"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
They say time heals all wounds. Maybe that's true. But even healed wounds leave the body scarred... different. A healed body will never be the same as it was before the wounds. This is Seraphina. Healed, but different than before.
Before she had been a great warrior, body poised and ready for action at any turn. She had proudly put her past behind her in order to create a new existence with her sheer might. It worked for a while; she was able to force a place for herself in the world, but at a great cost. She had been unreachable - the only language she had understood was battle and blood. She had fought for what she desired, but once gained it was never as sweet as she had imagined. That had been her life - one disappointment after another. Even her children had never tugged at her heartstrings like she had imaged they should.
Only now does she realize her folly. Only now can she see that it was an act. Now she can clearly see that her past had created the blind and angry creature she had been in her youth. Now she sees that she had not left anything behind, but carried it with her. The greatest of burdens.
But with realization comes redemption. She enters the grassy meadow, a place she knows well, as if for the first time. Her golden eyes which had once been so sharp and cold now have a softness to them, a warmth that had never been genuine before. Her tawny feathers flutter gently in the breeze that sways the grasses and her talons, once lusting for the blood of enemies, now grasp at the cool and soft ground beneath them. She closes her eyes for a moment and feels that she has become a part of this land around her.
Slowly the ancient one begins to move again. She shifts her wings and slowly and deliberately moves in the direction of others that have sought out this land to graze or converse. Many of the ones that she might remember are long gone, but she finds that the idea of meeting someone new might be just what she needs in this moment.
07-25-2016, 07:58 PM (This post was last modified: 07-25-2016, 08:14 PM by Fart.)
Time heals all wounds, is that what they say? Perhaps. Time may heal wounds, physical ones, he might agree to that. It however did not relieve the mind of them, one did not forget, not wholly. Time seemed to stand still here, back home, if this were ever really home. It was nothing compared to the swift passing of days when he had spent them in the company of a certain fairy godfather, warm and content by a fire. Time was idle now, inching past the minutes of the hours but only just. It felt like an eternity to Fart, it felt like always and he was certain he was doomed to feel as this forever.
Perhaps that is why he could not keep himself from the common lands, the grazing areas where others clustered in groups while he watched from the sidelines. Never too close, just out of reach and certainly downwind.
For a long time he had not known the meaning of company or the joys of it, now he found it was something he longed for. Just as well it didn’t last, Fart wasn’t accustomed to the exclusivity of it, to the comfort in it. Once there had been hands, one’s that hurt when they touched, one’s that made pain. And while he could not paint the face of the pain maker he remembered that it had been, that he had felt it. Hands were not just for hurting though, they were for sweet touches, petting and they were accompanied by soft words. Hands could be kindness.
He missed kindness, feeling good about himself, feeling wanted and needed. That just wasn’t in the cards here, not yet but that didn’t keep him from thinking that it could be. Perhaps with time he could be kindness, soft words and touches. He could find the broken things, things unwanted or needed, he could need them, want them, and in return maybe he could get the same. It was a thought, an idea and one that was still quite out of his comfort zone. Broken things had to be sought, he had to search and that meant standing in crowded places- even if it were on the edge of them. That's when he saw her, sharp edges and talons.
Fart had always been different, always ugly and no one let him forget it. That’s why he notices her, her physical differences, the things that made her unique to the eye and perhaps (like himself) feared or unwanted. Shunned. Fart almost steps out from the borders, the front end of his limey green self moving forward before coming to an abrupt halt mid-motion. In that short stint of time he had thought better of it, became of unsure of himself within the blink of an eye and he looked up from his feet with uncertainty. His right foreleg that was raised, slowly lowered to the ground as he watched her approach the group of others just past himself.
One thing the old girl had given up trying to comprehend was time. Time passed neither quickly or slowly to an immortal being. It simply made no sense; her parents and children were dead but her great grandmother and great grandfather were alive and well. To her, time was an unending cycle that could only be broken by death. But then, death is just a part of that cycle, isn't it?
But with others so close to her now, she stops to wonder how long it has been since she last exchanged words with another? How long since she had smiled at a friend, laughed with a lover, snarled at an enemy? All the things that make life unique and interesting had been absent from her life for what seemed like an eternity. Sure, she could remember all of these things, but now she fretted that it was possible to become rusty at socializing. She was no longer an Amazonian warrior, a princess, or a mother, a sister or even a friend. What was she? Who was she?
