"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
The antlered mare stands amongst the brittle brown grasses. A teal eye watches from the dark that of forelock that insisted upon obstructing one eye of the other no matter how much she attempted to toss it away. Her breath comes slowly as she listens to the sounds around her,small clouds forming at the edge of her lips and nostrils. The buckskin woman turns to look over her shoulder as the sounds of deer and squirrels thrash through the surrounding forest.
Beqanna, though relatively new to her, was easy to understand. There were simple horses and also others like she. There was bound to be even more eccentric out there as well. The mare feels the edge of ehr lips twist in a small smile as she begins to move through the frosted soil. Each hoof falls in a hushed crunch of frozen mud and splintering grass shards. The woman occasionally dips her heavily crowned skull to catch strange scents that lay littered along the ground. Equine, feline, canine, bruin. It was overwhelming.
But it is when she nears the edge of a stream that she stops to take her fill of the cold, clean water. Dark lips draw the liquid in slowly, considering the meadow, considering Beqanna. The mare lifts her skull when she has finished as a small dribble of water falls from her lips. Holiday turns an eye to the gray sky above wondering if today would bring rain or early snow.
hold me in this wild, wild world 'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be
He likes winter.
Though it makes life harder on many, what with the cold and the reduced foliage and the treacherous footing, it reminds Brennen of the Tundra, and so he is pleased with the season nonetheless. Of course, with the ice once more at his command, he can make a temporary Tundra anywhere he’d like, but it just isn’t the same when his creations melt away in the balmy air of Nerine. Holding them would take too much effort, too much of the magic, and he would rather save it for later need.
Today he is flying high above the ground, following the faint scent of ice and snow and winter in the air. It has yet to grip any part of Beqanna with any firm grasp, but anyone with sense knows it is coming. The last of the leaves have drifted to the ground and autumn is fleeing quickly.
The pegasus has no real business in the Meadow, but he has no real business anywhere, of late. He lingers in Nerine for reasons that are beyond even his own comprehension; there is no Brotherhood anymore, so he makes do with living amongst the proud women who were once the Amazons, breathing the salty air, and wondering what he is without his Tundra, without a King to serve. Can he be happy, serving a Queen instead? Drifting downwards, the warrior stallion lands as gracefully any anything not naturally meant to bear wings can, with the practice of someone who has worn his wings since before the birth of many who roam Beqanna today.
As he folds his overlarge black wings, the bay lowers his nose to the ground, helpless but to trail a line of ice behind as he swings his head. Perhaps he will not waste his talents holding a land in ice during the warm months, but he can’t help the urge to prove he can use his magics, every now and again. It is when he looks up again that he locks eyes on the pretty mare with the full set of antlers, and he blinks a moment before smiling, intrigued. He has seen many things, but he has also learned to take moments of impulse and run with them. So he steps forward to where she stands by the stream, a half-smile quirked on his face.
“Hello. I’m Brennen.”
hold me in this wild, wild world and in your heat I feel how cold it can get
03-03-2017, 10:16 AM (This post was last modified: 03-03-2017, 10:17 AM by Holiday.)
The teal of her eyes easily catch the sight of his wings. Large and wide, blotting out the sun and chilling her with the fleeting drift of his growing shadow. Green-blue eyes observe the way he touches the land. The edge of his nails finding purchase as he shivers to the land in a well executed landing. The mare can feel a touch of a smile moving her lips upward.
Both ears flick forward as she better observes the fluid motion of his body, the youthful but intelligent features. A fetching bay, quiet a few color scales lighter than her own as well as he is winged where she is antlered. The mare can feel her smirk grow to s smile as he nears her with a a curious eyes. "Brennen, you say? I like that. It's a strong name." Holiday openly makes the statement with a tugging smile.
