"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 day is clear and bright, the sun hanging high in the cloudless sky. Even in the depths of summer, the air is pleasantly temperate despite a steady wind blowing across the already windswept expanse of the Tundra. The warmth of the season will soon lose its grip though, giving way to the icy chill of fall. All too soon, winter would be upon them, its arctic fingers digging firmly into the land.
For the moment though, they could enjoy the brief warmth. And, he thinks, there is no better time for the inevitable to occur. The damp chill of the caves behind him crawls across his skin, assaulting his nostrils with its musty scent. He gives the gaping maw only a brief glance before turning his attention to the broad plain strewn with a myriad of hearty grasses and shrubs. His call rings out clearly across the expanse, bringing the other men of the Brotherhood to him.
His gaze finds Offspring the moment he arrives, nodding to him in silent acknowledgement. When the rest have assembled, he speaks, addressing them in his accustomed manner.
”The time has come to welcome all of our newest into the Brotherhood. As you know, this involves facing the Caves. You will receive scars upon successfully facing whatever is thrown at you.”
He pauses only long enough to indicate the scars upon his left hip, an endless knot insignia etched across a large portion of his pale hide.
”These scars identify you as an official member of this kingdom.”
Again he pauses, a more lengthy hesitation this time as he finds Offspring’s gaze, holding it with his own flinty stare.
”Offspring will go first. Assuming he makes it through the caves, I will be stepping down. Offspring will be taking my place as king.” Pause. ”Should there be any objections, we will address them as soon as Offspring returns from the caves.”
lend me your hand and we'll conquer them all. but lend me your heart and i'll just let you fall.
It is the warmth that lures him from the shadows, bathing his marred flesh in the bright sunlight that shines across the drying terrain. The brush is growing brittle and the blossoms are beginning to fade; the land is settling in for what will be another long embrace of ice and snow and he himself can feel it settling into the pit of his bones. His muscles flex slightly beneath his obsidian pelt as he strides forward, stretching the aching muscles of his limbs, which had been still too long for his own liking. With a toss of his tangled, dread-locked mane, his dark eyes peer across the terrain as his lungs fill with the crisp, biting air of autumn. It has not yet moved into the land, but it is within the dying and splitting brush and waning dusk and dawn that he can feel it coming. It is only a matter of time.
He can hear him with such intense clarity, and without a second thought, he motions towards the call. His sinewy tendons shift and twist under his taut skin as the bright light of the sky cloaks him in a sheen of illumination; his pale skin scars glisten beneath it. This day has been coming for some time, though he had been uncertain of when and had not desired to press the matter. He knew it would come to pass in its own time, and when Hurricane was prepared to make the motion. He had grown a fondness and respect for the alabaster brother, having observed him and remained in his presence for some time. He trusted his instincts, and he followed his lead.
He slowed his canter as he approached the winged beast, his head lowered momentarily as a sign of respect as he approaches. Once settled and standing still, he raises his thick neck, overlooking the terrain as their few but immensely strong brothers (and the few ladies that linger among them) step forward to heed the call. His crimson eyes meet with Hurricane as he speaks, listening intently and nodding solemnly with his words. His gaze then moves towards the grand ruins that loom behind him, daunting and threatening, even in the light of day. He had studied their architecture for some time; their allure was undeniable but the unpredictable and volatile lie within and he knew it all too well.
His eyes meet with Hurricane's now, steely but somber, the tension growing by the moment as he breathes in the salty air of summer. He knows that once he steps in, he cannot return unharmed. But though he has heard many horror stories, he knows that there is little that can combat the last pitiful, despairing seventy-two years of life he had lived prior to this. Nothing, perhaps, aside from reliving it. He says nothing, instead giving another firm nod to his King and to the Brothers, before pushing forward and stepping through the threshold.