As these thoughts spiral through her mind, a movement on her peripherals catches her attention. The hawk mare is not one to judge, but for the longest time she has been the most unusual thing she had seen. The novelty of the green male before her makes her smile and she momentarily forgets all of the uncertainties that had just clouded her thoughts and moves towards him. She notices the look of anxiety on his face and almost laughs at the fact that the two strangers had been feeling so similarly. Perhaps she was meant to meet this man.
Feathered head bobs in greeting as she approaches him. Shy was never a word that had described Seraphina, and she noticed that perhaps some things had stayed the same as before. A soft smile remains on her lips, making her sharp features a little less intimidating. "Hello" she says softly, her vocal chords unused for an unmeasurable amount of time are slightly raspy, reminiscent of dry leaves ready for a rainstorm. Stopping a polite distance from the male she again shifts her wings and quickly nips at an errant feather. Returning her golden gaze to the green one before her she continues cautiously with "Who might you be?"
Perhaps in times past she might have begun with an introduction: a list of titles and positions used mostly to inflate her overgrown ego. But currently she is unsure of how to proceed. She is rusty after all, and she decides to take the male's lead. That is if he decides that Seraphina, a girl with no titles or lofty positions, is worth talking to.
For some time is a precious commodity, the commodity. For Fart time was confusing, he couldn’t wrap his head around it and how it came and went, both slow and quick in intervals- on a whim of its own. Maybe he wasn’t meant to understand anything about it but it didn’t keep him from wanting to or trying.
It is his own insecurities that unravel him, that stop him before he can proceed down a path of change. Change was hard, for most beings, and Fart was not immune to the desire to resist it. He was immobile then, hooves planted firmly on the ground, either unable or unwilling to move. He could progress forward, he probably even should but instead Fart was feeling stuck. All he had to do was continue to propel himself forward, maybe open up his mouth and say hello. It wasn’t so easy though, the thought process was there but he was hard pressed to follow through.
What an odd statue he made. A vivid green mortar, incomplete in ways with no mane and a split lip. Someone must have fallen asleep on the job.
At first he watched her, too afraid to move even as she drew closer to him. Close, far too close and when she is almost upon him he jerks, shies back a pace. Most of the time when something was coming at him it was a sure sign of hostility, never good, almost always painful. He expects no less this time, assumptions getting the best of him and he readied for the heat that was to follow. But it didn’t, instead she spoke to him, ever so softly like a whisper among wildflowers. The breeze coaxing the words from the silent blooms as they swayed to its entrancing melody. Even as the word scratched her vocals he could not hear it, could not discern the disuse because the tone of it was ever so nice, so kind. It didn’t hurt when she spoke and he found himself interested in the words.
Two lime green ears pull themselves forward on his skull, his muddy brown eyes showing a deep sense of curiosity but also a healthy dose of uncertainty. The lines were hard around them, the creases deep at their edges but he was not at all old- just worn. “Oh- oh, um, hello,” he manages, still surprised and shocked anyone was speaking to him at all. “Who am I? Well, I’m Fart but no one really. What’s your name?” She was probably someone, had to be, weren’t the nice looking horses always somebodies?
She has not meant to frighten him. Maybe before, in her youth, she would have reveled in such a reaction to her appearance. She had hoped for these features after all, crafted them carefully to meet her needs. How naive she had been, to not think of the far-reaching consequences of such dangerous looks. Of course it had been years (or hundred of them) since she had last spoken to another horse, so this gnawing feeling of remorse was new to her. All she wanted now was to be seen as the gentle being she felt she had become on the inside, not the warrior raptor she had been.
His reaction hurts - of course she has no way of knowing that it is caused (at least in part) by his own insecurities. She feels a sort of heat rise in her face and behind her eyes as she doubts her decision to speak to him. She sends her eyes down to the ground between them quickly, unable to face that fear any longer. But then he responds, his voice quiet and unsure of itself. Just as quickly her eyes jolt back up to the green male and she glimpses for the first time the inner demons behind those brown eyes. Not to their full extent, of course, but she can at least acknowledge their existence. Maybe this hadn't been such a bad idea after all.
The hilarity of his name and the color of his skin and the sour smell that she was now quite sure belonged to him strike her now and she can't help but smile. Nature had been cruel to this poor animal, but damn didn't she have a sense of humor? The hawk woman can only guess at the sort of life the poor kid had led, but still she knew of plenty of horses seemingly much worse off that had led perfectly happy and productive lives. Prolific too. She often wondered why the odd ones always had so many children. Guess novelty was the new sexy when she was young. Maybe, she thinks, it's different now. The green man doesn't seem the type to have fathered many foals, but she could be wrong. She looks at him curiously as she ponders this and considers his words.
