse it would happen now. In a time of vulnerability, Becca stepped forwards cautiously. Her eyes darting about searching for the source of the voice that rose amongst them all, that seemed to vanquish the voices within her head to silence. "Hello?" She spoke wearily, her voice soft and fragile.
The dark chocolate mare proceeds forwards caution set as a constant feeling, as she obediently followed and listened to the voice, that guided her strictly in the direction of the bells. There ringing became louder by the second, clanging of metal upon metal as if they were clanging against each other in a rhythmic motion.
Blue eyes search for life, for movement for anything. Until she sets her sight upon a lamb, from her far distance it looks ordinary, petite and vulnerable in the dormant down state. Quickening her pace into a gentle lope, she confronts the creature. Surely the thing wasn't quite what she expected. Multiple horns swung out from the front and back of it's head, and seven beady red eyes followed every movement she made. Quietly staring at it she began to speak but, before she could get her words out it was gone in an instant.
Was she going insane? She had already heard voices, and surely it was not possible for a petite lamb of that size to sprout horns and seven eyes? Her muscles become tense and she trembled for a moment, slowly tracing back how she got here in the first place:
1. She was in the field on an ordinary day.
2. She was speaking to a stallion, whom she presumed either mentally ill or perhaps deaf
3. She began speaking to the stallion, than poof! She was here.
4. She began hearing voices, along with the ringing of bells seeming to come from the horizon.
5. She is with going utterly insane, or just witnessed a creature with seven eyes and seven horns.
Yes, that was exactly it. She was losing her sanity. Lobes swiveled, as the voice continues this time it is further in front of her instead of within her mind, ' Behold, the end of the world is nigh! You are the chosen ones, will you accept your fate?' The voice comes to a stop as if waiting for Becca to respond. Her face becomes worried, the end of the word is nigh? The end of the world? Also known as beqanna, was her home, her two children bounded about in freedom in the wonderful bounds of beqanna. And it was to be destroyed like that? Hell no, not today or tomorrow, the end will never be near.
Fear fled from her face, as she slowly swallowed processing what she was to do next, her voice more bold and almost dauntless like she spoke, "Yes, I accept my fate. What do I have to do?"
The golden girl had always been an odd duck, but this was one for the books.
Endless days spent in the Dale exploring all that she possibly could. Sometimes with her brother by her side, occasionally trailing her father, but always with a mischievous gleam in her eye. She is one her own today while traipsing through the quiet hills of her home when she first hears it. The light echoing chime of a bell. A single bell ringing tirelessly in the distance is enough to peak her curiosity for the time being.
Like a butterfly, she flits place to place. Taking her time yet following the silvery chime all the same. The longer she follows the bell the louder it grows. Slowly,the lone bell is joined by others forming an ethereal and haunting chorus. Chrysaeta can feel the sound in her bones as she follows the symphony like a child bewitched by the piper. The longer she follows the sound, the further she feels herself leaving the Dale. Not just the Dale, but perhaps Beqanna itself. The trees and hills that she grew up with all look the same, but the color and life to the land are gone. A path is laid out more clearly before her and the bells are a persistent clash of discordant sounds in her ears.
With nowhere to go but forward, she follows the path. The bells ebb and flow like the tide adding new sounds to their number as others falter and sputter out, always building towards a climax that lies just out of sight until at last the path spills out into a clearing and the bells cease to ring all at once leaving an inexplicable yearning in her breast to hear the end of the story they played so beautifully.
Others stand gathered loosely around a strange little creature, but she knows that the lamb has eyes only for her. She needs to be closer, needs to hear it's voice, needs the lamb to finish the story in her heart that the bells started. Then it's gone. A patch of flattened grass the only indication that the creature was ever there. Chrysaeta feels an overwhelming sadness threaten to crush her at the absence of an ending when a voice crashes like lightning around them.Behold, the end of the world is nigh. You are the chosen ones, will you accept your fate?
