<div id="dreamy"><style type="text/css">.dreamy_container {background: transparent; width: 500px;border: 2px solid #8B8576; color: #8B8576; font: 14px 'Times New Roman', serif; padding: 15px;text-align: justify;box-shadow: inset 2 2 2px 2px #000;}.dreamy_name {text-align: center; color: #fff; font: 26px 'Times New Roman', serif; padding-top: 10px;padding-right: 10px;}.dreamy_quote {text-align: center; font-style: italic}</style><center><div class="dreamy_container">If Dreamscar were one to consider beauty, he might find the stars above Pangea beautiful, glittering brightly against the black velvet of the night sky, but he is not, and instead they make him feel cold and small and frightened like the frantic colt he once was. He is not that tiny, sick thing anymore, he has nearly reached his maturity, but there is still an oil slick of fear that shimmers green and purple and yellow over his thoughts of the world.
He has not lost his otherness. Even in a land that calls and consumes otherness, that sings sweetly to monsters and demons, he is detached, afraid, angry. There is nothing that brings him peace but the deranged touch of his dam, her red eyes wild and rolling, unfocused. Three years under his grip, he sometimes wonders what would happen if he let her go now, could she revert to that hatred that stirred her to lunge at him in the very first moments? He can barely even recall it, now, if he tries to remember, there is only a sense of blackness crashing down on him and a plaintive, childish plea for love. He'd been too young to know what he was doing, too young to know he was saving his own life. Instinct is funny like that, that drive to survive at any cost. But the cost had been small enough, the unkempt black mare had been little more the a murmuring shadow, she is still little more than that to most, but she worships him, and so he loves her, and so he controls her.
The shooting star streaks across the sky, too big, too bright, crashing near enough to Pangea that he can hear and feel it's impact, sees the burst of green light spread like sickness across the sky. Hippogryph gibbers and shies away from it, panicked, and her son flinches, too, feeling the candle-flame flicker of fear stirred into something larger, simmering in his belly. He freezes even as his breath quickens, and in that moment of hesitation he fails to rein in his mother's madness. She bolts blindly into a greasewood tree, then turns, stumbling, and flees westward.
Dreamscar feels the tug of her flight, her terror has pressed her beyond what he is used to controlling and she puts distance between them quickly. A guttural screech rips from his throat as he bounds after her, but his awkward body is not built for sprinting and cannot compete with even her perfectly average ability to run.
It feels like only seconds have passed, and already she is lost to him, but he follows a trail of scent, sour fear and the smell of the morning glory flowers she loves to eat, though they make her colicky and strange.
<I>Stranger.</I>
Something about the air around him shifts, a fog rising up from nothing. Hippogryph runs farther, faster, and he can no longer see her hooves in the soft earth, but he can feel her - somewhere. He trills softly into the blinding cloud and shadow, and then he curses in perfect mimicry of the crows he left still roosting back among the Pangean cliffs. From behind him, there is a cry, the young Mimic hisses and spins around, but there is nothing - only silence, pausing in the air as if startled. Scaled claws flex, their talons driving into the ground, gouging deeply into it, and Dreamscar tosses his head, black mane whipping into the windless air. His voice is a scratchy, breathy growl when the sound comes again, a wailing misery that sounds so like his mother's voice.
And <I>yet...</I> Using the love inducement to track is imprecise at best, but the feeling of the strings he has tied round and round and through his mother's heart is distant and stretched, a pinprick of pain and sorrow. The Mother-Voice sobs again and Dreamscar answers with a clumsy, querulous, copy of it, questioning the pulsing mist. Fear blooms in his chest, spilling out from his belly like acid and the feathering of his front legs and chest lays slick and flat. The muscles of his haunches bunch, making the skin twist and jump. He does not move towards it but seeks out what is ahead of him with magic. Tendrils creep forward, searching for a heart in darkness, in a hole. It is a trick he has done so many times, but this is not a rabbit, not a woodchuck, and his success with larger creatures is inconsistent. His pupils dilate, wide and round, suddenly pinning when he feels something, feels that lovesick pull that means he has found what he is looking for, and the grey bird-colt hardens his focus on it.