It happens all too quickly, and it is over before he expects it to be. He can feel the clenching throb around his skin as its thick, icy pillars claw and scratch at his hide, causing excruciating pain as it rakes along sensitive scar tissue, reopening old wounds. He can hear his own thoughts echoing in his head, over and over - images of his lovers, of his children, dying before him, crumbling into dust and whittling away with a hot summer breeze. He sees himself, lunging again into the murky waters of the darkest ocean, submerging himself within its icy waves as it crushes him against the rocks. He sees himself waning away, a starving skeleton with nary a drop of hydration or a fragment of sustenance in his system, begging death, only for it to mock him and laugh at him and leave him to suffer needlessly on the forest floor. He presses through, following the narrow pathway of the cave, embracing its darkness as his mind is filled with the most painful memories, with the most terrible thoughts.
And as suddenly as it all began, it is over.
He emerges, his eyes stinging from the obscene brightness of day - something he had just found comforting now felt like a violation. He pauses to allow his gaze to adjust, before peering over to his King and to the men standing nearby. He steps forward away from the ruin, his flesh still simmering from the sheer burn of ice digging into his skin - but there is no blood. There is no open wound; nothing but a healed stark design of white against his dark coal pelt - below his right eye, across his cheek.
He steps forward, a sheen of sweat now coating the length of his massive form, as he stands upright before the others. He glances to Hurricane now, observing him with the same intensity - a shared brotherhood from partaking in the same brutal experience, now marked by the permanent scars marred into his flesh. He does not know where his own lies - but he will know in time; judging by the stares along he can tell it is somewhere near his face. He does not linger on it long before clearing his throat, peering at each of those who stand before him.
"Brothers, I will do all that I can to revitalize this kingdom and to do right by you all. I intend to keep us safe, sound and prepare us for the very worst. War is always just beyond the horizon, and we must be ready. Hurricane has entrusted this kingdom to me, and I will not fail him, as I do not intend to fail you. If you will have me."
03-18-2016, 05:08 PM (This post was last modified: 03-18-2016, 05:09 PM by Brynmor.)
Brynmor
"With my speechless calm eyes."
For quite a while he had known that this day would come. Years had passed, the first in darkness and later with the world’s beauty complimented by the eye, but never Brynmor had dared to enter the cave. He clearly remembered what Hurricane had told him about them when he had been shown around, and back then the graying male hadn’t thought he would ever had to enter them. Being blind didn’t necessary made you useless, but it didn’t help his cause either. Who would’ve thought that this day would ever come? Brynmor clearly hasn’t.
Slowly they all gather, but there aren’t many of them. As the formerly blind stallion joins the already formed group he drops his head a little, greeting the winged king in silence. Ever since they had first met Brynmor had changed. He no longer was the blind, timid boy he once was. By gaining eyesight he had grown both confidence and muscles, although there still was a lot of work to do. It had been like he was discovering the world all over again, amazed by every little thing, until all the new impressions tired him out.
He listens to what Hurricane has to say and his eyes never leave the king’s frame. Not even when he leans to the side to gently brush his muzzle across Roan’s cheek. Her presence did wonderful things to his mood and every time he laid his eyes upon the bay roan girl he fell in love with her all over again. She simply sparked something within him and to him she was the most beautiful of them all. Her safety above everything else. Brynmor is glad that she’s there, grateful that she would be there, waiting for him, once he would make it out of the cave alive again.
But he first would have to enter, although he wouldn’t be the first one. Hurricane addresses the black stallion that he had met before. As he listens Brynmor’s blue eyes flash towards Offspring, eyeing the male before focussing on Hurricane again. The graying male cannot say he likes the things he hears, but it wasn’t his place to question Hurricane’s decisions, knowing that their king would put the kingdom first. ”Who are we to question your decisions, Hurricane? If that is what will be the best for the Tundra, so it be” he speaks, eyes moving from Hurricane to Offspring as he does, nodding towards the black male before facing their current king again. He would stay anyway, as the Tundra was his home and he was ready to pledge his loyalty to the place.