No one, huh? That described her pretty well too. What a pair they made, two weird-looking nobodies. One stunk, one could easily gouge your eyes out. She can't stop smiling. "Nice to meet you, Fart. I'm Seraphina." She wants to add something to that, but there is nothing to add. It sounds so empty to her ears, like some awful, disappointing cliffhanger. She shifts her weight gently, slowly, as to avoid startling her companion and also to move herself away from the edge of that metaphorical cliff. "Are you from around here?" She asks curiously. She knows that some horses wander to these lands from parts unknown. She herself had traveled outside of Beqanna's borders. Perhaps this man had a home here, or like her, was transitory - a wanderer. Regardless, she is interested in his story and wants to hear his voice again. The voice of another was like a cool drink to this girl who had spent so, so much time alone.
Mostly he is afraid he will insult her with his presence, thus he pulls away. The scent that permeates around him is not a pleasant one, it never had been either, not even before he had been tampered with. Fart was used to accommodating others in this manner, it had saved him from much humiliation and even more physical assault he was sure. Most horses didn’t stink so bad and the ones that did, well, it was quite apparent they did not take very good care of themselves. That wasn't the case with Fart though, it wasn’t that he was dirty at all, he kept fairly clean- he just could not rid himself of the smell. It was both a curse and a blessing. A curse because it left him in solitude, ill equipped for social interactions and awkward in company at best. A blessing because when he had been Magicked away the gift had been used to his advantage, refined, and then given to him to keep as defense of sorts.
He watches her carefully for signs of discomfort, a wrinkled nose, a furrowed brow. There was always something to tell him that he was too close and there were not always obvious displays, some were more subtle indicators. He was sure to notice the signs and he would quickly make himself scarce if need be. Instead of displaying displeasure with his scent she looks a bit, sullen perhaps? The mare’s eyes find the ground and he himself was accustomed to looking at it most of the time, his own muddy brown eyes follow suit. Maybe he should have kept them there, avoided eye contact that had led her over in the first place. If he pretended to be invisible sometimes he remained that way to others.
There is nothing of interest there on the ground, save his own smooth hooves and then her, claws? The roan stallion wasn’t expecting that, what a curious appendage to have as a horse. Once he had had his own strange parts, wings with sharp edges for one, the likes of which he had not encountered since. He tilts his head slightly at the sight, unsure of how they had gotten there, maybe a fairy tinkered with her once as well. Maybe she just wanted him to see her feet and if he had his own fancy ones he might have done the same. There is nothing fancy about him though, he is terribly plain really, unless you counted his disfigurements and he surely did not. When he looks up again to tell her they are nice indeed she is smiling and he does not know at all what for. Nice to meet you, more kind words and they are not lost on his limey colored ears.
“Nice too,” he speaks nodding his hairless head, “those are nice too, yes.” It is as though he is agreeing with something she had said. Maybe he stares too hard, almost unhearing of what else she has to say but he gently shakes himself to wake up from the daze. “From here? Yes, sort of. Here but no where, I kind of just keep out of the way you know?” Yes, that was the truth of it, he went where he could and when he was no longer welcome he moved on. “You, um, live here too?” He asks but he hadn’t noticed her around if she did, maybe she was a good hider, better than him. If so he would have to ask for tips, it would be rather useful to know those sort of tricks.
She almost missed his stare at her feet and was confused with his response at first. Her head tilted slightly, a smile still playing on her lips from the confusion. But then she recalled where his eyes had just come from and she can’t help but laugh. Nice? That word had certainly never been used to describe her talons before. Was he into that sort of thing? Or maybe he was really just that odd. Either way it struck her as funny.
“They haven’t been too nice in the past, but I suppose they have their good points.” A sort of sadness creeps into her golden eyes to recall days where the bird-like appendages had been blood soaked. She could still remember the way it felt to tear into flesh; both in battle and…otherwise. But she didn’t want to think about that today. Instead she digs said talons into the soft earth below and enjoys the way it feels cool and reassuring.
She finds herself nodding in understanding when he explains his living situation. She was familiar with this lifestyle after all, even if it wasn’t normally her style. But how to answer his question. She had anticipated it as a natural follow-up to her own, but now that it came to it she was not ready to answer. “Well…” she begins tentatively “I’m from here. I lived here a long time ago.” Now, she knows she doesn’t really look that old; no silver hairs in her bay pelt to give it away. But maybe a fatigue hidden in her eyes that betrays her. “I just came back. I’m not sure where I’ll go from here.” And wasn’t that the truth.
