"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
07-24-2016, 03:35 PM (This post was last modified: 07-24-2016, 04:08 PM by Manhattan.)
It had been many years since he’d seen these lands. To go to a place where his past was forever haunting him, the memories of places he’d once touched – air he’d once breathed – he was assailed with memories. Good memories and bad together wrapped around his head much like the flies that were curdled up around his ears and at his rump. With a slap, he batted them away with his tail and pulled himself to a steady speed, rolling down the hill as if he’d been born there.
Indeed, he had been. Once upon a time ago, he had been born with a promise. Curled inside the crux of his mother’s wing, he was tainted with the magic of a line long bereft of glory. He was the only in generations who had not been born with any sort of abilities, and he found that he enjoyed the simple life. And so he had faded into the ether, having fathered one child before making his way to the borders, never to be seen again.
Why then, he had chosen to return, was beyond his own comprehension. He had seen the world, and tasted of the victory that came from survival. The son of the magician, he was well traveled, sleek and fair. And yet, he had a weathered look that spoke of experience that belied his age. And as he broke the wind and tossed his fine head, he was finally aware that he was deep into the places that he had once known as a child.
Too late to turn back now.
These places, they were familiar to him. But the faces, they had changed. He regarded them warily, keeping his distance from any who might approach. He did not know what he was looking for when he decided to come back to Beqanna. The sunrise on his life was over – it was time to write out the sunset, and come to terms with whatever the rest of his life had in store.
MANHATTAN
Baby, I'm from New York, Concrete jungle where dreams are made of; there's nothing you can't do.
07-24-2016, 03:49 PM (This post was last modified: 07-24-2016, 04:07 PM by Oakheart.)
To be sincere, it would be a lie to say she recognized him. Where she is sleek, he is angled. Where she is rough, he is smooth. Her skin is of the palest yellow while is his is of a ruddy brown, touched by the slight flaxen mane. She resembled not much of her mother other than the hhybrid bit in her blood. Her features were delicate like October's, a tangle of inky black tresses obscuring the dark amber of her eyes. An unusual feature of tiny dots of colors accent her limbs despite the primitive marks from a quest of time passed.
Oak is grown now, filled out finely and chiseled from the fairest stone. She is fluid and blessed with the grace of the mother that she never really knew. October had been a ghost for much of her life, she was gentle and kind and looked after her young till the time came for her to leave. Oak had only saw her mother once since she struck her yearling-hood some years ago.
But-
But now that was not the thought to pass through her mind's eye. Dark pools see a creature up ahead. He is muddy red and stout. The male's form suggests a mutt-like heritage but there is a keenness in his eyes. Oak is suspicious of this man, electing to remain in her place rather than approach. She watches, quiet and brooding as she studies him. The inky black of her brow grossing over her eyes when a small chilled breeze tangles it's fingers playfully. The winter brings forth the thickness of her coat, darkening it ever so slightly with the coarseness of her hair but she does not budge but instead calls to the male. Thick hind tresses flicker up and over her haunches to tangle against the winter chill before a few paces are taken in his direction to show that she feigned some sort of interest as she was the caller after all.
"Hello there." Low. Feminine. Solid.
The dark eyes meet the stranger's to accompany the short greeting. It is unusual for the mare to even make such an outreach, typically she would pass by another unnoticed and invisible but not this time.
07-25-2016, 02:59 AM (This post was last modified: 07-25-2016, 03:01 AM by Manhattan.)
Those words. The tone of them rung through his ears like the finest silver bells that man could forge. Hot metal seared his flesh and he moved his back half, pivoting his body so he could see her standing in front of him. How she had caught him unaware, he was not quite sure. But the butter that rolled off her flanks suggested that she was as sweet as she was slippery – it was a taste and a smell that he was only slightly familiar with.
A blinking memory, a lapse in judgment before he had hidden himself away from the world – the vision of jack o’lanterns and haunted treats infecting his mind like a sticky sweet cavity. And then in his mind he knew this girl was his. But he would not for the life of him say it. Who in a generation would guess that the one person who could come upon him and be the first to greet him in years would be one of his own? Indeed, his only. He was greater than the need that burned his loins. The need for experience and survival, to run from the magic, to be normal, like the rest of them. This magician’s son, looking upon the mare with a distant regard, flecks of remembrance of her mother, gone just as fast as they appeared. Did she know? Was that why she had appeared out of the myst? Were the traits embedded in his blood present inside this one as well, hence why she was able to entrance him so? These questions plagued and bothered him. Manhattan was always so sure of himself, and never questioned his motivations, even if he afterwards found that he regretted them. It was the magic. It had to be. It was infecting him. He tilted his head, and tossed his ginger hair aside as to give her a view of his eyes, serious and steady. Would she recognize him? Would she even care? He backed up a step, kicking up dust, before blowing out his frustrations to the wind. If he was going to have company, he’d rather it be someone he sort of recognized, rather than a perfect stranger. He had no time for making friends. “Hello.” Simple and off putting. It did not further the conversation, but rather, put the ball in her court. What was her reason for approaching him? Was it the magic?