Once their future king enters the caves he keeps his eyes focussed on the entrance. His thoughts drift off, but mostly he’s wondering what Offspring was going through right at that moment. Sure he knew a little about the caves, but that didn’t mean he would be prepared for what would be coming. Brynmor tries to stop himself from wondering what his own terror would be, but it is too late as the voice of his imaginary friend (who thankfully was less and less present in his mind) starts rumbling off some things. It is Roan that keeps him calm and he enjoys her presences as he presses close against her side, grooming and touching her while his eyes stay focussed on the entrance.
Curiosity almost drives him to take a step forward when Offspring emerges again. It was the first time that he had seen someone enter the cave, therefor also the first time that he witnesses someone coming out of them. Successfully facing his demons and earning his scars at the same time. Brynmor had seen Hurrcane’s before, just as Brennen’s, but as it has only just happened he’s itching to observe Offspring’s. And he learns that the scar’s differ in great varieties.
He listens to Offspring just as intently as he had listened to Hurricane. There is a small, yet warm, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Before Brynmor steps forwards he turns to the girl at his side, brushing his lips across her cheek. ”Will you wait for me?” he asks her softly, knowing that she would be able to hear him quite well. With that he steps forwards, approaching the two kings and the caves. ”We’ve only met briefly before, Offspring, but I look forward to getting to know you better.” With that he’s off, making his way towards the caves with a confident step and without looking back, fighting the urge to glance back in Roan’s direction.
First there is nothing, only some nervousness eating away, and he continues his path until he can no longer see the light coming from the entrance. It hits him unsuspectedly, washing over him without giving him any opportunity to properly react. He instantly knows that he’s back, back to that horrible place, back in those horrible games. Yet this time he isn’t given a choice. Hesitantly – because he knows what is coming – he enters through the red door, ending up on that cobblestone street again. Chills run down his back and as Brynmor runs for his life it is almost like he’s back into that strange human form again.
The fear and panic are highlighted because he knows what kind of vile creature is hunting him. As he runs across the cobblestoned street he knows what will happen next, he knows how his ends, yet he cannot do anything to change it. Brynmor keeps running, running to the place he will meet his friends, running away from the thing that will later eat one of his two companions. He runs, because he is too weak to turn around and face his demon right away himself.
Things happen exactly how he remembers them. He runs into his friends, they have fun pranking others during the Halloween festivities, but as their last prank comes closer he gets nervous again. This time Jack would be there. It passes in a flash, the running, fighting, flying through the air and bumping into a wall. And then it’s the time he stabs her. Tears are clouding his vision as he sees life leaving her body a second time. ”I’m sorry..” he breathes out, barely audible. Guilt eats him, as he had never overcome this guilt, but they escape as his friend pulls him away.
Next up is the maze. He doesn’t need explanation, as this is a maze that he had seen before. And the terror’s that await him within. He clearly remembers the transformation, the killing, and then the visions of his mother – in both human (the girl he killed above) and horse form –, then his imaginary friend, followed by Gryffen and last but not least himself in future version. Since he doesn’t know what else to do Brynmor enters the maze, but this time he doesn’t transform. The sudden change of history makes him hesitant, afraid to enter, because there is no saying in what he would face.
He passes by all the faces again. His mother, his friend, Gryffen and himself, but in a different order. It is only when he stands in front of his imaginary friend again, who accuses him of killing and abandoning him, that he realises it. Never before he had put the pieces together, this time he does. The voice of the person in front of him is exactly the one of the voice in his head, the voice of this imaginary friend, the voice he was desperate to get out of his thoughts. But Brynmor doesn’t get the chance to mule over it much longer, as his friend suddenly howls.
Terrified he watches the transformation. This time it isn’t him who changes, but instead it is his imaginary friend. He doesn’t watch the whole transformation and dashes off randomly into the maze before the werewolf stands in front of him in its glory. Within seconds his muscles hurt from the sudden exercise, and his longs burn with the lack of oxygen. Brynmor curses himself for the lack of stamina, already having trouble to push the edge when he had just started.