<I>Please.</I>
He requests it, at first, as though coaxing a rabbit from its burrow, but the ask shifts feather-soft to a demand as his patience wears thin and the terror licks at his throat.
<I><B>Love me.</B></i>
<div class="dreamy_name">Dreamscar</div><div class="dreamy_quote">Carnage x Hippogryph</div></div></center>
He has not lost his otherness. Even in a land that calls and consumes otherness, that sings sweetly to monsters and demons, he is detached, afraid, angry. There is nothing that brings him peace but the deranged touch of his dam, her red eyes wild and rolling, unfocused. Three years under his grip, he sometimes wonders what would happen if he let her go now, could she revert to that hatred that stirred her to lunge at him in the very first moments? He can barely even recall it, now, if he tries to remember, there is only a sense of blackness crashing down on him and a plaintive, childish plea for love. He'd been too young to know what he was doing, too young to know he was saving his own life. Instinct is funny like that, that drive to survive at any cost. But the cost had been small enough, the unkempt black mare had been little more the a murmuring shadow, she is still little more than that to most, but she worships him, and so he loves her, and so he controls her.
The shooting star streaks across the sky, too big, too bright, crashing near enough to Pangea that he can hear and feel it's impact, sees the burst of green light spread like sickness across the sky. Hippogryph gibbers and shies away from it, panicked, and her son flinches, too, feeling the candle-flame flicker of fear stirred into something larger, simmering in his belly. He freezes even as his breath quickens, and in that moment of hesitation he fails to rein in his mother's madness. She bolts blindly into a greasewood tree, then turns, stumbling, and flees westward.
Dreamscar feels the tug of her flight, her terror has pressed her beyond what he is used to controlling and she puts distance between them quickly. A guttural screech rips from his throat as he bounds after her, but his awkward body is not built for sprinting and cannot compete with even her perfectly average ability to run.
It feels like only seconds have passed, and already she is lost to him, but he follows a trail of scent, sour fear and the smell of the morning glory flowers she loves to eat, though they make her colicky and strange.
<I>Stranger.</I>
Something about the air around him shifts, a fog rising up from nothing. Hippogryph runs farther, faster, and he can no longer see her hooves in the soft earth, but he can feel her - somewhere. He trills softly into the blinding cloud and shadow, and then he curses in perfect mimicry of the crows he left still roosting back among the Pangean cliffs. From behind him, there is a cry, the young Mimic hisses and spins around, but there is nothing - only silence, pausing in the air as if startled. Scaled claws flex, their talons driving into the ground, gouging deeply into it, and Dreamscar tosses his head, black mane whipping into the windless air. His voice is a scratchy, breathy growl when the sound comes again, a wailing misery that sounds so like his mother's voice.
And <I>yet...</I> Using the love inducement to track is imprecise at best, but the feeling of the strings he has tied round and round and through his mother's heart is distant and stretched, a pinprick of pain and sorrow. The Mother-Voice sobs again and Dreamscar answers with a clumsy, querulous, copy of it, questioning the pulsing mist. Fear blooms in his chest, spilling out from his belly like acid and the feathering of his front legs and chest lays slick and flat. The muscles of his haunches bunch, making the skin twist and jump. He does not move towards it but seeks out what is ahead of him with magic. Tendrils creep forward, searching for a heart in darkness, in a hole. It is a trick he has done so many times, but this is not a rabbit, not a woodchuck, and his success with larger creatures is inconsistent. His pupils dilate, wide and round, suddenly pinning when he feels something, feels that lovesick pull that means he has found what he is looking for, and the grey bird-colt hardens his focus on it.
<I>Please.</I>
He requests it, at first, as though coaxing a rabbit from its burrow, but the ask shifts feather-soft to a demand as his patience wears thin and the terror licks at his throat.
<I><B>Love me.</B></i>
<div class="dreamy_name">Dreamscar</div><div class="dreamy_quote">Carnage x Hippogryph</div></div></center>