"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
let me pick your brain, girl. and tell me how they got that pretty little face on that pretty little frame.
She has lived here her entire life in the shadow of this Volcano. In the end, her mother was not the one that her father had chosen, but they continued to live together in a quiet life that was neither remarkable, nor notable. She simply grows up with her father and her mother… and all was well. She was a wild girl who had fire in her eyes, and the red glow that lay there was mischievous and telling. There was no denying her parentage. And do she continued to grow, and fill out her form, until she was slick like oil that was set on fire, her curves perfect and built out. She was tall and dark, her sunset features starting at her belly and slinking downward to her thickly wrapped legs. She was athletic and sensuous. She walked with pride, and with knowing. And so, when her father’s best friend became Overseer of their land, there was no surprise. He had earned it, and had deserved it. Everyone said so. And though Ceara was just a child when it all had happened, she had always fancied Warrick’s wings, and the way he walked. He was always handsome to her. And she was no child any longer. Reagan’s chiding whispered furiously in her ears as she crossed the islands in search of the new King, figuring it was only right for her to swear fealty to him as the new leader. Though if he ordered, she would swear so much more. “Hello Warrick. Fine day we’re having, here, don’t you think?”
The title had not been given to him for more than a day, and the blue-bay already felt the weight of it crashing down around him. Ever the protector, ever the wise, he held his head with a strong and indignant pride, unwavering beneath the weight for it was Tephra, his home and his heart. It always would be (he had always made it prominent to do so, for investing all of himself into anything else could lead to disaster), so the terrible crown that encircles his head is not so much of the thorns Ellyse envisions them to be.
He is staring into the ocean, as he always is, with the salt-stained wind coursing through his russet skin and navy feathers, trilling them with its warm fingers as summer arrives in the tropical landscape. The heat is unforgiving and unmerciful, but the stallion finds it rather comfortable, despite the sheen of sweat that begins to lace his shoulders and haunches, glistening heavily in the summer sun. He is prepared to nearly take his leave, to search for relief from a spring or a nearby waterfall, when the sound of approaching hooves on darkened and ash-stained sand causes him to hesitate, cerulean eyes lifting upwards to find the source.
A woman, gilded in amber and shadow, is walking towards him. Her eyes are illuminating and knowing, though the stallion has trouble placing her face with a name. Warrick watches her stride towards him beneath a furrowed brow, curious and welcoming (as always), lowering his head a degree to welcome her onto the black sand beach on which he stood.
She knows his name, and her voice is that of honey and wine, causing the navy of his lips to press together in an endearing smile, curious as to how well she knew the winged stallion before her. His absence had been brief in his venture to the Great Plains (a tinge of sadness pricks in his chest for his dear Tangerine), and perhaps her residency had taken place during that time, for so much else had happened during his time away.
“Summer in Tephra has always been a favorite of mine,” he admits to the mysterious stranger, glancing away from her for a moment to survey the towering volcano in the distance that dwarfs them in size and majesty. “So yes, a fine day.” He turns his brilliant blue gaze back to her, carefully tracing the soft curve of her cheek and the way that the sooty color of her skin fades into the sunset red of her belly and muscled legs. He cannot help but think she is somehow familiar, or that he should know her in some way. “I feel...” he begins, blinking his cerulean eyes slowly, thoughtfully, “as if I should already know your name?” He doesn’t mean for it to be a question but it is - the confidence in her prowess is undeniable (she belonged here, on the volcanic island), but he cannot remember formally meeting the mare before him.
let me pick your brain, girl. and tell me how they got that pretty little face on that pretty little frame.
Of course there was no way he’d remember her. She’d barely been born when he’d left, and had done much growing up even since he’s come back. She is not the child that she was once upon a time ago—lo, it would even be said that Offspring would hardly recognize his own daughter, and he actually knew her. Though it would be said also that if her father knew where she was, it would be very likely that she would not be allowed to socialize in polite society ever again.
