"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
I'm wasted, losing time; I'm a foolish, fragile spine I want all that is not mine; I want him but we're not right
Over the years, Adaline had learned that time had sharp teeth, and while she was not built to withstand the razor edge of it, she had somehow survived. Pain had burrowed into her heart, but had not mutilated it. Agony had dug into her veins, but had not poisoned them. Instead, she had simply turned inward, lashes fluttering down to cover the raw pinkness of her gaze, the corners of her sweet mouth falling in the corners. She had withdrawn to the shadows where she did not have to witness the stares; she had wrapped herself in the intimacy of her own company where she did not have to think about the fragile spine of her brother—or the sound of glass splintering on cold ground.
She is not sure what about today draws her forth except that it does.
Her step is the quick, practiced pace of someone who does not want to be seen—the dance of prey. Her wings are drawn up around her, a foolish ploy for warmth although she, more than anyone, knows that it is futile. The edges remain tattered and while age has lengthened her limbs and brought a womanly grace to her curves, it has done little to bring substance to her foolish body. She remains as frail as the day that her dead mother had dropped her next to her twin on the damp meadow grass.
Her skin shifts like water over the muscles, showing the play of flesh and tendons as they swim under the surface. Some may have found alien beauty in the strangeness of it, but she did not find them often. She was, instead, more used to the disgust—the fear. They may think that they hid the immediate revulsion, but she was too attuned to miss it, and it was not something that got easier with time. The cuts were tiny, but they were infinite, and she often wondered how she had not bled out from them all.
Alas, that is neither here nor there. She does not dwell on it, does not allow herself to, and instead walks quietly around the border, her pink nose dragging along the ground where mulch gathered. The meadow was quiet in the early washes of day, but she finds that she did not mind. Isolation was not as painful as she had once feared it might be; she had become accustomed to the cocoon of silence. Her gaze quickly flicks upward to take in the land before it drops, and relief floods her heart when are was no souls before her. At least for a moment, she will not have to imagine his face on every body that passes her by. For now, she will not have to die a thousand deaths reliving his one.
in the darkness, I will meet my creators and they will all agree that I'm a suffocator
Was it time that commanded sharp teeth? Fart would have said it were horses, or people. He had felt that keen sting many times, had been the butt of the joke, the source of sneer. Once hands had touched him, ones that hurt, ones that broke. Words had ended and rebuilt him in a single span of time, not done, not done, not done… There had also been gentle ones, kind hands and words. My greatest creation, my beauty… The words were memory now as were the caresses of crooked fingers but he could recall them, they had not left him and he would not let them leave.
Fart was an ugly thing, limey and roan. There was no mane to adorn his bare neck, no threads of green silk to soften his features. Had there been hope to soften them, ever? Birth had made sure the chances were slim, and though he was indeed born- he barely lived. Muddy brown eyes looked upon the world with a softness, an understanding and acceptance of its cruelty and hardship. To live was more than he deserved, was more than he could ask of anything. His lip split just under his nose, a parted curtain where teeth peeked through and breath hissed passed. He smelled, an unripeness, a sour stink that had plagued him since he could remember. Why? Well Fart doesn’t know and sometimes we don’t need to know, sometimes we must just accept what is.
The only reason Fart was so filled out was because he had been tossed back into the land of Beqanna, fresh from battle and hurting with memories. He had eaten well while with his friend Grumble, hay and grains tasting of nothing he could compare it too. If only he had some now he thought as he crossed the meadow, keeping his eyes to the ground as was his custom. If only he had some because it might mean that Grumble was okay, it might mean that his friend was not shattered with the existence of that other world.
Instead he silently wept at his loss, trails of tears leaking their way down his lime colored jaws. He dared not make a sound, not lament in earnest over his loss because it would only draw attention to him, would only bring more unwanted stares and jeers. No one wanted Fart around in this world, not like Grumble had. He was not needed in Beqanna, he was not useful and he was not adored. Once again he was alone, left to endure the world on two already burdened shoulders. There would be no more whispers of greatness, of beauty. There would be no more nights by a fireplace, warm and content as he spoke long into the night with a once Fairy Godfather.