The girl listens intently as the others give the affirmation, the consent, and she follows suit. "I welcome it." she replies, her voice falling lifeless in the grey, unwelcoming inbetween.
i'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell
He had always known the forests of the Chamber was teeming with secrets.
Often times he thought he heard a hushed whisper, only to find nothing but the swaying of the pine trees. The trees were always swaying whether there was a breeze or not. They were like dancing skeletons, though oddly enough he always sought solace amongst their limbs. Despite the foreboding nature of the forest, it was his home. The mist caressed him like no lover ever could.
Today was different though. Today, the forest was quiet. The silence seemed to press in on him from all directions. It was heavy and oppressive, and for a moment his ears strained to the point of pain. Even the fog was still, hanging thick and heavy just above the ground. He fought his natural instincts to turn and run, using his warriors logic to overrule his simple equine brain. Instead he pressed forward, surprised when he slipped into the mist instead of meeting resistance. Deeper into the forest he traveled, his ears swiveling uselessly atop his head. Clearly there was nothing to hear despite his best efforts to do so. The darkness closed around him and soon his eyes were straining along with his ears. Only his sensitive whiskers and hide kept him from losing his way completely. Just when he was about to admit defeat, there was a sound. It was a sound unlike anything he had ever heard and certainly not here in the Chamber. It was a bright ringing sound, almost merry but eerie all the same. It didn’t belong here and perhaps he should have turned, but curiosity is a dangerous beast indeed.
Louder and louder the sound came while farther and farther he traveled. Surely he had crossed out of the Chambers borders though the landscape had remained stubbornly the same. There was still nothing but the ringing sound, not even a flicker of light from the sky. Finally though there is a break, and the stallion stopped- hesitated. He is a stranger to hesitation, it does not suit him, but he knows that it is the right thing to do, for the creature he sees is unlike anything he had ever seen before. Beqanna was full of oddities, and even his own horns and glowing blue chest were strange in their own right. But this…this thing was a whole different beast. A lamb-like creature, its size unassuming, but Warship knew better. Size was never a guarantee of power. Slowly he approached, his nostrils flaring to draw in the scent (a hopeless venture; he could smell nothing). He noticed the other horses but paid them no mind; it was the lamb that had his gaze. All at once the silence returns, and his ears begin to ring from the pressure of it. It doesn’t last though; too soon a booming voice filled his head, making his ears flatten to his head in displeasure. He blinked once, twice, before noticing the creature was gone. His gaze stays where it was though, and an appraising look came over his handsome face. Though he was still apprehensive, he was no coward.
It lingers here in the confined forest that is pushed off into the side of the meadows. The trees that stand so close together, rise up as one, stretching out their branches and casting a shadow across the forest undergrowth. A familiar fog intertwines itself through the trees and around her. There is an eeriness among the forest as it is nothing but still – nothing with a beat of life seems to exist here. Yet, she is here, her heat beating against her chest quietly in this eerie silence around her.
She embraces herself in the cold and darkness. Here in the middle of the forest, where she stands, the memories are fresh. The mare can recall the memories so easily, tasting the pine needles and feeling the heartbeat underneath here. Lucrezia lingers here because it is the only thing that makes her feel alive. She surrounds herself with the familiar pine tree scent, but they are not the Chamber’s own forest she grew up knowing. She surrounds herself in a mist that does not cling to her like the fog that comes from the mountains near her old home. She listens quietly, in the ever silence, to the heartbeat in her chest as she tries to make herself believe it is the same one that thumps against the Chamber’s earth.
It is nothing though.
The Chamber is nothing but a long dead memory attached to something she once used to be. She should’ve been someone. Maybe like her father, Rodrik, or her queenly sister, Straia. However, in the Deserts, she was someone. Lucrezia had been given a purpose in the sandy kingdom – a reason she was meant to be there. It had not been for the duty her father said it was. No, it had never been that. She was someone there. Someone who could be proud to say where they had come from. She is simply nobody now. Another soul wandering through life with desperation and desire. She needs something more than ever. Anything to make her feel like someone, or who she used to be.