But Ceara is not a child, and she is determined to prove it.
The onyx-colored beauty laughs, the red glow in her eyes brightening as she steps to him. “Pardon me, your majesty. It’s Ceara. You mean to tell me you didn’t recognize me?” But it is with a knowing look and shuttered gaze between her thick lashes that she shows her flank to her best advantage and slaps her tail on her backside. Of course he didn’t recognize her. And she was determined to make the best of it.
The summer weather was certainly balmy, and sea was a cool relief from the heat, but between the salt and the sulphur, it was murder on her mane and tail. She does her best to compensate her visage, her young eyes shamelessly viewing the knotted cords of his muscles as they rippled under his copper-colored skin. She closes her eyes and stretches out her neck, and a white/grey smoke appears from nothing, healing her hair and restoring it to its best condition. Cosmetic, and frivolous maybe, but she never had the opportunity to use her abilities. So few people fought in wars these days….and Ceara was no warrior. And she so loved her smoke.
“Wearing my daddy’s crown, I see. It looks good on you. Though I would say anything would look good on you.”
The breeze was picking up and the clouds were rolling in, the quiet rumbling of the volcano standing vigil, as an ever present protector. “How are you today?”
As she turns herself from him to show the length of her body, he feels slightly foolish that he hadn’t recognized her, despite her obvious growth during his absence. The unique pattern of her coat should have been enough, but the winged stallion is not himself lately and did not put a name to her face until her voice comes to him on the sultry evening air, ‘I’m Ceara.’ He had noticed the ‘your majesty’ part, but the way she said it lets him know that she is only teasing, but a sheepish smile finds his cobalt lips anyway. He is nowhere near a king or even kingly in his mannerisms, but he gives the young woman credit for attempting to not only congratulate him on his new title, but to keep his mind off of other things.
“Ceara,” he repeats, a knowing look finding his face as he surveys Offspring’s daughter for the first time in a long while, tilting his head slightly. “Forgive me,” he replies with a gentle chuckle, a light dip of his head to further play the part of ‘royalty’ and keep the laughter in his blue eyes. He watches curiously as a thin veil of smoke appears through the air (not entirely surprising, with the volcano’s breath upon them in the distance), but he could tell that it came from her very being, especially the way it danced and swirled through the air masterfully, restoring the tendrils of her mane to a pristine condition before his very eyes. He snorts softly, tossing his head to reveal the brilliance of his blue eyes beneath the thickness of his ebony mane.
‘Wearing my daddy’s crown, I see.’
“I do not wear it lightly,” he replies with a smile, though his voice has a certain calm about it that came from the importance of his new title; some things were too serious to joke about. It is heavy, the pull of the crown she speaks of, and he can already feel it bearing itself down into his core. That is why he is thankful for her presence today, and her honeyed voice and though unexpected, her curious compliments about his physique and overall stature. It was unusual for him, but he rather enjoyed the candor, and does not wish her to be on her way.
“I’m well, Ceara. I hope you are the same?” He pauses, tilting his head a bit and watching the dark red of her eyes with his own. Offspring’s blood is visible in every inch of her, though the feminine physique and litheness is something all her own. “I was about to go for a swim; care to join me?”
let me pick your brain, girl. and tell me how they got that pretty little face on that pretty little frame.
She cannot helped but be charmed by him. The ever adoring uncle—except he was not blood related to her in any way. She had always admired him from a far, watching him exercise his goodness and strength for others, seeing how he cared for them. And she had waited for the time that she could approach him not as a child, but as a woman.
And now that the time had come, she finds that she is pleased. His physique is perfectly matched to suit her own. He is large and broad where she is lithe and lean. He is cut and corded, where she is soft and curvy. And those shining blue eyes that lay under an unkempt mop of thick black hair—eyes that were finally resting on her body with an appreciation that she knew her body pleased him. She smiles coyly, playfully nipping at his shoulder as she prances lightly in place. His thick voice murmurs quietly to her, and she draws close to him again, suddenly quieted, her facial features resigned. “You are so serious, Warrick.” Her voice is thick, her mood exaggerated.