MANHATTAN
Baby, I'm from New York, Concrete jungle where dreams are made of; there's nothing you can't do.
07-27-2016, 05:09 PM (This post was last modified: 07-27-2016, 05:11 PM by Oakheart.)
The inner turmoil of the stallion shown and dipped rapidly beneath the waves of his features. Her own dark hair comes across to lick against the curve of her cheek, the caress of her brow. She can not read him for there was no such magic hibernating within.
October had kept her away, stolen from the fright of waging wars and blood alliances. The woman had done her best to raise the rebellious child but to only loosen her embrace when Oak took it upon herself to break the chains around her heels and to see the land that she was still such a stranger to.
Years had passed as she had made her home under the wink of starlight, nested upon sweet grasses with a full belly and wanderlust pumping through her veins. Oak settled for nothing. It seemed like horses came and went but none fulfilled the craving she felt. It seemed like the desire to connect, meld, was all but lost. But now, as the shame amber eyes of October's burns from beneath long dark lashes, she watches with the wisp of a curious smirk curling the very edge of her lips.
The stallion is moving, creating space as the red clay clouds and speckles their limbs but she pays it no mind. What had driven her to reach out and speak to the man? Who tugged the puppet strings in her mind ever so gingerly? "I'm Oakheart-"
The annunciation of her name, weighted but clean, like antique lead crystal. "Beautiful evening for a walk." Oak notices the growing shadows at their feet, the nip of chilled air whispering against the skin of her neck. Something gnaws at her as she can not pin point her interested in the cider tinted male. Her observation is none too clever but it was a start of a possible conversation. The feathering smirk of her lips broadens slightly to warm her features, lobes moving to listen for a reply- if any.
Oakheart
Manhattan x October
slow start but i'm enjoying this. it will be pretty fun to see how this all goes
Beautiful evening for a walk… And so it was. Manhattan had forgotten the sheer beauty that had come with winter time in the meadows around his homeland. He had always been so obsessed with avoiding his family and his lack of a magician’s touch that all he could ever see was what was over the next horizon. But as he was forced to stop his tracks and actually take notice of what was around him, he remembered his own childhood, and then tried to remember what it would have been like for her. Would it have been the same, even a generation removed? I’m Oakheart- So, October had named the girl Oakheart. Strange, flattering name for the buttermilk beauty. He tried not to see that she bore a striking resemblance to his own mother, sleek and clean, strong. And yet, touched by magic, she was not. Instead, she was everything her father had tried to be—and yet somehow could not succeed. She was warm, and best of all, she was happy. The concept of being happy escaped Manhattan just as the concept of self-assurance did. Spending so much time running from who he was, that he was never content with what he wasn’t. So he brought his head out of his thoughts and down to the present, trying ever so hard to contort his lips into a humanized smile--what was the point of trying to pretend to be something you weren’t… can horses even smile?-- before addressing his daughter, wondering if his next words would give him away. “I’m Manhattan, and yes, it is a beautiful night for a walk. It has been many years since my eyes have seen these lands. Care to give an old man a tour?”
MANHATTAN
Baby, I'm from New York, Concrete jungle where dreams are made of; there's nothing you can't do.
Perhaps if October had spoke more of the liver chestnut man, then perhaps Oak would have recognized his name once he had offered it. If the question had been asked though, Oak wouldn't not be able to recall ever hearing his name. October had raised the girl-child far and away from the meadow of her conception. The raven haired mare kept the little Oak stashed away from the harmful horses that existed in Beqanna. She wanted her child to grow up loved and happy...but in the end her love was what drove Oakheart away.
Perhaps the pale yellow mare did indeed have some of her father in her. She was quiet and headstrong, always consumed with a fierce wanderlust that could not be quenched. When Manhattan makes the remark of having been away from the lands for some time, well now, her attention is surely drawn. What else lay outside Beqanna? More horses?
Perhaps nothing at all.
Oak does not speak when he asks for her to escort him around. In fact, she stands rooted in her place as her dark eyes look him over, scrutinizing him. The silence slips in between them and when it is almost unbearable...Oak nods. A small smile slips over her lips lazily and she moves to take his side. "Well I see that the meadow is already covered. But tell me Manhattan about your travels? What lies beyond our mountains and shores?" Her body is in motion now but her face is trained to the stallion. Small translucent puffs escape her lips as the winter hugs tight around them. Oak can not help the small shiver of her skin against the cold.
