"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
02-08-2024, 09:40 PM (This post was last modified: 02-09-2024, 10:23 AM by Çevik.)
The world was small.
He knows this and he holds it inside himself.
Like a promise,
or a riddle.
His mother told him the world was a vast place where the mountains never ended. Çevik knows it was a lie now. He has accepted the truth. Where was his mother now?
The young stallion makes his way through the underbrush. Against the slick poplar and white oak he rubs his horns, scratches them in frustration一he catches the limp, dry bark on fire. Little clouds of black smoke follow him, ash dusts his broad back. He must be careful.
From the innards of the forest he moves gracefully, like a ripple in time. One step after the other. He remembers so little from before but he knows there used to be something else. It is like a glimmer at the back of his mind. A three-eyed crow watching from above. Çevik smells the grass singe whenever his tail brushes against it.
Summer sun beats down against his spotted coat, turning the black a faded rust. He has journeyed too long. “You are here,” his voice cracks and rasps against his dry throat, “and you can hear my voice….”
His eyes look from left to right, he lifts his well made head and his ears swivel. “I’m here to gather up the outsider, the shadow walker, those who burn,” he lifts his chin defiantly, “who are tired of the rat race一with haughty kings and queens. Who no longer want to be part of kingdoms but desire,”
Çevik smiles, grins. It’s wicked.
02-09-2024, 06:57 AM (This post was last modified: 02-09-2024, 06:57 AM by kalika.)
What she truly craves is adventure. That, along with frustration, pushes her to leave the Chamber and venture to the common grounds instead. For a fleeting moment, she thought she might have found something to keep her attention, but it did not last. True to her youth, she had been quite irritated when things had fizzled out.
So she traipses along the forest’s edge, taking advantage of the lack of bodies to let the carefully (though poorly) crafted temptress façade fall away with each childlike step. Her delicate wings flutter with excitement the possibilities that she is certain lay waiting for her.
After quite some time, she pauses to paw and splash in the water that cuts through the land, to luxuriate in the cool wetness as the sun beats mercilessly at her back. Just as she drops her head to drink, a hoarse voice breaks the silence and a distinct smoky odor reaches her nostrils. Immediately, her head snaps back to its previous position and her nostrils flare wide as she scans for the source or sources.
It does not take long to find the painted stallion that emerges not far from her spot and she listens intently to his speech, though it holds little meaning for her. Freedom she has in spades, for she is young and on her own for the first time; for the same reason, she could hardly consider herself an outsider or malcontent. Still, a heat creeps over her cheeks that has little to do with the flames that dance around him.
Self-preservation is not her strong suit and though everything about this young man should send her running for the hills, she finds herself moving in his direction. Perhaps he can lead her through the kind of escapades that she spends her time daydreaming about. As she draws closer, she musters as much confidence as she can find to walk as tall as her petite frame allows. When she finally stops before him, she lets her best coquettish smile pull at the corners of her mouth.
“I wouldn’t mind hearing more…”
all I want is a party doll to come along with me when I'm feelin' wild
Freedom does not grace all souls the way it undeniably should. It is withheld and denied, it is teased and taunted. It lingers like fog in the back of your eyes and sticks like sap on your skin. It plays games, it hides like a shy child when strangers come calling.
Doctor hears the word and wonders if he’s ever known its meaning.
He knows it is fought for, it is taken and it is cherished, but its true definition seems lost to time itself. At the very least, he knows its opposites - servitude, imprisonment, captivity. These things he has felt before, lashed and bound both mentally and physically. Even now, he wonders why he’s been left to roam when he could, at the very whim of his magician mother’s will, be forced to return to the depths of this world.
Memories of war, of fighting and hatred, fury and anguish plague his mind like a cancer. Too often his thoughts swirl with the crimson hues of it, a violent cacophony. Anadil still enjoys plucking his strings from time to time with ghostly whispers in his mind, distinct nudges to encourage the houndish strife that seems only natural in his bitter heart.
But not today. His thoughts are his own and he stands alone in the Meadow. To others, it may seem as if he is lost in reverie, watching the world pass by in the midst of a sunny day, but truthfully he is scrutinizing every face he sees.
There are not many, but there are some.
Then there is one.