"I'm Holiday. Not as original as Brennen but it is mine alone." A small chuckle follows as she gives her head a small shake, loosening a few dark strands of her black mane. "It's nice to meet another face out here. Seems as though most animals have gone in for the imposing winter." Her tone lifts and falls as she makes the observation, eyes sliding to the meadow then back to her new companion. "Not me though, I like the chill," She speaks distantly, "the air is fresher. I like the gray skies and the richness of the colors." She turns an eye back to the stallion with a small, playful smile. "Wouldn't you agree, Brennen?"
hold me in this wild, wild world 'cause in your warmth I forget how cold it can be
“I’ve never met another Holiday, he responds to the first of her words, rather solemnly, “So it must be original enough.” He doesn’t know why his own mother had chosen ‘Brennen’; but it had been one of the few things she bothered to teach the little winged colt before leaving him alone on the beach. Either she had some reason for giving him a name when she wasn’t going to give him anything else, or leaving a nameless colt behind to go live her life had been a line she wouldn’t cross, even if abandoning a child on the beach with the dead was not.
But he rarely thinks of his nameless mother; preferring, when he thinks of parents, to think of Texas and the Tundra, and so he pushes all thoughts of the gray mare and his name from his mind, and tunes instead into her poetic praise of winter, and the playful smile she flashes him. It draws an answering smile from him, though it is another of his half-smiles, as if he can’t quite commit even to the act of smiling. He has, over decades, perfected the art of walking a perfect balance on the line between being friendly and reserved, between openly communicating with the rest of the world and holding himself at a distance, and he rarely falls. He is too loyal to the things he loves, and it costs too much to award that loyalty too easily; but he has never seen a reason to be anything other than engaging, polite, friendly, even if he keeps a tight leash on any deeper feelings.
Holiday is relief, because he owes her nothing, and she expects nothing. She is not one of the Amazon women who expect him to so easily turn from his lifelong service of the Tundra to fealty to their new salty shores. She is not one of his many children or grandchildren or greatgrandchildren, whom he loves and protects even when he has no energy left to do so. She is a blank page, an open opportunity to make a friend or to leave whenever he wants, and that freedom buoys him up, makes him playful in return, and so he cannot help but reach for the ice deep within the earth and drawing it out, building a ring of spiraling ice columns that rise around them, quickly enough to suit him but slowly enough to endeavor not to startle her, and curve to meet above them, forming an icy lattice that sparkles where it catches the sun.
A heartbeat, then several in pause as he looks up to admire his own handiwork, before lowering his honey-brown gaze to hers again, and quirking that little half-grin again. “I am a fan of winter, as well,” he says slowly, the faintest hint of a drawl on the words, “I might go as far as to call it my favorite season. In the world before the changes, I lived in the Tundra, and its long winters and beautiful icy landscapes grew on me.” Brennen is proud that he can almost speak of the Tundra without pain, nowadays, and without a regretful quaver in his voice. “And where do you hail from, Holiday?”
hold me in this wild, wild world and in your heat I feel how cold it can get
And so she owes him nothing. Not a name, not an explanation, not a breath. But she finds herself offering her name and then the wetness of her sliding tongue churn out more words with a relief of satisfaction. A smile touches the edges of her lark lips in procession to the syllables. Blue-green eyes watch as the stallion summons a great power from the icy depths of the sleeping Beqanna. She cannot help but side step a bit as the cold peaks nearly wall them in.
Holiday would like to think he has no ill intentions to wards her. She has not yet earned them. The sooty gold mare watches with a slightly slack jaw in awe of the magic he controls, how he bends and wills the frigid peaks to meet his every whim. "Well now, that is not something I have seen before." The antlered woman can not help but to laugh, though it was slightly tattered with nervousness, but mostly amusement.
"The Tundra, you say?" She tastes the name, thinking for a moment, "I believe I have heard it in passing." She nods thoughtfully before tossing the dark forelock on either side of her eyes so she may better see her new companion. "I come from no where, well no where has yet captivated me long enough for me to call home, so I roam the bountiful knolls of the meadow." She gives him a play smirk before looking over a shoulder at the frozen solid grounds, the summer grasses long dead. "How positively enchanting." Sarcasm drips from her tongue as Holiday returns her gaze to the rich mahogany male as the edges of her lips remain curled.
Yes, it felt good to owe one another nothing. It felt good to have an enchanting conversation with a perfectly lovely stranger while fat white snowflakes slowly pedal their way down to land with small -pfts- on their manes and backs.