Death.
The scent fills her nostrils quite suddenly. Lucrezia turns her head, searching through the group of trees and shadows that surround her. Her nutmeg eyes flicker slowly but quickly. The scent of death is quickly becoming overbearing. The soft padding of hooves against the forest floor is just behind her. She knows when she turns she will meet the gaze of death. The presence of the darker force is strong around here, or maybe it is merely the scent of a decaying body that overwhelms her severely. She turns her head anyway to face the demon. It is because she is not afraid of whatever it is. It is because she is brave.
But she shouldn’t have turned her head.
He stands there – the devil himself. He is strung together barely by the bones and muscles. Cartilage, ligaments, and tendons are the only things that sew him together. Rotten flesh hangs in strips and patched chestnut fur dots all over his body. The stallions’ eyes are sunken, hollowed, and lifeless. There is a hunger that fills his eyes, but she knows those eyes all too well. The tiny bit of nutmeg color remaining in his eyes gives it away easily. “Father,” she whispers softly but it doesn’t sound like she is speaking at all. Her voice is too quiet. The devil hears her though, by the flickering of his ears in her direction. “Lucrezia, my little girl,” his raspy voice expels out from his lifeless, decaying body.
Silence draws between them both. And then she hears the faint sound of bells.
The world begins to flicker around her. Lucrezia blinks a couple times. The image of her father’s corpse fades away from her vision. No, she thinks and blinks frantically. Her father is completely gone now. A deathly silence falls around here. “NO!” Lucrezia screams into the haunting silence as the world begins to flicker back into view.
The bells chime again in the silence. Her nutmeg eyes flicker across where she stands. It is still the same place where she was. Her father gone though. Nothing has changed it seems, but she is no longer truly where she was. Her eyes search through the shadows and trees. As she takes a closer look at the trees she notices they aren’t quite the same. The trees are dull and listless. She does not see the sun breaking through the branches or leaves of the trees. The wind does not stir either. This was not Beqanna. It was entirely something else.
Lucrezia hears the bells grow louder, demanding her attention in the direction they come from. “Come… You must come now.” It is a request, a demand from the voice that calls her she somehow cannot resist. A voice like her own father’s, one that demanded duty but filled with love. It is a lie though; however, she follows the sounding of bells that insist her to come. Lucrezia is blind though to notice this is perhaps a trap, but her thoughts are only set on one thing – her father.
There are others that follow as well. Four other mares and one stallion to be exact. She knows nothing of who or where they come from. However, she smells two of pine and mist. A scent of home that she cannot resist to let her nutmeg gaze linger for a moment longer. The black and white filly and stallion are surely from the Chamber but then Lucrezia shouldn’t make such assumptions. She is somewhere that looks and feels like Beqanna. A dream of some sort? She does not know, but only knows that these bells keep getting louder and it feels like a volcano is about to erupt all around her and everyone is looking somewhere else.
Her gaze follows to where the other horses have their eyes on – a lamb. Everyone seems to be so fascinated by the small, innocent creature. It truly exhibits nothing special at all until she takes a step forward, curiously, and gets a closer look. Seven horns curling back from the lamb’s head. Seven eyes glowing and staring as if she is the only horse at this juncture. Then a second later, Lucrezia blinks.
The lamb is gone.
Silence collapses on them, deafening the thunderous sounds of bells. It is a relief but the mare is left feeling haunted by the sound. And then the voice rings out, breaking the suddenness of the silence that had left her feeling haunted. The voice comes from all around, but her nutmeg gaze remains forward where the lamb had been – if it truly had been there at all. She listens intently because deep within her own heart she knows she must. “Behold the end of the world is nigh!” She hears.
The world is ending.