Thoughts burdened Fart as he wandered the edges of the Meadow, eyes to the ground and head sagging low. Perhaps if he had bothered to look where he was going he would have seen the girl, the woman. He would have seen her and high-tailed the other way, careful to not offend her with his appearance, with his stink.
There was nothing for him, there is nothing for him. The drafty, strong stallion had arrived in Beqanna by pure chance. Endless days of wandering, no, running from a clouded past had sent him here. Fate? Probably not. Luck? Doubtful as well. But perhaps in the end something would finally work out well for him. His steps were heavy, icy blue eyes gazing ahead without really seeing what was in front of him. It's amazing how the heart and soul go numb, how warm and pleasant feelings can be replaced by coolness and indifference. There was a time when Xylo was in fact a pleasant man. He was inviting, loving, and not to brag but rather charming and a hit with the ladies. Now, he was quieter. The stallion still enjoyed an occasional stimulating conversation, or a new face to add to his memories, but the connections now could only be surface deep. He could not risk the pain of immense lost again.
Pussy, a word he had heard far too often in his life. Solely for allowing his heart to control his actions more than his head. God forbid he had a decent upbringing and his mother and father both wanted him to be the best Xylo he could be. There was such cruelty and so many mean-spirited people in this world, he could not understand why anyone would not appreciate and welcome some light heartedness. None the less, people did not always feel the same way and although he was well built and equipped to handle a good fight, the dappled gray stallion often chose to take the blows and let others march away with their fake sense of pride and a victory. It had been too long since he had something worth fighting for.
Sad backstory aside, everyone has one, there was still a glimmer of hope in his otherwise void heart that perhaps this place would be different, would be special. He cursed himself internally for even obtaining the thought, but he could not help it. He missed feeling hope. Hell, he just missed feeling...period.
That's when he saw him. A lime creature, hairless atop his neck wandering aimlessly as well. His head was down, headed towards another equine Xylo wouldn't have seen if this..intriguing one weren't about to walk directly into her. Neither looked as if they wanted any disturbances, appearing as lost in their own minds as he had been just a moment ago. Still, a run-in could be awkward or good, it was always so hard to tell. With an non-committal sigh, he quickened his step just a hair, hoping to get within earshot of the duo.
"Uh, sir," He offered hesitantly. And that was that, he had tried.
I'm wasted, losing time; I'm a foolish, fragile spine I want all that is not mine; I want him but we're not right
She had not wanted attention so it made sense then that she would instead draw a small crowd. It is the smell, naturally, that draws her attention first—toxic and lethal as it creeps along the air. Adaline, however, had inherited the kind grace of her mother and her expression does not change. She more than anyone perhaps knew how the seemingly casual quirk of a lip could bring more pain than a dagger to the chest.
“Sir?” she whispers, her voice as fragile and delicate as the rest of her, vowels dipping and rising gently in her throat. She quickly takes in his appearance, the missing mane, the forked lip, but her stomach does not turn. Instead, she feels a wave of empathy wash over her—large enough that she is able to ignore the rather regrettable odor now wafting through the air. “Are you okay?” she murmurs, taking another small step toward him.
It is then that her attention is diverted toward the dappled gray stallion, thick and roped with muscle, and on his face she sees the same hesitant concern she was sure was masking her own features. Her lips lift in the corners, and she commits herself to the conversation, the veil of her own isolation pulled deftly away for now. “Well, if it isn’t a party,” she chirps, feeling the sting of the gas prick at the back of her eyes. She glances toward the lime green roan first and then to the second stallion. “My name is Adaline.” Noble. She often felt anything but. “Who are you both?”
in the darkness, I will meet my creators and they will all agree that I'm a suffocator
A hiccup escapes his severed lip, blurting into the air and he attempted to stifle the sound, but failed. Someone would hear him, someone would see him. It was too late to worry though, little did Fart know, it was much too late for all that. Whether he wanted to be seen or not he would be, that’s just how it seemed to go. Poor luck maybe, bad joo joo. He hears her before he see’s her, a soft, papery thin voice barely catching his ears. Thankfully it was a quiet day, it was still enough in the commons to hear the almost inaudible sound of her call.
