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  • Beqanna


    Assailant -- Year 226


    "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

    sell my soul for the high - any

    Maeglin’s feathers had been ruffled for days and showed no signs of settling. He felt like an unruly pigeon, the scattered feathers along his body refusing to lay in their usual sleek manner. The worst offenders were the ones by his ears, normally blending in and hidden by his forelock but now puffed up and brushing against the hairs so that his ears were constantly twitching.

    He needed to relax - he knew that. But knowing you need to relax and actually doing it are two entirely different things. Especially when some bizarre tornado takes you and your home into an entirely different world - and has the poor graces to bring your damned brother along. In fact, Maeglin had been rather hoping to leave a good number of faces behind and every time he spotted a fellow Stratosian he felt an unfortunate mix of relief and utter disappointment.

    They said Stratos wasn’t safe anymore, that they’d have to trade the clouds and endless skies for hard earth and stone, but even as Maeglin heard those words he knew he wouldn’t be following that advice. Of course he was going to return to Stratos, to see what was left of his home. Perhaps, if someone caught him there, he could pretend he was on a mission to check for stragglers - a foal too stupid to fly or, ideally, a pretty face.

    It was a good plan, but still his feathers didn’t settle. Even the feathers on his wings were puffed up once he landed after his flight, dispelling small wisps of darkening clouds. Like the sky around him, Maeglin was passing into twilight. The tips of his mane and tail were glowing with the same brilliant orange catching the edges of the clouds, his body a combination of deep reds and purples and just a hint of dark blue beginning to appear.

    It was his favourite time of day, these in-between times - where both sunlight and starlight were adorning him and capable of being called to his will.

    He gave another glance at his wings, muttering at them ‘we are relaxed’ like a mantra that had long lost it’s effectiveness, before turning his head and looking for whatever bananas reason they had been told Stratos wasn't safe.

    So far, he's unimpressed.

    open to any!

    also @"Random Event" you can scramble his wings
    @Maeglin your wings have mutated into intangibility
    She had not planned on coming here.

    As the day had begun to wane she had felt herself growing restless, and she had learned that most often the best way to ease that growing tension was to shift into her phoenix form and take flight.

    And she had, shedding her equine form for that of a firebird, only when she began to ascend into the sky, she did not stop.

    There was no real explanation for the spontaneous visit, other than the existence of the air kingdom had been a nagging thought in the back of her mind for some time now. Baltia was not exactly a place she could explore, and she felt as though she had exhausted her efforts of extracting any kind of information from the ruins.

    She did not know what she was looking for, seeking answers to questions she could not even formulate to ask.

    Mostly, she just wanted to know why Hyaline was gone.

    When she finds Stratos it feels as though it is purely by accident. In the twilight sky there suddenly sits a series of clouds, clearly different from the wisps that she currently flies through. Ignoring the nervous knot that tightens in her stomach, she continues on, wondering if even as a phoenix she would be clearly labeled as an outsider. She was not the fiery colors often associated with a phoenix—instead she is the same deep purples and shimmering silver that she is in her equine form—and she is unsure if that will work for or against her, and so she does her best to avoid being seen.

    She almost does not see him, the twilight-colored stallion standing on a cluster of clouds, but when she does she alters her course just slightly. She did not want to leave without speaking to at least someone, he seemed as good as anyone else.

    “Excuse me,” she calls to him, her tone perhaps a bit brusque but careful to keep herself from being entirely demanding. She eyes the way he stands on the clouds with a skeptical glance, and decides that she does not trust it, choosing to remain as a phoenix as her large wings keep her aloft just above him. “This is Stratos, yes?”

    -- A D R E S T I A


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