No, it couldn’t be ending. Except it was quite plausible if Lucrezia thinks about it. Her father had appeared before her in a body that was dying. If anything she knew that would be her dying wish – to see family and loved ones again – before she passed onto the next life. Is this where all of those dying came to pass in Beqanna? No, it couldn’t be. It seemed much more was beyond where she was now and with everyone around her. Lucrezia doesn’t know how she should feel about all of this. Maybe a mixture of fear and anger.
“You are the chosen ones.” For what though? Lucrezia cannot imagine what they are chosen for if the end of the world is near. However, she knows deep down that she has already accepted what the voice offers her and the others. Lucrezia is brave. She has always been brave. And to accept her own fate was something she was willing to do. After all, she had nothing to lose when she had nothing to begin with.
“I accept,” her voice chimes after the stallion’s acceptance.
The great desert is quiet at night. Oh, there are sounds of life behind him, deeper in the oasis, but they are not the same as the noises at home. And the sound of the breeze in the sand is not nearly the same deafening noise as a giant waterfall crashing to its depths. He’s not sure about the quiet – it leaves entirely too much time for retrospection.
But then, it’s not as quiet. The boy flicks an ear at the unfamiliar noise, and blinks as the world wavers in front of him. He wonders if it’s some sort of heat mirage – but the air has cooled considerably as they descend into the dark of night, so that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Perhaps it’s just some desert-dwelling magician – they have a couple, including the one he’s here to visit. Before he can decide whether to investigate, the world goes silent to his ears. Completely silent – no breeze, no sand, no bugs, no burrowing creatures. Only the faint musical tolling.
The moon is gone, and the stars, though somehow the world is still lit enough for him to see. He can’t hear and sense the faint presence of other horses around himself anymore, and it makes him tense, stiff as he steps away from the now-still oasis, ears pricked stiffly forward. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the sound is a summoning of some sort, and so Rhonen goes, with only a cursory glance back to where his family should have been sleeping peacefully. After all, what has he got to lose?
So he follows the sound, even when it grows uncomfortably loud, pounding in his ears, drowning out his own thoughts. The boy pins his ears as he walks, dropping his head in irritation, and can’t help but wonder what he’s doing. Sand has long since vanished from beneath his hooves, leading him into unfamiliar territory instead. As he is considering turning back to the quiet that was before, his attention is caught by a creature out of the corner of his eye and the young stallion spins, legs splayed, snorting his discomfort and lowering his head in a threatening way as he stares into the many eyes of the bizarre little creature. Rhonen stares – assessing whether it’s a threat, trying to ignore the incessant tolling of the bells – but before he can decide he blinks again and the lamb is gone.
He whirls again, eyes flicking about as he looks desperately for it, but instead he finds only a sudden assortment of other horses and a complete silence almost as deafening as the noise that came before it. Into the silence comes a voice. ’Behold!’ it calls, and Rhonen looks around for a speaker to accompany the voice, frowning when he doesn’t find one. ‘The end of the world is nigh!’ the voice continues and he can’t help it – he snickers, sure this is some sort of elaborate joke. Surely no one is taking this seriously!....but the boy looks around a plethora of solemn faces, realizes they are, and schools his own face into his best attempt at solemnity.
‘You are the chosen ones. Will you accept your fate?’ Rhonen wants to ask who chose them. What they’ve been chosen for. What makes them special? The words are on the tip of his tongue, a scowl on his face, but he chokes the scathing responses back when everyone else offers simple acquiesce. He can’t help rolling his eyes, sidling up to the group with a definite skittish air about him. “Sure. Whatever.” is his response, instead of the solid affirmatives given by the others. “I’m here now, I might as well. Especially if the world is ending.” Another quick glance around the group gives him a remembered mental picture of each of his companions. Blue, black and white, chocolate, white-flecked gold, black, amber, and he knows he adds a bright coppery chestnut. Well they’re certainly a diverse group.