Oh yes he heard it and his stomach dropped, wishing he had not.
Fart didn’t know which was worse, to hear a female voice, knowing he would be offending her eyes, or hear a male voice and know he was in for a beating. Most of the time anyways, sometimes he was just quick enough to outrun them but still, that good fortune was few and far between.
She speaks and he listens, green ears swiveling forward to find the words. Immediately he stops in his tracks, uncertain how to best proceed and jerking backwards. “I’m sorry, so sorry miss,” he begins the baffled blabber of apologies. What rotten news it was to catch a male voice then as well, Fart knew he was in for it. Already he was wincing, eyes closed and shrinking into himself, shoulders scrunching. He had gone and wandered into someone’s territory today, boy was he an idiot.
He didn’t even notice the gas leaking faintly from his body, he hadn’t had it before in this world, he had no reason to think it had remained. It looks like ol’ Grumble did him a solid before he sent him careening back home. Well then, maybe he could use it to defend himself if he needed. Yeah that sounded good, if the other male got too rough Fart could just gas him and flee- it could work.
Surprisingly they don’t seem to rush him, do not appear to be hostile when he once more opens his wet, brown eyes. The woman though, the curiously see-through woman was asking after his well- being, asking if he was okay. A small step she makes forward to him but he only response with another small step back, too close, no one wanted to be too close. And when again she speaks, this time with light hearted tones gracing her words, he stands dumbfounded. His limey ears flatten to his hairless head in his confusion and his weepy eyes look back and forth between them.
Adaline, she said and he would remember, he had so few names to know anyways. He looked them both over, one fragile looking lady, with equally tattered wings. One stout male, like a grey thundercloud and the size of the other was enough to make him uncertain of the true nature of this predicament. “My- my name?” So little was he asked for it, so much so that he could not recall the last time it was asked after. “Well, it’s- I- they call me Fart,” he finally spat out, finding the words though he stumbled over them like a child.
And so it would seem the trio had all been pulled into a conversation none of them wanted. Xylo's face remained rather mellow, his eyes never betraying any of his deeper emotions, clouded over with indifference and perhaps a hint of suffering. And now, perhaps clouded with the sting of smell he had not first noticed, as it had still taken him a couple of strides to be in comfortable range for a conversation.
He watched the other two equines carefully, his mind wanting answers about the other man who was before him. Needing answers. He'd never seen another horse look in such a way, and bring with him the emission of something strong enough to make the gray stud squeeze his eyes every few moments. But he tried to do so subtly, so not to offend. Differences aside, he would never intentionally offend another creature. No one deserved to feel ashamed for being themselves.
The lady piped up about it being a party and he chuckles lightly. It's the first time besides his initial greeting that he's opened his mouth and been vocal in months. The laugh feels foreign on his tongue, forced even though he wished more than anything it could be genuine. Adaline, he fumbles the name in his head, and decides he likes it. He nods at her, before realizing the green man had taken over the floor. He seemed to have some trouble with his introduction, but Xylo had no room to judge.
Fart. Huh. He thought. He had not been alive long enough to be incredibly wise or to have a life worth remembering. But he had been around long enough to hear his fair share of strange names, and this one, this one topped the charts.
After a slightly awkward silence, Xylo realized he was quite stuck in his own head and ignoring the fact that two others were waiting for his name. Social cues were never really his strong suit.... Then again he wasn't sure he had any strong suits. His eyes averted briefly back the the lady. It had been so long since he had looked at a girl and found her to be appealing, physically that is. He didn't let himself anymore. It was disrespectful to a lover he'd long since lost. Someone he needed to leave in the past, but couldn't. And so he found himself briefly looking at the first female he'd seen in a while, and noting that she was indeed easy to look at.
"Xylo." He offered, dipping his head towards both of them and feeling briefly guilty as his forelock fell over his right eye. Then he sort of just awkwardly stood there, not really caring if they stood in silence or spoke again.