As he flees he gets lost further and further, having lost track of whatever he came to do. Well, that is until he sees her. Roan. It’s only a flash of his mind, but it is enough to help him remember and to make him realise. With a shout of frustration Brynmor comes to a halt, spinning around to face the growling wolf that had been on his heels. He is in his horse form again, head held high as the wolf launches himself forward. The right side of his chest and shoulder instantly burn, like there is fire and ice hitting him at the exact same time, and then it’s all over.
By the time he steps out in the sunlight again – experiencing the same stinging brightness as Offspring before him – he is still a little hazed and spooked. His chest/shoulder burns a little, but there is no blood and no open wounds, just a black scar. Just like Offspring his coat is soaked and Brynmor finds himself panting a little. Yet he ignores that all as he steps forward, towards Hurricane and Offspring, and all the other’s that have been gathered, but his eyes searching for only one frame in particular.
"Nothing is coming to rise."
@[Kristin] I assumed that Roan would be there with him, hope you don't mind that I added her like this? click his scar It is located on the right side of his chest / shoulder,
03-22-2016, 09:26 AM (This post was last modified: 03-22-2016, 09:50 AM by Patchouli.)
Of all the places he had seen over the years, the Tundra was nothing like any of them. Remote, desolate, cold. It was nothing he had ever dreamed of, yet it was a Kingdom he had never bothered visiting. It was someplace She would never go- that’s all that matters for now.
Days he has been there, merely observing, when change is upon them and a new King is brought to light. When the few gather the old one steps down, the new one emerges from a cave and it is said that he too should do such a thing. Well, Mother didn’t raise a quitter, one last bitter thought.
When it is Patchouli’s turn to enter, he does so with a smile. He doesn’t know what sort of thing to expect, perhaps the others had met some great bear within the icy depths. He was cunning enough to outsmart the animal, maybe even to fight it without losing his life- but he relished the challenge regardless, a trait that may or may not see him through this time.
It’s not so scary this cave, it is like any other, except where the walls were usually plain rock- these were slick, grey ice. He could hear a dripping noise somewhere within but he could not pinpoint its location. Likely the sound came from one of the many hanging stalactites, now those jagged formations made him wary- he wasn’t entirely fool hardy you know.
Hours pass as he stands in a wide chamber, lights glistening from some unknown source against the jewel-like walls. A pool of ice water lies placid on the far end, but he isn’t thirsty.
Nothing’s happening, perhaps the beast was tired, or too injured to carry on. Maybe he wasn’t worthy. At that his golden ears flatten against his skull, the lifelong thought something that still bothered him. He was a failure in his family so far, maybe he should expect to be nothing more here as well, another failed endeavor. He’d see it through at least, even if he had to wait days for his challenge.
A droplet catches his attention, ripples moving along the glassy surface of the pool. The first sign of movement besides his own fidgeting, the first sound besides his steady rhythmic breathing. Maybe he was a bit thirsty after all. No harm could come from a drink surely.
Bending his flaxen head to the water, he begins to pull the clear liquid in a long, relaxed drought. It tastes fine, it smells fine, it looks-
Opening his muddy eyes he sees his own reflection, but it’s different. Where his nose is relatively plain, a shock of white running up the snout, here it is covered in ivory scales. He snorts, looking at the water with uncertainty and surprise, and anger. When he tilts forward he only sees more to agitate himself, golden scales running up his neck, his shoulders. The reflection smiles smugly, tauntingly and to make matters worse it winks.
It is one thing to be first born son, it another thing to be first born son with no traits, without the mark of the serpent. Different from the rest, a failed heir, a disappointment.
Before he knows it, his striking the surface with his left leg, disrupting the calm of the pool and shattering his reflection. Too far though, he’s leaned over much too far- and he falls.
Head over hoof, hoof over head. Tumbling into an icy coffin, bubbles bursting from his parted lips as he sinks deeper into the liquid abyss. His chest is pounding as his body falls numb from the cold, the heat of the ice that is burning him. His lungs protest for air, roaring with a rage at none to be had or sought for that matter. It is with that angry scream that he again falls to the cave floor, soaking and shivering as a laughter fills his ears. Before him stands his other self, a scale covered picture of he wished he could be his whole childhood, his whole life. The voice oddly feminine, far out of place but he knows it- Mother.