“I’m Rhonen,” he offers to whomever is closest to him, to all of them if they’re so inclined, with a flicker of a sharp-edged smile. “And if the world is ending, I’ve got stuff I need to get done before it does. So maybe we can make this a quick adventure.” The boy laughs, inviting them to laugh with him, but somehow he thinks some of them won’t think he’s funny.
01-14-2016, 09:42 AM (This post was last modified: 01-14-2016, 09:44 AM by hickory.)
The last, the last.
Last of her kind, of her unique breed – that breed of misery and star-crossed despair, the bloodlines like delicate veins, all leading to her. She is their crescendo, the moment they led up to. She, the plain bay mare, no prettier than the hundreds of other bay mares, she is the last.
She is the last, and she is failing them.
She was supposed to die young – most of them did – but she did not. She doesn’t look old – she had aged until she didn’t, and then she had stayed the same. There had been no fanfare, and she hadn’t noticed the stagnation for years, when it suddenly occurred to her there should be gray hairs amidst her mane.
She was supposed to find someone, but she did not. For all her blood’s history, she has not known love. Her father and mother had not been lovers, but they were the exceptions to the rule, the rest of her is perpetrated with lovesick tragedies, girls with tattered wings loving scarred boys, a devotee loving a goddess with a terrible blue eye.
It’s been long and so much has changed, but she comes back. The land has hollered her home, though she never loved or even liked it here. She’s never loved anything; really, she is anhedonic in the way she goes through life. She skims, a waterbug on the surface of a river, but she knows nothing of its depths.
She is last of a line that means nothing to them. She is a bay mare who smells like earth and hasn’t changed in years.
The bells toll.
At first, she thinks she imagines it. That somewhere her thoughts have turned from logic to peals of noise, chimes ringing in the summer air.
Then she blinks, and the sound is louder. The world shimmers like a heat-mirage on a dry road. (come)
She blinks again and the bells are in her bones now, the noise in her marrow. The world has changed, subtly, and she cannot quite put her finger on it until she realizes what. There are no birds. No animals scurrying in the grass. Only a few horses, ones she doesn’t know and who do not know her. (you must come now)
The bells are speaking. Someone – something - is speaking. She walks. They all walk.
The bells toll.
Something moves. Something that is not like the horses.
A lamb, small, delicate – until she looks deeper, until she sees there are seven eyes, seven horns, and her skin crawls. She looks back, but there is nothing. The world closes in around her.
Blink, and it’s gone, and with it, the tolling of the bells.
Silence is strange, almost suffocating. She wants the bells back. Even wants the lamb back, in a strange way. Behold, cries a voice, and she wonders if it’s a god, the end of the world is nigh.
She laughs. She can’t help herself. She is the culmination of their bloodline, a woman with destiny heavy as steel in her bones, and she is the one at the end of the world.
She wonders if this would count as a success or a failure. You are the chosen ones.
Hand-picked on what grounds? She is a plain bay mare. An old one, too, even if she doesn’t look it, body frozen young why whatever queer magic weaves its way through their line.
She is an anhedonnic woman, living a life like a water-bug, skimming across the surface. She’s never known love, or hatred, or any overwhelming passion, only the niggling itch left in her bones by her blood.
But she feels something, now. A swell of excitement, of fear. Will you accept your fate?
She thought she had. She thought her fate was to propagate the bloodline. Not this, standing in a strange world with the memory of a seven-eyed lamb and a voice booming from nowhere.
She finds she quite likes the idea.
“I do,” she says, as if the voice had proposed marriage, “I do.”
She weds herself to this, to the new fate, to the bells that once tolled.