The painted stallion with his crest and haunch licked by delightful flame (Doctor’s own throat burns; a vague glimmer of firelight touches at his muzzle when he snorts softly). The smoke is familiar, unnervingly so, and the ruddy dun takes it as an invitation.
Then there are two.
The pink mare joins the paint and the glint of her delicate wings catches Doctor’s eye. She is dainty and soft; she does not seem suited for the world as he knows it. She is fair and lovely and far too sweet a treat for the perils of Beqanna. A smile touches his face, baleful and grim.
Now there are three.
He joins them casually, as if he is meant to be there, and stops near the mare with a faint exhale of smoke and ash. “Freedom is a thing easily promised,” he observes with a raspy voice, as if his lungs are charred. “How would you plan to deliver such an elusive prize?” He is genuinely curious, ears perked in interest while, subconsciously, he hopes the distant magician is not listening in to this particular interaction.
There, a trail of scorched earth. And here, a fire-thing to follow it.
It is the flame that beckons her more than the promise of freedom.
(Because Elodie was a thing meant for leaving, not for having. Elodie was a thing meant for searching, she had labored at it her whole life. She had found nothing of what she’d been looking for, though. No matter what lengths she’d gone to, she had come up empty always.)
It had been the darkness that had given her the fire. That terrible, suffocating darkness. It had been the darkness that had taken her mother. (And isn’t it her mother that she’s been searching for all these years? But Elodie has changed so much since the last time she’d seen her, how does she know she’d recognize Lilian even if she saw her?)
And perhaps the fire is the first thing that she has ever loved, because the fire was meant for staying. Because the fire smoldered in the cage of her chest, because it crowned her fine head, because it sprouted bright and burning from the points of her hips when she willed it to. Because the fire loves her, too. And with the fire comes the fireflies that alight on her skin, touch her so gently that it makes her quiver. She loves them, too.
There, ahead, where the trail of scorched earth ends there is a small gathering. It is immediately obvious who is responsible for it, the stallion with flames where his mane and tail should be. It is the flame that calls to her.
She fits here, she thinks, as she draws nearer. Such a strange thing to think for a girl who has never belonged anywhere at all. The others speak, but she does not. She merely loiters, glancing between the three of them before her deep yellow eyes fall heavy, finally, on the one who’d called them to gather.
and if i go, i’m goin’ shameless
I’ll let my hunger take me there
02-13-2024, 02:12 PM (This post was last modified: 02-13-2024, 03:10 PM by Demi.)
Demi
The days blur together for Demi. They are never a mundane routine, but they blur, nonetheless. I find ways to entertain myself though. Often here -within the common lands- I can find some sort of amusement. Today is no different when my sharp eye catches a wispy woman dancing along the earth below. Her wings flutter about in her child-like antics, and I see a reflection of myself splashing about. I only ever watched them, my entertainment, from the place in the skies above. It was better here, to see them how they act when no one is watching. But Demi is watching.
Always watching.
My form is tawny and sleek today. Inconspicuous and unremarkable. I glide along the air currents above, no movement in my wings. To them I am nothing but a speck in the sky; to me they are just as they see themselves. Each color distinct, each movement noticed, each word spoken as if whispered in my ear. My head lowers to watch her more closely. Catching now the presence of another being the woman has hidden from my notice. A dark and fiery figure looms near and I suspect they are on the same path. Destined to meet.
Words are called out across the lands from the flame licked man and I curiously await the interaction I feel is coming. This should be the most entertaining day I have had in what seems like ages. I circle high, directly above the space between the pair. The man's words have more bodies creep near, another man and then another woman. Curiosity coils within me as it has been some time since a gathering of this size congregates. I must get a closer look at what is happening here.
My hunter form gives way to a black trickster. A thing that signals omens. I dive from my perch in the sky to that of a nearby tree. The only clue to my inner self is the mismatch of my eyes. One an icy blue, the other blood red. The trees shade cloaks me in shadows as I watch and listen. I am interested to know just how this man is to give away freedom as if it is a free thing to give. Surely there is a catch, a fine printed line within a contract.