I'm wasted, losing time; I'm a foolish, fragile spine I want all that is not mine; I want him but we're not right
The smell does not bother her so much as the silence, draping heavily and awkward over them. She shifts under the weight of it, uncomfortable with the clear forced nature of the conversation—feeling as she always did that she had somehow orchestrated their discomfort. Her mouth twists into a frown, invisible brow creasing with concern as her pink eyes slide between the two of them. The first, lime green and stripped of fur in places, looked distraught; the second, the color of steel and storm, looked stoic but rigid.
She sighed inaudibly, air rattling in her throat.
“Fart,” she repeats, her tongue wrapping clumsily around it. It was an unknown to her, her vocabulary limited to the words of beauty passed from her mother to her. She knew of dew and fog and the bite of winter; she knew of antlers peeking through the brush and sunlight dappling hides through the canopy. Her language was one of love—crafted by artists and sheltered by the crudeness of the world. For all of the pain and shame she had experienced in her life, she was remarkably naive to the underbelly of it.
Still, despite not knowing the details of it, she recognizes something vile about his name and she frowns. “Forgive me,” she murmurs, gossamer-voice fluttering on the wind between them, “but I don’t feel as if that suits you.” Adaline tilts her head, sizing him up before giving him a shy, guarded smile. “But I am just a silly girl. I do not know much. Forgive me.” She could only hope that he would not take offense at her presumptions.
Turning toward the other, she remains quiet, soaking in his name. The syllables were strangers, alien on her tongue, but it felt right—the weight of it manageable. “Xylo,” she repeats again. This time just nodding in acceptance. For a moment, she falls silent again, her flesh crawling along her back, before she interrupts the quiet again, desperate to shed the tension. “So what brings you both to the meadow today?”
in the darkness, I will meet my creators and they will all agree that I'm a suffocator
Making friends was hard, especially for Fart, thus he couldn’t say he really had any- not of the equine sort. He had only the one, a human, sort of. A fairy, a fairy godfather, or, he had been once. Yes Grumble was the only friend Fart had ever known, one that offered him kind words and gentle touches. He missed Grumble terribly, the thought finding his features and pulling them down even more severely than they had been. Fart was a terrible mope, looking like a rat in a rainstorm and of course he wasn't even wet, not a cloud in sight to threaten moisture. From woman to man he looked, watching as the grey one’s eyes tickled and twitched and in response he stepped back two paces. “I’m sorry Xylo,” he said, head hung and apologizing even without anyone commenting on his smell.
“I don’t mean to offend, I can go away if you like,” he was a broken thing, not just mentally but physically. Fart could recall times of pain, torture and bright rooms with blood. He didn’t dare tell a soul though, mostly because he shook with the telling and also because they might think him crazy. He was already stinky, no reason to be the town nut as well. The roan can’t even muster a laugh at the female’s joke, but he does manage a smile, small and meek as it is. Already his front teeth glinted through his spliced lip and it did not take much to appear to be amused, even if inside he was still very unsure of this encounter.
She surprises him, the woman, even if their conversation is sparse and broken it is much more than he has ever had with those like himself. He never once thought of his name suiting him or not, he wasn't sure if it should. “It doesn’t?,” he asked, unsure of how to process this new thought. The green roan didn’t have much but he did have a name, it was the only one he ever knew, well, not entirely. There had been other names, mostly teases, like smelly, stinky, loser or gross. He didn’t much like the other words but Fart was okay enough, even if it in itself was a cruel calling. “Well, it’s the only name I’ve got,” his muddy eyes almost cross as he thinks deeply on it for a moment, “do you have more than one name then?” Is that what was supposed to happen, one should have multiple monikers by which to be summoned. It was a touch and go appeal to the roan, not sure if he liked it but it wasn’t an altogether terrible notion.
“That’s okay though, I don’t think girls are silly, you’re aren’t. You seem nice to me, are the others like you, the girls?” Fart didn’t know much about women, hardly anything to be sure. He had bedded a few, women out of their minds surely, too desperate to find another.
“Well, I suppose I don’t have much of anywhere else to go,” her next question answered without much thought, there wasn’t much too it really. “And, suppose I am lonely, or I am alone, or both..” The last words trail off, indiscernible to present company and Fart’s eyes take a far off look. Perhaps he remembered not being alone, of course he did, perhaps he remembered once being warm by the fire and feeling loved.