She is teasing him.
She kisses his cheek lightly and steps back, unable to believe what she has just done. A warm flush rises over her face and settles in her toes—but her eyes are ever vigilant, trained on his body. She does not know what she is doing, but she knows what her heart is saying….and she suddenly feels sick to her stomach. “I know you will do a fine job. You would not have been chosen for this great honor if you were not ready.”
Her eyes are shuttered, and she finally remembers herself as a child of two former rulers. Warrick has wisely changed the subject, kindly enough to let her out of her embarrassing situation… though it should be obvious to him now that her secret childhood crush is a secret no longer. Her breast rises and falls, and he asks after her.
Nodding, she smiles, her nostrils flaring. God, he smells good.“I am very well, thank you. The days are getting longer and I find that I often come to the beach just to stare at the waves. It is something my mother often does.” Suddenly he asks her to swim, pumping his corded muscles forward in her direction, asking her to join him for a swim in the waves. Ceara’s throat goes dry, and her heart is in her ears when she hears herself agreeing reluctantly.
Swimming. With Warrick. She was going swimming with WARRICK!
He rather enjoys the company, and the way her lilting voice becomes a welcome distraction - he also realizes (a bit sullenly), that he has been rather lonely as the days grow longer and more brutal, keeping to himself along the briny and smoky shores of his home, beneath the grumbling ash of the volcano. Her presence is a breath of fresh air, sweet and cool against the sweltering and unforgiving heat.
You are so serious, Warrick.
He is not surprised by the comment, because she is completely right (for he’s heard it before), but also because the teasing flutter of her voice is natural on her vocal cords, simple and honest. He follows her statement with a deep chuckle that reverberates in the bellows of his chest cavity, his eyes sparkling with laughter. He says nothing, for in just a few moments she sweeps the ebony of her lips against the copper of his cheek, a gentle and sweetly-snuck kiss so generously planted on his face. His brows raise curiously, though he does not question the gesture, and though he is taken aback (for being older than her, the stallion is not as familiar with women as so many would believe), he offers her a charming, thankful smile, ushering her towards the deeper jungle behind them where trails of freshwater flow freely beside streams of molten lava.
Warrick leads her towards a nearby stream, a few meters wide with a gentle, flowing current. At a trot he enters, the water rising to meet his chest as it splits around his body. The cool rush of water running through the heavy feathers of his broad wings brings a sigh from his navy lips, ruffling them so that the water may reach every lithe bone and tendon beneath their cobalt color. His brilliant blue gaze flashes to Ceara and he lowers his head, a deep nicker vibrating in his throat as he encourages her to join him.
“What of the world have you seen, Ceara?” he asks gently when she joins him, his vibrant blue eyes never leaving her.
let me pick your brain, girl. and tell me how they got that pretty little face on that pretty little frame.
He smiled as they walked, him holding aside the branches as they moved through the trees to where the hidden fresh spring lay. It was a little known oasis in Tephra, quiet and cool, it was not long before they reached it. There is a quick heart pang as she takes in the wild nature of the molten lava that flows freely not far from where she stands, and she watches as Warrick easily makes his way into the spring, moving his feathers at the water's edge as if he were the boy next door skipping stones off a dock during summer vacation. Her eyes softened as she watched him put aside the King and simply become a man as he grinned at her with a mild cheek. He had never treated her like a child, and as the cool water hugged him like a glove, she realized that if her father knew where she was, and who she was with, it would be the last time she would ever see this spring. The rolling lava provided atmosphere akin to a sunset. Was this an innocent swim in his head?
It certainly wasn't in hers. And she didn't even know anything about the birds and the bees.