That was an easy answer to her question. The world was there. There was always more world. Wherever you chose to be, there would always be more outside of home than there was of home. It was quite certain that Manhattan had probably circumnavigated his way around his world, simply in an effort to try and get as far away from the concept of home as possible. Having come back here, to this place, it just meant that he had not really stopped to enjoy his scenery.
He was hollow.
“I was born, I ran, and then I died. There is not much to tell, except that the one time I counted myself happy, I went and fucked it all up. I had a child. Only I didn’t stick around.”
Manhattan shifted his weight and waffled an exhale of hot air that rolled over Oakheart’s shaggy back. Now that winter had set in, both of them sported a coat of thick, scraggly fur. It was nothing luxurious in the least, but every bit as functional and practical as the pair as they walked slowly through the confines of the meadow to an unknown direction. There were not many here on this cold day. Just the few who had meetings have, women to chase, or children to herd.
The man touched by magic lifted his head and surveyed what was left of these lands before bringing his eyes to steady against his daughter.
“What of you? Have you never deigned to explore the lands beyond of your birth? To take your family and run from here?”
MANHATTAN
Baby, I'm from New York, Concrete jungle where dreams are made of; there's nothing you can't do.
As they walk and the stallion begins to speak, Oak listens with the occasional glance to her company. She notices he is a finely built man. Older but still full of many more years. Her own brown eyes seem to glint as his and she feels the hot steam of his throat touching tender parts of her spine, her skin quivering at the sensation.
She finds herself nodding along as he speaks of the past. Was this in Beqanna? Was this before her time? He talks of fucking up a presumed perfect situation. Oak had not know what was considered an ideal situation. Her own mother had kept her sheltered and away, to keep her safe or something along those lines till she had to leave and break free. The wildness in her breast kept the pale buckskin feral and free.
Her attention is drawn when Manhattan speaks of her own desire to flee, to leave Beqanna and Oakheart can only really meet his gaze with a slight curl of a smile tugging at her lips. "Yes, of course." The words are forward, no hint of fear nor sarcasm. Oak desired so much more than Beqanna and deep in her heart there was something tat beckoned her to continue on...to find what was missing. "Your child...born here?" Oak desired the keep the conversation going despite the small flecks of snow that had begun to cling to the dark tresses along her neck and brow. She finds she enjoys Manhattan's company despite having spend so much time alone but content.
Your child…born here? Manhattan tossed his head at the question. So she was perceptive enough to catch upon his off-handed comments. October had been that way too. Perceptive, smart. He had until this moment only seen pieces of his mother inside of Oakheart, but now he smiled inside to think that she did indeed have bits and pieces of her mother inside her as well. She was indeed the perfect buttermilk blend of both sources of her heritage. He moved alongside her, up the hill and towards the boarder of the Meadow, as if they were headed out of the common lands and to where somewhere… specific. “Yes. She was born here. I sometimes wonder what became of her.” Flipping his tail and moving his back behind him, he looked down the hill where they had come from, watching the trails of nearly matching hooves as they made their mark amongst the snowfall. He was finding that, in her company, his need to constantly traverse the world was becoming less and less palatable. He had seen the world. What if there was more to learn from simply… staying? Yet, he could even see his wildness and reckless heart inside her, and worried for her if she chose to run as he did. Would she regret it? Did he?
MANHATTAN
Baby, I'm from New York, Concrete jungle where dreams are made of; there's nothing you can't do.
08-14-2016, 05:28 PM (This post was last modified: 08-14-2016, 05:30 PM by Oakheart.)
The comfort she finds in the embodiment of the stallion unnerves her. He invokes a sense of peace, as though she had known him all along. They are close in height, she bore a paler shade than her mother but the same dark hair that swept to obscure her eyes from time to time. October spoke little of her father, though as a child, the buckskin mare had told a fairy tale of their courting, they love, a spell of spider silk lies (though Oakheart had not known better) and even so October had maintained that her father had left to better their lives and had yet returned seeking fortune.
But Oak sees similarities in this stallion. The glint of a sharp eye, the dart of a tongue. The way they seemed to share the same crooked smirk, the sarcasm, the dry humor, the wittiness...
Oak knows deep down, it was too similar, too coincidental. After all this time? Oakheart steals a few glances at the male and in the light of the small snowflakes that drifted drunkenly down. Her own eyes flick to her hooves as they moved in near perfectly matched paces. "I feel like I know you." The mare's words are murmured, encased in a frosty plume of air. She wants to continue further with her suspicion but how ludicrous would it to be to accuse a stranger of being her father after years? Now if it were Carnage or Rea (like half the people she knew) then it wouldn't be that shocking to make such claim but for now she allows her words to float between them...to see how he would respond.