07-30-2016, 10:55 PM (This post was last modified: 07-30-2016, 10:56 PM by Xylo.)
Viva La Vivda or Death and All His Friends
Xylo had grown thin. His draft build no longer made others appear thin. In fact, he had become rather like a skeleton. His bones beginning to protrude from under his coat, his eyes sunken. He appeared the epitome of the word dead inside. Yet nothing could wake him up like thinking he had offended another being. So after his words hit home for Fart, his head fell a little lower and he shook it side to side in dismay.
"No, no, of course not." He looked him in the eye, the best man-to-man-respect tactic he really knew. "Please do not leave." Of course, he wasn't entirely sure why he said it. He had nothing to bring to the conversation, no real contribution to be made. Try as he might, speaking was difficult and trying to muster up fake enthusiasm seemed nearly impossible. Then again, his company did not seem too talented at making friends and conversation either.
Hell, Adaline was doing the best. He seemed to have the same general reaction as Fart when the lady called herself a silly girl. Xylo scoffed, then realizing it could come across rude. He nodded along as the other stallion assured her she did not seem like a silly girl. His lips parted, his vocal coming out low and monotonous, yet still somehow sounding genuine. "A silly girl is far more common to find...You, Adaline, I imagine not so much." He paused, eyes drifting lazily between the duo infront of him. Then the neon creation asked a question that sent a pang to his heart. Were there other nice girls? Of course there are! He wanted to yell, his mind flooded with thoughts and memories of her. Her muzzle against his neck, her words sweet as nectar filling his ears. But alas, yelling would not bring her back. Nothing would. Instead he settled on, "There are all types of females out there, Fart. Nice and not just like anything else." Another heavy pause before he added, "Fart is an interesting name, but it's unique, like you." He meant it as a compliment, but how it came across was hard to say.
Adaline had asked an open ended question that begged an answer. What had brought them to the meadow that day? Xylo found himself oddly relating to his new comrade's answer. Alone, lonely, the two words that described the last year or so of his life. He knew the feeling. He enjoyed being alone, solitude was good for the mind. But lately he had been alone and lonely, a combination that could break even the strongest of spirits.
"I suppose I'm here for that very same reason." A pause. "What about you, Adaline?" He looked pointedly at her. She was a curious female, more to herself and quiet than most he encountered. Surely she had a story as well.
I'm wasted, losing time; I'm a foolish, fragile spine I want all that is not mine; I want him but we're not right
“Oh, no!” she cries, taking a step forward even as the back of her eyes watered. “Please don't leave.” She did not have any real reason why she doesn’t want him to leave except the thought of it made her terribly sad. She was not used to being around other souls often; it was even less common to be around others that did not immediately focus on the veins pumping delicately beneath her papery skin or the glass bones that would sometimes peek through when the sun hit her thin sides just right.
So while this may be an enormously awkward, uncomfortable encounter, it was also deeply pleasant for her, and she desperately wanted it to continue. “You aren’t offending us, I promise.” She looked toward Xylo, giving him a small encouraging smile before looking back to Fart. “See? We would both like for you to stay. Very much so.”
She wondered at his question for a moment—giving it the time and weight that it deserved. Did she have other names? She imagined that she would. Broken. Sick. Murderer, to some degree. (Did she not play her own part in the death of her brother? Did she not have blood on her hands?) All names that others could give her, and she could not refute them. She knew in her heart of hearts that they would not be an incorrect name were they to be given to her. She would have to take up the mantle and wear it.
She would have to.
Still, she knows what he is actually asking and so she only gives him a sad smile, the corners of her mouth lifting just a little. “Ah, no. Just the one.” Her ears flicker atop her head as she looks between them, thinking about the odd group that they made. “I am glad to hear that you think that though.” She drops her head a little, “I think that you would be pleasantly surprised to find just how many nice girls you will find here.” Not like me, she finishes in her head. But he doesn’t need to know just how not nice she is.
Adaline looks toward Xylo, watching him, taking in his thinness and the sunken nature of his gaze. “I suppose that makes three of us then.” A pause.
“I guess that makes us lucky to have found one another.”
in the darkness, I will meet my creators and they will all agree that I'm a suffocator