“Oh Patchouli…” The voice as sickeningly sweet as it has always been, dripping with letdown. He smiles at himself, a haughty nasty grin. “Too bad you are nothing like I am, don’t you wish you could be? Come again to the pool, I’ll show you.” It’s too tempting, too coaxing to his liking as he lays panting on the snow and ice.
“You’re not real.” He growls, shakily finding his legs.
”I am real, in your heart. I am your deepest desires, let us not lie to one another Patchy.”
“Don’t!” he roars at the nickname, the laughter that accompanied the children’s voices as they yelled it, circling him while he could not cover his ears. Patchy, patchy, patchy A moniker his Mother had fashioned after his mottled coat, the burst of brown against what should have been pristine gold. The spots that should have been snakeskin but weren’t- they were just ugly brown freckles.
”I know what you need to feel better, to feel worthy and whole. Patchouli, come, come to the water I will show you.”
”No.” nares flared as he declines, the other self becoming clearly agitated.
”Come, Patchy” Voice rising, filling with venom.
”I said no Mother!” The declaration ensuing violence as the snake Patchouli charges for his weakened body, legs still trembling from the ice bath. Together they crash, the real Patch barely standing ground, forced backwards on unsteady limbs. He pushes with what little muscle he can find, trying to shove the other off of him, to find a better hold against the slick surface on which they dance.
It is with luck that he maneuvers to the right, slipping from the snake’s grasp as he moves forward and away- but nearing the treacherous depths of the pool. He’s also not dodged the well placed bite against his neck, the other’s blunt teeth pinching and bruising the amber skin.
They are at it for several rounds, each one giving the real Patchouli little of the upperhand and more bruising and scars than he’s seen in a long while. Over and over the mirror image of himself assaults him, hoof and tooth finding him again and again.
The snake turns, smiling as he has accomplished driving his prey closer to his trap. The real Patchouli, backs away, wide eyed and heaving. He gives a shake of his head to force away thoughts of death, to clear his heavy eyes from their desire to sleep. The movement sends a stabbing pain racing down his neck to his leg, resulting in a pained “Aggghhh”, but there is not time to hurt. Again the assailant is coursing for him, sprinting on the ice in unnatural form. Patchouli meets him with a rear, forcing his hind to support his weight, surging forward to connect with devil.
He barely keeps his footing, striking the snake in the chest as he too rears last minute, flailing wildly at Patchouli in retaliation. The animals own leg catches Patch just right, sending a trail of blood spilling down his face from a cut above the eye. He knows this is a fight of strength he cannot win, he’s never been made for War, not physically anyways. Patch does his warring with words and trickery- the only thing his Dam ever taught him.
He cannot win the fight in the physical sense but his wits remain about him and it’s high time he uses them. He heaves against the frosty floor, snake Patch cruelly glaring down at him as he shakes the soreness from his chest, growling from, the pain.
”Look at you, pathetic. No wonder you disgust even yourself.” A hiss to match the gentle glint of reptilian skin, a taunt as it braces for another round.
Patchouli continues nursing his weary body, limping forward, “Not as much as I disgust you Mother!” He doesn’t brace to block when the creature strikes forward, clearly intending to send him splashing once more into the water. Instead Patchouli dodges last minute, sending the other Patch crashing against the surface. The once water, shatters like glass, the twin screaming ”Nooooooooo…” as it tumbles back into its prison.
"That’s right Mother, No.” He gasps, as he lifts his head taking in a deep steadying breath. A burning sensation takes his left shoulder, a searing smell of burning flesh but no hot poker or brand in sight.
The palomino limps his way out, bloodied and half-frozen, smiling weakly at the others as he emerges. “Hey guys,” he says with a stupid grin, collapsing to the snowy ground unconscious, a puckered scar of a Hamsa blazing new against his left shoulder.
PATCHOULI
it is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles
okay so idk how i like this but its the best i got since idk what he is like yet. i figured he might have mommy issues being the eldest and only child born without snakeskin.
