"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
02-14-2016, 04:17 PM (This post was last modified: 02-14-2016, 04:17 PM by Foster.)
Foster
"We are only as blind as we want to be"
The blood had finally dried on top of his dark coat, matted within his mane and his tail like the mud that had been stuck to him not long ago. The wound had blinded him, just like the memory, yet still the stallion walked on. The blood had been sliding down his muzzle like rain, leaving a sticky residue upon his black coat, yet now, the thick, coarse mane stuck to his face, hiding the cloudy eye from sight. It was almost as if it were hiding him from what was bound to come, like an omen of sorts, yet still, he marched on. Even with the impending blind eye and the blood on his coat, Foster had never been a fighter, within his herd, he had grown as a nice soul, caring for one another and treating everyone equally, yet with the current breeding season returning once again, tensions rose to the forefront. He wasn't cut out for his herd, not when the stallions fought like brutes and treated the mares as property. The testosterone was too much, too overbearing within his herd. And where there were mares, there was always violence. His wound was not only a symbol of which a fight had broken out, but rather a symbol of how close a brooding stallion had gotten to him. It was a stranger, no less; an intruder within his herd that had come into their land. Anger lashed out as his kind soul tried to defend them, yet to no avail.
I was not worthy.
He had become ashamed of himself, forgotten within the herd like the previous pasture they had traveled through. With his large, intimidating size, the Shire should have been able to defend his herd, his family. Yet his heart got the best of him, his footing was clumsy, and he was forgotten. It was evident he was not worthy enough to be with them. His strength had been frozen into nothing in that moment between taking another's life. He wasn't his father. He wasn't a monster. He was a gentle giant. He was Foster. I am me.
He attempted to raise his spirits, raising his head in a confident stance, his mane blowing around him with oncoming autumn breeze. The only thing that refused to move, was the omen resting upon the left side of his face. Over his journey, he had learned to ignore the pain, keeping his mind off of the throbbing eye with the thoughts of all he had done wrong. The pain was the last thing on his mind, as he was now what one would call, an outcast. He wasn't made for his herd any longer. Maybe he wasn't made for any herd. He had failed one, what was to ensure that he didn't fail another, yet he was trying. Even as he walked, he attempted to move with a more dominant stance, yet the large stallion stepped over fallen logs, stepped over the flowers that were beginning to die. Even with his large feet, he managed to maneuver so he crushed nothing except the leaves that were beginning to fall. His loyalty was so strong. So very strong. Yet if it came between killing another or deserting everything he knew to save a life, he would have to take the latter. He was built for violence, though. He knew this. His father had tried to shape a stallion to be feared along with all of his half-brothers, a stallion that the mares could not say no to, but he was a disgrace. His eyes were kind, his personality even kinder, but kind wasn't what made a herd. It wasn't what made them strong.
So he continued to walk in a fluid motion. If he never stopped walking, he would be fine with that. If his eye never stopped throbbing, he would be fine with that. If he was given the chance to make a new home, he would be fine with that. Yet it wasn't in his interest any longer. He would let fate decide, even as he walked on with the facade of confidence into the Field of destiny.
I just hope the blood doesn't stray strangers away.
The hot summer air filled his lungs with a vast array of pollutants and allergens, agitating the soft lining of his esophagus as he inhaled. The bristling heat stung at his skin, evoking a sheen of sweat that trickled down along the various scars on his otherwise unmarred obsidian pelt. He pushed forward, his mass parting the sea of wheat that sway and lap against his damp skin in the warm breeze. He is taller, bulkier and more heavily armed than the rest - his form is noticeable from miles away, a beast of sable standing out against the stark beige terrain. Each step feels heavier, throttling the ground beneath his shifting weight, sediment rattling along as each movement leaves a weighty, lasting impression in the soil.
He finds it difficult to focus in the heat; he could not fathom why he had decided to abandon the icy cold embrace of the Tundra in the midst of the smoldering summer afternoon. He had grown restless, desiring something more to do with this lingering day. He had seen many more like it, and the longer he lived, the longer he breathed, the more restless and uncertain he felt about it all. Many spend their lives waiting to die; what did he have to wait for? There was no fear of his demise to be found - if anything, he wondered if or how he would come to an end. Would he be forced to walk this earth until its inevitable, untimely destruction? Would he ever deteriorate or waste away? Or would he remain a constant fixture, no different than the boulders that line land or the ebb and flow of the waters at the edge of the sea?
He did not know.
And not knowing was the worst part.
He shakes himself of his darkening thoughts, feeling their heavy pull at his mind. He finally stops, the muscles rippling beneath his dark coat as he shifts his weight from one forelimb to another. He listens to the stagnant silence of the field, to the faint buzz of insects as they are procreating, oscillating, consuming, to .. a rumbling rustle.
His dark crimson eyes scan the terrain, searching for the source of the vibration, finding a mass similar to his own stalking through the golden tendrils of wheat. He steps closer, peering carefully at the undoubtedly agitated male. He can see the stain of blood staining his dark pelt, along with the wound it has stemmed from. He was awkward, cumbersome and clumsy, but he could not blame him - he was newly blinded, he could see that much. He looked pained, physically and emotionally, his entire demeanor shifting from one moment to the next.