Up, and over. Hit the ground and keep on running. Weave left, then right, then - fuck, that isn’t supposed to be there. Dodge. Her heart pounds a familiar rhythm. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. She lets it sink into the rest of her body, hooves churning up the earth behind her as dirt clods fly in her wake. The path is new - she’s chosen a fresh course, untrampled and pristine and full of surprises. This is Lagertha’s time. Her lungs haven’t started to burn yet, nor has she had to tell herself just one more hill, one more pine tree. Sweat begins to darken her coat in a few areas as she eats up the miles, weaving an unplanned path around the common areas of Beqanna. She can’t run like this in the Jungle, she’d end up with a broken neck.
This is Lagertha’s personal time, and she guards it jealously.
Ahead lie a couple of felled trees. Not just one, so there must have been some sort of thunderstorm or fierce winds running through the area. The warrior Queen takes them in stride. One, two, and - in the space it takes to breath and collect herself to go over the third tree, in the time it takes for her nostrils to flare in exhalation, the world flickers and the birds go silent. Do you know how creepy it is for the world to go quiet? Lagertha lives in a mother-fucking Jungle. The only time the world goes quiet is where there is a great threat, and something more dangerous than a jaguar is stalking its prey. There are all sorts of monsters in Beqanna, but none that bring the Silence.
She pulls up short, snorting and on immediate alert. Every sound she makes seems like a dull roar, so she forces herself to breathe more quietly, to shove all the racing thoughts in her mind aside, and listen. She hears them now - bells. Bells have never rung here before, and yet she knows them for what they are. Funny how that works. The world may not be gray, but it is certainly lifeless… and eerily similar to another sort of thing that happened over a decade ago. Not the beginning, but everything else. While she’s busy musing about potential causes, a voice enters her head and she finds that her legs begin to move of their own accord. Come… you must come now.
Oh for fuck’s sake. She grits her teeth and clenches her jaw, dark eyes flashing in irritation. It’s been more than a few years since anyone has given her an order, and Lagertha finds that she doesn’t like it. At all. Ok, fine. Want to play that game? Lagertha ups her pace to a lively trot, trying to force whatever magic is at hand to keep up. Wouldn’t want her to get lost, now would we? But since magic is magic, it is able to, and Lagertha finds herself approaching a growing group. None of them look familiar, though the fresh pine smell of the Chamber is prevalent, as is the sweetgrass smell of Gates. None of her Sisters are here, and Lagertha’s lips twist into a frown for a moment.
Out of the corner of her eye, something stirs, and she whips her head around to stare at it. For a moment, it becomes clear, and she almost laughs. What a weird looking creature. Seven eyes and seven horns (she’s had horns, and doesn’t imagine that multiple pairs would be very comfortable - talk about a sore neck) and the bells seem to ring seven times more intensely now, as if they are trying to wake the dead. But no - she’s been to the Afterlife before. This is just Beqanna, but different. The lamb disappears, and she shakes her head, partly to clear her head of the pealing tones and partly because she isn’t sure what to make of the potential apparition. Her attention turns to the assembled horses, and eyes them all up and down. Some are young, and some are soft. One seems a warrior like herself, and despite the fact that he reeks of the Chamber and testosterone, if she has to pick an ally, she’ll pick someone she can understand. Plus, she never had anything against the Chamberlings - unless they come traipsing into her Jungle uninvited again.
Although, given the fact that she failed miserably at rescuing Gail because she has a spiked tongue instead of a silken one, perhaps one of the ‘nicer’ looking companions would be best. Behold! The end of the world is nigh! booms out, surrounding them in sound and what can only be a show of power. Which, if it can quiet the world and ring bells and do that, it must actually be worth listening to. The iron lady cannot, however, keep her inner cynic in check. She scoffs aloud. “How many fucking times can the world end? Can’t you all find a new trick to peddle around?” Maybe it’s the return of her tattoos that make her bold, or her faith in herself, or just that she’s sick and tired of being yanked around by magic. Especially when she’s sorely lacking anything that can come close to competing with it.
You are the chosen ones. Will you accept your fate?
She rolls her eyes and mutters to herself. “As if we have a choice.” What's the point of being Queen if she can’t get out of shit like this?
