"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 on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell
He had to lose himself before he could be found.
For only the second time in living memory he had thrown down his responsibilities, shrugged them off and discarded them like a coat in the heat of summer. He had stepped out from beneath the heavy woolen blanket of life as he knew it, and never looked back. So many things in his life he’d lost; his mother, his father. A lover and a daughter most recently and most regrettably. All for his kingdom, his mistress, his side girl with a vengeance. The last time the weight of the world had started to crush his throat he had ran away; but he was older now, supposedly wiser, and certainly no longer jaded. He did not run away this time, he simply slipped into the farthest flung cracks and crevices of his beloved homeland. Perhaps no one knew the land better than him, despite the many times it had changed over the years. Beneath the terra lay the same familiar paths from his youth, like a road map of veins lying beneath sunburned skin. The black warrior had relished in the mist of the recovering forest, the infinity symbol glowing faintly on his broad chest. Its light was somewhat weaker now, but he knew that would change eventually. He was also fully aware of the ramifications should it not change.
He was bound to that blue light, just as he was bound to Eight and was forever bound to his kingdom. It marked him the eternal servant. It was a sentence that occasionally tasted bitter on his tongue and weighed heavy on his heart, but it was something he forced himself to choke down. For the greater good, for his kingdom always. She would always need him, the ever-ready soldier. And what of his son? Someone would need to teach him to fight, to feel the sting of teeth and hooves and sore muscles and come out the other side stronger than ever. But his time in the corners of the kingdom had given him a much needed moment of solace and clarity, and he would come back stronger than before too. He was ready to pick up and lay down arms. Moreover, he was ready to see his kingdom thrive and to return to the top of the food chain. So with a resolute smile placed on his handsome black mouth, he stepped from the forest.
It had been a long while since I've ventured out from my lair, and now seemed a time ripe for me to set about my work again. Not everyone gets a chance to come back, even in a different form, but I had been so blessed. The form I returned to was much more impressive than my last one, I had to give the Fates that. Lithe and graceful yet muscular enough to be a formidable weapon when I so chose. And soon I'd chose to be just that, a killer hiding in plain sight.
My hooves beat a steady trot that was muffled slightly by the new greenery underfoot, the sound faint and barely discernible. Where was I headed? I had no idea, it has been so long since I left my lair that the world had inevitably changed around me. But this land was mostly similar to the lands of my past, mares waiting patiently to be claimed and swept off to a happily ever after that rarely happens. I shake my head sadly with a derisive snort, poor fools.
Passing these lands up, I set myself out for a more..worthy..territory. Surely there were places here where screams were music to the ears like they were to mine, where the salty tang of blood was craved like fine wine. I crossed the borders of a few lands without stopping, not my trouble if they weren't so well guarded that I could easily pass through them with no more notice than a fly. I finally arrive in a land to my liking, a forested land that reeked of malice. Tilting my nose skyward, I drew in the heady aroma when out of the corner of my eye I saw a dark man ease from the shadows across a small clearing.
Slinking through the shadows that caressed my hide like the warm fingers of a lover, I moved closer to him, my dark eyes never wavering from their fixation upon his rather handsome visage. Feathered hooves moved in a ghostly quiet walk beneath my large black body, the shadows all but consuming me as I moved. Slipping into the shade of a tree near to him, I stare out at him momentarily before I speak, my voice a deep rich one with a faintly unrecognizable accent.
Greetings. Do you know where I am? Because I do not. I am Sterbefall, who might you be?
Atrox had told her the Chamber is a cruel mistress. Even as a child, she had understood that, but only in the abstract sense. Life had not been that cruel as a child, and she didn’t see then (though she does now), that the first thing the Chamber took from her was her mother. She had only been a year old, when the Chamber started demanding from the Straia. One by one, she lost them all. Oksana, who couldn’t stay here with her changing wings, with Rodrik on the throne. Rodrik, though that is not the greatest loss, he is quite a powerful enemy to have made. Lucrezia, her only chance at having a sister in her life.
The Chamber had taken them all. Why? Because Straia needed only the Chamber, served only the Chamber. What did she need with family? Though there was still Kavi. The Chamber had not taken him, had given her this one tiny gift. For that, she was thankful. But she doubted that the Chamber had taken everything it planned to yet. She would live and breath and die for this kingdom. There was one part left. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?
But it would be worth it, if she could succeed at all. Could rebuild the Chamber as something to be feared. Straia didn’t lust for blood or screams, necessarily. But she longed for those whispers in the meadow of the Chamber, enjoyed when her visits to other kingdoms set the members on edge. Evil in the literal sense of blood and death and destruction was so terribly predictable (not that she was opposed to a war or a raid or killing, don’t get her wrong). She simply wanted more than that. She wanted the power of fear behind her.