He thought for a moment of turning away, of giving him a moment of peace - but something within him beckons him forward. He is uncertain of the persona tucked away beneath his emotional turmoil, and does not know if he will become violent, but their size is nearly matched. He braces himself for the possible bloodshed, but his voice breaks through the thick tension of summer, hopeful for a less catastrophic interaction.
"You, there - are you all right?" His voice rumbles from deep within the confines of his chest, his gaze trailing along the dried, matted and bloodied locks that stick to his sweat-drenched nape.
The giant startled, his frame stopping and a heavy hoof clumsily finally crushing a twig, making a low sigh echo from his mouth. It was rare for him. The feeling of determination, as the stallion was always the one to shyly get by with what he had. His kindness would be his downfall in the end, and that's exactly what his father had taught him through the years. It was either show your presence or fall, and as of right now, he was falling. He lifted his hoof, placing it lightly beside the remnants of the twig, almost as a memorial, before he stepped lightly to the side. His attention too focused on the death of a branch than the other stallion that had been the one to startle him in the first place. Until he spoke.
His large head lifted up, standing taller than what he had before, only to stare in shock as he met the crimson eyes of an opponent nearly the same size as him, a stallion that was large, yet not shy like him, yet not brutish like another, or so he perceived. He could only see partially through his right eye, his left one gone and forgotten, until now. It was much more difficult than he had thought to begin with, even now that his vision was clouded by the matted mane. He shook off the feeling, refusing to show his weakness in front of the stallion. He wouldn't admit it, yet he was terrified. Terrified of what a stranger would find of him. He knew he looked dreadful, just feeling the matted blood upon his skin was enough to drive him mad. And that made him a target. He was the weak, and judging by the male in front of him, he wouldn't be able to stand up for himself if there was a match between the two. And for that, it put him on edge. He had already been through a brutal fight, yet another? No, he wouldn't survive another. Yet he heard the question asked by male, and confusion flooded him. A friendly stranger? How...unusual.
"I will manage, thank you," His voice came out weak and he sighed, stepping back slowly before he bowed his head in greeting. Was this right? He wasn't sure about anything anymore. He had only been within a herd that he didn't deserve, a herd for his own, yet he had been banished with wounds only some could imagine. Just thinking over his words, he thought of how he couldn't. Not really. He couldn't manage anything, not anymore. Another sigh. He was prone to sighing here lately, yet he shook his head. He couldn't be distracted, not anymore. So ignoring the pain sashaying its way through his body, he looked back up at the stallion, wondering if he should offer a name. Why not?
"Thank you for your concern, stranger. I am Foster, and you are?"
ooc: I'm so sorry that this is such a terrible post! Forgive me?
It was difficult for him to not show presence, though he had spent many years attempting to do so. He often tried to hide away in the shadows, to cloak himself in darkness to avoid being noticed, but it was always the inevitable truth. He would be seen, sooner or later, and it was undeniable. Though he pertained a certain grace, having walked many moons, his gait was often still weighty, his steps a harsh intrusion on the undisturbed soil, his mass a shifting black beacon in the valley - a sheen of dark obsidian and glowing red eyes - a walking billboard. He was used to the stares. Not of longing, but of apprehension. His sheer mass was the cause for concern by many, though he often ignored them - the slew of scars scattered across his skin were more often than not caused by brutal wars fought in defense, not offense.
He was not one to start a fight, but he would be one to finish it.
He stared, his ruby gaze darkening as he observes the grievous wound shielded away by thick, matted hair. Though Foster's words spoke of strength, the shakiness of his baritone spoke volumes more. He was shaken, this much was certain. He tried to hide the uptick of a smile as he watched him lower his head - this was no time for formalities, not with the blood continuing to trickle and entangled within his forelock. He briefly lowered his own, however, an amicable gesture, before his eyes trailed off elsewhere. He began to search, silently, his muscles shifting beneath his weight as he turns. He steps away as he finds what he seeks, though he casts a brief glance to the gouged, injured male.
"Stay," He murmurs, his voice reverberating deeply within his chest, before he jaunts away from him.
He moves towards the foliage, striding to an old oak. He surrounds it, muzzle pressed flush against its bark as he searches for what he needs. At last, his teeth graze along a loosened strip, and delicately, he pulls, drawing it away from the flesh of the tree. He clenches it tightly between his lips before making his way towards the male once more, observing him as he does. He surrounds him, much in the same way that he did with the leaning oak, falling parallel with the one called Foster. "Lift your head, and sit still," He instructs, awaiting his moment before placing the intact slice of bark across his eye with some (truthfully) painful pressure. "This may sting, but it will soothe. It will stop the bleeding."
And it does. In time.
He steps back then, sidestepping his massive form to more a more appropriate distance for a stranger. But he did not consider him a stranger; he was a brother in need.