He made small waves around himself as he moved his wings into the depths of the water, and after a moment, his bright blue eyes lock contact with her red glowing ones, and he reaches out with his head, beckoning her to join him. To be near him. What of the world have you seen, Ceara? She breathed in quietly, drawn to him as if by a magnet, taking a step towards him, and when she hit the water, she winces, as if the water burned. Warrick kept saying her name, as if savoring it like a rich whiskey. Hearing his deep dulcet tones reaching her ears, she draws into the water again, closing her eyes as she sank into the depths, feeling the water rushing over her back with a welcoming relief from the heat of their beloved volcano.
The question he asks is an interesting one. He has taken time away, that was certain. But surely he knows her father well enough to be able to know how he was with his children--especially his daughters.
"Beyond the forest, where I was born, I have seen little else of the world. My mother brought me to Tephra and presented me to my father, and then my travels stopped. It seems my father thinks me too wild to know my own mind. He doesn't trust me." She looks away as she says this, bitterness hanging off her tongue, but she was careful to put it away. She was not a child anymore, and there was no reason in the world why her Daddy should have a say in where she went, or who she was with.
And by Lord if she wanted to go to the Mainland, then she'd go. She'd just have to make sure she went with Levi... at night...
He feels as though he is showing her his world for the first time, and perhaps in a way he was, through his eyes. The bay stallion is known for his gentleness and humility, and though the fire and brimstone of Tephra holds a special piece of his heart, he himself is not made of smoke and ash, but of starlight and galaxies. He waits patiently for her to enter the cool-running stream, the slow current hypnotic as it pulls at his legs and chest, swirling gently as it laps at his russet skin. The ends of his long and tangled mane, crisp with dried salt from Tephra’s mighty ocean winds, dangle into the surface of the water, dampening against his shoulder as the rest is pulled along by the stream’s natural flow.
Ceara enters quietly, somehow almost shyly, and the stallion is not sure why (or that is what he tells himself). He smiles easily at her, his kind eyes meeting her own as the velvet red of her legs are swallowed up by the clear water. Warrick perhaps is not as concerned with Offspring’s thoughts of their midday swim - the friendship between the two stallions is solidly built on a foundation of trust and loyalty, and though Warrick’s lonely ache in his chest is soothed by her presence, he hopes the once-King knows that Ceara is perhaps safer with him than she is wandering Tephra alone.
“Too wild?” he repeats curiously, a brow rising above one of his blue eyes. “There is no such thing,” he admits with a quiet laugh, his mind flickering to his own son - Svedka - who is as wild and untamed as the ocean itself. There is no harnessing that boy, he has realized, and for a thoughtful moment he looks to Ceara and thinks the same - a leash will only hinder her, just like his son, just like Tangerine.
The blue-bay doesn’t voice this, but the contemplation of his eyes perhaps shows his pensiveness and maybe she will force him to verbalize his thoughts - doesn’t she realize she is so much more than just Offspring’s daughter?
When his churning mind slows, he glances up to realize she has turned away, the tone of her voice no longer sultry and sweet, but a sort of bitterness that does not do well on her tongue. The sound of rushing water permeates the silence as it grows, bubbling and babbling against their bodies. He presses the cobalt of his lips together, watching her for a moment before stretching his neck forward to bump his muzzle against her cheek, to bring her gaze back to his own. He lingers there, waiting for her to begin to turn her delicate head back towards him before he draws back with a slight tilt of his own head.
“He cares for you,” he offers truthfully, “He may trust you yet. However, I know for a fact it is others that he does not.” He thinks to Solace, his little buckskin light, whom he knew could take on the world; but he cannot help the worry that comes with being a father, and even though he knows he has raised her with all the wisdom and knowledge he could offer, he cannot control what happens to her. He sympathizes with Offspring, but also with the crimson and ebony mare before him, his eyes soft.
“He doesn’t want the harshness of the world to plague your beautiful soul.”
let me pick your brain, girl. and tell me how they got that pretty little face on that pretty little frame.