Straia is weaving through the pine forests when she catches sight of Warship. Her rather absentee General as of late. She understands needing some space, but her patience is beginning to run thin with him. She’s about to go wandering out to berate him when she catches the scent of another on the border. But this newcomer doesn’t wait. Instead she wanders into the kingdom (like wandering into a Venus fly trap, really), and Straia lingers in the trees longer, watching, keeping herself well hidden (it’s rather easy, when you know the pine forests as well as she does).
The mare finds Warship and keeps going toward him. Straia is still watching, though she’s also begun closing the distance, because she’s rather curious as to what this intruder might want. Finally, she comes out of the trees as the mare begins to speak, ears pricked forward to catch the words.
“The Chamber,” she says, coming up behind the mare with an easy grace akin to Straia. She has always been a mix of her parents, Arabian mostly in build but with some of her mother’s bulk, and it has worked well for the mare. She is beautiful in a way only someone completely unconcerned with her looks can be, wild and fierce and elegant all at the same time. “It is not always particularly advisable to go wandering into unknown territory in Beqanna. You never know what you might find.” She pauses for a moment, studying the mare before adding. “I’m Straia, Queen of this land you’ve so politely wandered into. And this is Warship, my General.”
i'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell
He had known disappointment. He had tasted it on his lips, just as surely as he had tasted sweet grass. It was bitter taste, the kind of taste that curdled the stomach upon on contact and contracted the lungs in the chest. But he had risen above it, of course, spat out the disappointment to drink at the fountain of success. But the fountain did not readily give up her drink, no. There was always a test of some sort, something to test the mettle of the drinker. And oh, how those waters were addicting. He craved that sweet taste passing over his tongue and down his throat, warm into his belly and hot into his chest. He did not crave it for himself, though; he craved it for his kingdom. For he was her servant and eternal slave.
Her approach does not go unnoticed to the old warrior, but he makes no movement at first, aside from the minimal turn of his head. His dark eyes sweep over her unabashedly, though it is not sexual in nature. Once, perhaps, he had given into the stirring of his loins, but his most recent child was created purely for this kingdom. No smooth words had been spoken, no soft embrace afterwards. She is larger than him but he isn’t worried. She is of baroque heritage whereas he bares evidence of Welsh and Mustang, with the wickedly carved skull of ancient Arabian breeding. There coats are alike - black - but he bore the scars of a warriors life and the glowing mark of a reckless decision. She speaks, and before he can answer her question his queen slips from the shadows and is at his side. He smiles at her though he knows full well she’s probably several shades of pissed off at him. It doesn’t bother him; she can get glad in the same pants she got mad. “Yes, the Chamber.” he says, tilting his head thoughtfully. “It isn’t often we have visitors traipse over our borders. Usually the wolves and the mountain lions take care of them first.” he says, though there is a lilt to his voice. The mare before him was more than capable of stomping a canine or feline skull into dust. “As Queen Straia said, I’m Warship. Since you’re here, is there something we can do for you?” He could, it seemed, be polite if it suited him.
In his father's absence he has busied himself with learning how to be a diplomat. He's trained himself, watched many others, and now he's been unleashed on the world, volunteering to visit every kingdom he can possibly reach. He hasn't been neglecting his military practice either; his father had taught him basic maneuvers, things to practice and to learn, ways to build up his strength. And like the good little soldier he is, Erebor has practiced them flawlessly. He's becoming quite skilled in the arts of war, strong and stout in all the best ways – and handsome, too.
He is almost surprised to smell his father so strongly. He knows that Warship is busy, understands that the man has a lot that he is doing, and so he doesn't judge his absences. But he is glad to have him returned; he hopes for more exercises, more things that he can learn. He doesn't feel any kind of childish attachment; no, his impressions are entirely adult, incongruous for a boy so young.
He traces his father's scent almost immediately, surprised when his mother's mingles with it, his mother's and another stranger's. The boy hesitates for a moment, unsure whether he's meant to be witnessing whatever the three are discussing or whether he should be moving along, but he decides to go forward. If he shouldn't be there, his mother and father will be quick to dismiss him.
On the borders of the pine forest, he hears their voices, and stepping out he sees the three of them gathered. He doesn't recognize the scent of the mare, doesn't recognize anything about her – she doesn’t seem to be of Beqanna, which is supported by the fact that even she doesn't seem to know where she is or how she's gotten there.
He joins the group as his father is speaking, talking of mountain lions and wolves and death and politeness. In contrast to Straia's easy grace, Erebor has an unconsciously military bearing, as though he's a cadet who has just stepped off base. It's not a bearing of fear, because he fears very little. Rather, he simply holds himself that way because he is always on duty, always in service to the Chamber. "Father, Mother." he greets the two of them first, before turning his attention to the newcomer with a faint smile. She is tall, black like him and his father. "I'm Erebor. It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm sure we're all curious to know your name."
Will his father notice how much more charming he's become, how much more diplomatic? Of course he doesn't think of it in terms of impressing either of his parents – that's not really how he works – but it's been so long since his father has seen him talk with other horses.