She takes a closer look at her companion now, as if maybe the answers to her uncertainty were hiding on him somehow. Instead her gaze comes to rest on his lip, split in such an unusual way. Maybe it was her background in battle, or maybe just her nativity to such natural deformities but she assumed the split was some healed battle wound. He doesn’t look like much of a war horse, so maybe he was attacked? “Mind if I ask how that happened to your lip?” She asks quietly, hoping not to offend him. It seems their conversation has been pretty fragile so far, so she is concerned that such an invasion of privacy might take it too close to its end.
Usually that is his first thought, his first consideration on a thing- the danger of it. Yet she was already so close, so near that he could feel her breathing and smell the unsoured scent of her coat. If she were going to kill him with her feet she would have done so already, or perhaps she was waiting for a more opportune time, in which case it would be too late for Fart anyways.
It was almost too late for Fart once before, he recalls his heavy head against a warm stone floor. There had been Magic and blood and so much fighting, so much pain. He was brave then, in that other land, he was strong and he was free of the world’s discrimination. No one was there to make him feel unloved, or ugly. Instead there were few and there was one that really mattered, Grumble. How he missed that time, that feeling of being needed and useful.
Fart shakes his hairless head, sending the sad thoughts away because now was not really a good time for moping was it? No, she had answered his question and it was much like his own. She had nowhere to go, didn’t belong. Seraphina had also just come back, well, he had done just that too. Sort of but he didn’t know how long he had truly been away. Here it felt as if time had not passed, that months or years spent with Grumble had been a mere blink of an eye in this world. A breath. He nods his head looking thoughtful, relaxing a bit for once and allowing the tension of his muscles to retreat. At the present he was not under attack, the opposite, he was experiencing company for the first time in this world in a very long time.
He didn’t count the mares he had somehow gotten with child this season, the women likely unaware of what had truly occurred. They were probably dizzy from the fumes, incoherent and unable to make wise choices. Come to think of it he felt sort of bad about it, it was a rotten thing to do, not that he had forced any of them but still. "Me too," he says, hoping it would make her feel better. "Sort of, I mean, I was somewhere else before this," he wasn't sure where exactly, just that it wasn't here at all.
The next question is almost lost, a gentle whispering of words and for a moment he feels sad for her. He had made her embarrassed to ask maybe but no one had ever asked him why or how he looked the way he did. “I’m not sure, see, I was born with it like that. I’ve not know it to be any other way, makes eating sort of hard too, guess that’s why I’m so scrawny. Bet I look awful, no, I know I do. Can’t be helped, I eat best I can though.” He nods, muddy eyes searching blankly ahead wondering to himself if he had answered her well enough. “Suppose you had claws when you were born too? Or did a fairy give them to you? A fairy gave me something too, not so nice as those I suspect but I think it could be useful.” His limey ears twitched against the breeze and he worried for a moment that he was standing too close again.
“That’s okay if one did, I don’t mind them,” he added, unsure if he had himself landed on a touchy subject for the woman in front of him. “Are they why you are alone now?” Drat, ruined it again probably.
The stallion seems to drift off now, his brown eyes clouded over as he looses himself to thought. Again she is reminded of those demons that seem to haunt him and she wonders at what they might be made of. Its not as if she doesn’t have her own, but she imagines that his are of a different variety. Hers are made of vines and humidity, blood and battle scars, pride and humiliation.
But he comes back to the present and resumes the conversation. Never giving too much information, just enough. She realizes that she has been doing the same thing. Regardless, she smiles and nods in camaraderie. A fellow lost soul trying to find their way.
Suddenly he seems to find his words as they all come gushing out at once. She had feared his rejection but instead got more than what she had bargained for. Born that way? This is something the mare had not considered. Her hawk eyes examine his lip more closely now and notice the lack of scar tissue that was sure to have formed if it had indeed been a wound. He speaks of his weight and she notices this for the first time as well. He does seem a little thin, but not necessarily unhealthy.
“Well you seem healthy otherwise.” The words come out as quiet laughter. Not laughter at him, but at the way he has described himself so condescendingly. “Don’t be so harsh on yourself!” She shakes her feathered head as she laughs, exposing part of the area under her mane where the feathers mingled with the hair, in some spots looking braided together.