The air escaped from Ceara's lungs as she felt a deep navy muzzle gently pull her him. Red eyes met a rather intent blue gaze, as he leveled her. He was calm as he talked to her. Reminding her that she was special to those who cared most about her. But she had confess that when he touched her, the last thing she had on her mind was Offspring. All she could see whas the crashing waves of his dark blue eyes as they pressed into her brain, silently registering that he had called her a beautiful soul.
A beautiful soul.
Her mind tripped over those last words, wondering what they could mean, coming from him. And yet, as she swam with him, marveling his bouyancy despite his large midnight-colored wings--the color looked like it was made for sinning, and images entered Ceara's mind that she had only ever imagined, but had never actually seen. Two creatures of age, in the water together. She knew he had children relatively her age. Perhaps even older. And yet, he was the only one who had never treated her as if he were better than her simply because she was young. She was young, yes, but she knew her mind, and she would learn what she was capable of. She could do so much.
If only she was given the chance.
Her thoughts move then to Tephra as a whole. It had been her home her entire life, and yet the transition of overseer had passed on twice. She knew that Warrick was king—they had already spoken of it. But the shift in power was quiet, and it pleased Ceara to know that just because new responsibility had seen fit to be placed squarely on Warrick's very strong shoulders...that it would not change who he was. He would simply be Warrick.
And she liked that about him.
Her quiet moment of reverie had taken about 5 or so minutes as she found herself relaxing, going through her paces. Her thoughts were scattered, and her mouth was quiet, but she always kept Warrick in her view—trying to figure out where this was going. Once, in those five minutes, she had smiled at him, and blushed visably, turning away in embarrassment. And yet she continued to not say a word.
It was growing awkward, and showed Ceara's innocence. Her lack of experience.
When all of a sudden. "What do you see for yourself and Tephra? What will you try to make of it?" Politics. So like her mother. But, when out of your element, always return to a neutral playing field.
Her heart was thundering in her ears, and she studdered over her words. Hoping, silently, that he would get back--to them. But nothing in the world would make her assume that he actually wanted her company as a woman.
She gasps as she turns to face him and for a moment he allows his mind to let him wonder if he’s perhaps too forward, too intimate with the young girl. But the thought is quietly pushed aside, and he tells himself that just because she is young, does not mean he should treat her differently than he would anyone else. She is smart and she is clever - she is the daughter of Offspring, after all. He is completely aware of the fine-line they are dancing around but he knows not to cross it - the fiery girl before him, despite her womanly figure, is still just a girl and he quietly reminds himself of this.
Ceara falls silent, swimming methodically with him as his powerful legs keep him afloat, his cobalt eyes watching her the entire time. She glances at him after a few moments, her flaming gaze meeting the coolness of his own, before turning away with a sheepish smile and continuing to focus on swimming, or on whatever else was going through her mind.
As he watches her, Warrick realizes he likes her - she is fiery (yet shy) and she is lovely, a creature he wouldn’t mind seeing more often than not. The thought causes him to press his lips together gently, a certain feeling stirring in chest; he’s busy with the politics of the kingdom and has many friends to keep him company, but the man within him longs for a closeness he has not had in a long time, for quickening pulses and the warmth of another that is not at all platonic. With a sharp tug in his chest tightening, he is now frightened that he is pushing all of this onto her; a pressure that she must certainly feel is mounting as they swim, as he had traced the soft ebony of her cheek…and guilt begins to weigh heavy on him.
Her voice nearly startles him, and with brows raised he meets her gaze. The thoughts in his mind scatter and disappear, fully focused on Ceara. He is surprised with her interest suddenly in kingdom politics, and is slightly disappointed that the subject has changed, but with a smile he answers her.
“Tephra is already at its best. I only wish to sustain it and bring it even closer to greatness.”But will you be here for that? he doesn’t ask, gentle eyes watching her. With a smirk, his tone light and teasing: “What are your plans for Tephra, Ceara?”
