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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    [open]  Owl Post [Offspring, any]
    #1
    Rowling
    Spring. Birds and flowers dot the Dale and grass sprouts fresh and green and bright in the meadows. The blue yearling enjoys the smells to accompany the season, perfumed and bright as the sun but he knows it already. Least, he thinks he does. The Dale has been abundant in life as far as the change in the world goes. Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter. He’s had an eye full of what the changes hold here and he learns many things from Mother but he doesn’t learn much about elsewhere. You know, the great big wide world of Beqanna?

    That’s fine though, he’s a big boy, well big enough he thinks. Big enough for what? Travel.

    Today is the day then, and he whisks himself away from the comfort and safety of the mountain region. He’s seen Mother do this plenty, mask himself as a blizzard of snow and whirl about the Dale like a tornado of ice. It’s easy enough, then again he had practiced it a few days before, taking to the cover of the forest for secrecy. Rowling was Weir’s boy but there was a smidge of Warship in their too, perhaps that part where he didn’t always listen to the rules. Surely he could recall once or twice when Mother had said to stay in the Dale unless accompanied by an adult. Mother worried too much.

    It’s tickly to be a blizzard, you kind of turn into a million little pieces and scatter about. Up is Down and Down is Up- it can be quite disconcerting. Rowling tumbles east first, scattering off course before he turns himself North, up up and up through Beqanna like a slingshot. He’s going so fast he hardly see where exactly he is aimed but he can feel the cold coming from something besides himself. It is a big cold too, and at first he thinks it is Mother, out to catch him before he has had any fun. It isn’t him though, not at all, it isn't even a horse actually- it is a place. A big, cold place, and he stops his feverish flight turning himself to ice now instead.

    The wall looms before him, bigger than anything he has seen besides the cradle of the Dale’s mountain ranges. Wow, he thinks, craning his head upwards but he can not see the top even though he tries to. The door is nowhere in sight from here either, so instead of looking for one Rowling finds his own way in. Something awesome was on the other side right? Ice wouldn’t work though, snow would do and with that thought he is snow and burrows beneath the wall until he finds he can push up from the ground on the other side. Just a head pokes out from the drifts, turning this way and that, little ears bending to and fro but not because he is listening, it’s because he is excited.

    With a spring he launches his snow self from the frigid ground, flakes bursting into the air around him and falling inconspicuously back in their places. With a shake he frees himself of his snow coat, being that of a boy now, a blue roan boy who dances across the Tundra in delight.
    the mind is not a book to be opened at will and examined at leisure
    #2
    [style].pyropic2{background-image:url("http://www.barbellsandbeakers.com/beqanna/pyroclast1.jpg");width:400px;height:560px;z-index:1;border:black solid 1px}.pyrotext2{z-index:2;width:320px;height:370px;position:relative;top:20px;overflow-y:auto;color:#ffffff;text-align:justify;font-family:times;background-color:#000000;opacity: 0.6;filter: alpha(opacity=80);padding:10px;}.pyroname2{z-index:3;position:relative;top:50px;color:#ffffff;font-size:25pt;font-family:times;letter-spacing:10px;}.pyroquote{z-index:7;position:relative:bottom:30px;color:#000000;font-family:times;font-size:8pt;}[/style]
    Other than the green that flecks his coat, Pyro is never so impressive as those with traits. Real traits. Real abilities. He's vaguely aware of them - he saw them plastered on the faces of the horses he saw in the meeting and the king himself. He's so unaware of the capacity, though, for father had no traits to speak of - other than a hot head.

    Why he knows this, he'll never understand.

    So when the storm blows through like electricity on the cool day his interest is peaked, he cannot help but watch the out of character appearance of a horse from snow and nothing. The horse appears but a twenty feet from himself, looking as though it thoroughly intended to land there and nowhere else. Pyro blinks, shifts his weight, shaking his head - all signs of barely concealed nervousness. These interactions are becoming more and more frequent and he's unsure what to do to mitigate the stress.

    "Quite the party trick," he says, hiding the nervous octave of his voice.
    pyroclast.


    she was on fire last night / and i was breathing gasoline
    #3
    Rowling
    He leaps around like nobody's watching and, truth be told, he was a child and wouldn’t care if they did. It’s far too much fun to play without having to worry about looking silly or what others might think. So, instead of being self conscious, he enjoyed himself. And besides, Rowling isn’t sure what that even means. How could anyone feel silly playing anyways? Don't ask him.

    It seemed quiet here, much like home. Not that he could tell sound wise that it was quiet, there just weren’t many other horses out and about, not that he had seen. Home was like that too, except the Dale had lots of pretty meadows and flowers and here there was mostly ice and snow. Rowling didn’t mind though, he was probably one of few that didn’t. The blue roan had been born immune to the cold and perhaps that meant he didn’t really know what it meant to be cold either.

    As he frolics about his amber eyes catch sight of another horse, a black one, and my does he stand out against the whites of the background. The boy doesn’t waste much time in pressing towards the other to greet him, having never known unkindness, it was something he would ever expect. He can see the black’s mouth moving, he notices the speckles of green but the words won't register on his unhearing ears. Rowling is sure the other was speaking to him though as there was no evidence of food lingering in his parted lips. In return he can simply muster a pleased bleating noise, twisting snowflakes in the air and spelling ‘Hi’ on the ground.

    Letters are only good for those that know them though, pretty useless means of conversation unless Mom or sister were around. He tries anyways, someday he would find someone else that could read and what a day that would be! In addition to his squeaks and letters he reaches his muzzle out to sniff at the other, tiny nostrils flaring and unflaring as he does so.
    the mind is not a book to be opened at will and examined at leisure




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