She considers his questions. When did she get her talons? Definitely not when she was born. Was it the result of some quest? Some battle? Her smile lessens as she thinks. “I’m not really certain when they appeared. I was born a normal horse, for the most part. The wings came later. And then the feathers sort of took over. Before I knew it, talons instead of hooves.” She regards her own feet as she ponders. “I think it may have been in preparation for some upcoming war or battle, some jungle magic.”
It never occurred to her to fear her companion. He was smaller than her, timid, and self-proclaimed malnourished. But he speaks of a gift from a fairy and now she looks up, curious as to what he could be hiding. A small part of her stiffens as she prepares to assess the potential danger. But he doesn’t elaborate and she is left wondering.
He speaks of fairies again. She had very little experience with the creatures, but he seemed to be familiar with them. “I don’t know much about them except that they are extremely powerful.” She says tentatively. “What did they give you?” She asks almost as carefully since it hadn’t been offered the first time it was mentioned.
With his next question she smiles a sweet, sad smile. “No, I’m alone because of my own misguidance.” Her eyes look past him now as she allows herself a moment of retrospection. It passes quickly and her eyes find him once more as she nonchalantly takes a few steps closer. She smiles, warmly this time. “But I’m not alone now!”
Seemed healthy, only seemed because truly Fart couldn’t have been entirely well. It’s not just the fact that he was a bit peaky, his outsides weren’t the only issue. It were his insides too, Thinking so terribly low of oneself was not at all healthy but he didn’t know any better, didn’t know that that too was a sickness in itself. He was sort of a broken mess as a whole, torn apart, pieced together, then torn apart once more. It was hard for the roan to know which was the right perception, was he a loser or a winner? Was he brave or a cowardly? Everything had been tumbled around one too many times inside his head so he could not wholly be sure of the path that was correct.
“I don’t mean to be so negative, or maybe I do. I’m not sure what I mean most of the time, everything is so topsy turvy lately.” His ears droop while his limey tail half-heartedly sways against his legs. Fart was feeling quite conflicted, never seeming to know what to do or say. It is her laughter and delightful, yet confusing responses that bring his attention again. His bright ears flick forward and his muddy brown eyes display interest in her words. So she wasn’t born like that, hadn’t been given things by fairies either? Fart wasn’t sure what to make of that (surprise) he didn’t understand how these changes had just come to be. It had to be Magic of some sort hadn’t it? These physical changes didn’t just spontaneously come to be. Further more, if they did then that meant she was born with them, harboring them deep inside herself until they emerged.
Or one might speculate.
Then she mentioned a War and Jungle Magic and Fart had a sudden memory flood his conscious. He recalled something so very similar, a War indeed but not with the Jungle at all. This War of memory was personal, terrifying and painful. He too had been made into something he was not for it, things had been pulled from deep inside of him and made corporeal by a maleficent being. Those were the hands that hurt, the creature that brought him pain and it was bright, so very bright in that chamber of torture. Then again he would suffer that pain again because Grumble had been there, had found him and shown him his potential. Still, he shook at the recollection of it, the terrible parts bleeding over the nice ones for a time and when he looked at her again (looked and saw) his flat eyes were pained. “I understand,” he said quietly, gulping away his terrors.
“Indeed they are powerful,” he responded, still slightly trembling, “or they have been at some point, Grumble was once, and he was my friend too.” There was a sadness there in the telling but also a twinkle of fondness under all the layers of misery. “I will show you what he gave me, at his own great cost. I will show you but you must not come close.” It was a warning not because he wanted to sound ominous but because he did not want her to come to harm. With a few paces he distanced himself, stalking away until he thought he was well down wind and would cause her no ailment. Then he looked at her intently, boring his muddy eyes into her own bird-like oculars and bent his hairless head to a cluster of clover. Fart inhaled, his barrel expanding wide and then he exhaled, violently green gas emitted from his split mouth coiling over the greenery like a cloud.
That which it touched promptly curled, decayed and wilted until it was brown. Until it was dead and lifeless.
He looked away from the rotted clover once his demonstration was done, wondering if she would perceive him as some sort of monster now. “Aye, you are not so alone now,” he nodded because how very true that come to be for him, he could not help but to compare the similarity in the receiving of their gifts. “We could find somewhere to be not alone together, we could find a spot for others like ourselves.” The idea had just occurred to him that the world had left them to their own devices one way or another, that the world had left them alone. They didn’t have to be that way though, they could find their own little spot to be, there own little place of not aloneness. Maybe he could find others too, those left to the winds and those that needed to not be alone the most. Those so like himself it was uncanny.