Legends & Myths
Appearance: First a peregrine falcon; then a raven
The soulless eyes look straight back at him. The desperation. The fear. The love. The abject horror follows him wherever he goes. But he thrives off it. He breathes it. He needs it to survive. What would he be like if things were different? If he was different? He would never know. Would he? How could he know? He was born this way. At least he thinks he was. It’s not his fault. But isn’t it? Isn’t it his fault that he couldn’t control his temper? His anger that fuels his entire being. The fire that burns inside and caused all the good in him to disintegrate into ash. What rose from the ashes was a new ember. A new ember that changed his entire being.
He used to not always be like this. He used to be a good little colt prancing around his mother, never having a care in the world. His mother was the lead of the herd. The day he was born was a joyful day for them all. As this jet black little scrawny colt slowly entered into the world as his mother, his poor mother strained for hours to get him Earthside. Eleven brutal months pregnant with him, causing her so much pain and suffering. She was elated to meet her baby. The heir to the throne. Her legacy.
Amenadiel is his name. Amenadiel is her legacy. Amenadiel is why she died.
Amenadiel, no longer that scrawny colt, now a muscular, large stallion roams the forest. With every hoof beat, the critters scatter to safety. Shaking. Hiding. Waiting for the jet black stallion to no longer be in the area. The red highlights in his mane and tail blow with his every move, like fire bends with the wind.
He stops suddenly, blending into his surroundings, the only thing that would give him away are his piercing red eyes and his mane and tail. Up ahead he notices is a young black Tobiano. Mare or stallion, he can’t tell. He jumps, hearing the sound of splashing water. His heart beat settling, once seeing that it was a young mare walking towards the tobiano. He smells smoke, ash. Something familiar. Fire. A small smirk slides onto his face. Perfect… they will be absolutely perfect. he snickers to himself.
He’s ready to ambush them, but he stops in his tracks. Because alas, another horse comes into view. He needs these horses like he needs oxygen. He grinds his teeth in anticipation of the adrenaline.
Wings flap above him. He looks up, breaking the stare to the nearby horses and back over to them, not realizing that the bird that soars above and lands on a branch is one of them.
He stretches his black and red tinted wings, not having used them in a while. He stays hidden, only thing that’s somewhat visible is his red glowing eyes, staring straight to the unsuspecting others.
Hysperia has always devoured attention like a starved child would devour a hot bowl of soup. In a sense, Hysperia is that hungry child, a mere girl harbored deep in the shadowed curves of her ribs. There’s layer after layer of ironclad armor protecting those intimate parts of her, the parts that still love and long and feel loss.
She felt that love—that loss—that longing—so intensely that it weakened her, sickened her. They tangled up her guts into nothing was left of her but a weeping, knotted mess. In some intense moments, she’ll visit the wreckage of that girl, still bloodied and twisted and sobbing. Before she felt sympathy—she tried her hardest to understand!—but now she spits at the child, hysterical and foaming at the mouth.
How could you?! How could you let us get here?! What have you done?!
That is who she is, this feline and hunting thing, this lithe little mare. A broken girl, left to her own devices.
They—the crowd—won’t see who she is. They won’t know of the bones that snapped and snapped and snapped to create the beautiful, hissing creature prickling to join their midst. They won’t know Hysperia.
She slips through the trees, sea-swept eyes trailing over each individual until they stop to linger on the fiery woman amongst them. She stares and stares, heart sweeping upward until it begins to crash. Hysperia always hated beautiful things, beautiful women—they weren’t her. The draw of her plummeting heart brings her as close to the mare as she can get without encroaching.
And then she sees the truly glorious thing, the speaker of freedom. A wicked, wicked grin splits her lips.
From shadow and sunlight and rain. It moves him, in a way, like the wind in the high crown of the trees. His dark eyes slide along each face. Some are fire and others feather and they look back at him with their million eyes.
When he was young his mother would take him out from their home to the commons. She would tell him to look at each face and remember them. She would tell him someday he would be something great. He never wanted to be great and even then, would protest against her. But now, he thinks she must have held the hope more for herself. Çevik didn’t know if his mother was dead or alive now, he could barely remember the sound of her voice.
The spotted stallion lifts his head. Flames lick around his face. His tail sweeps the ground and the smell of burning intensifies.
“We dismantle them,” his voice cracks like fire. His dark eyes roam over each other, unsure of who might remain with him or who would simply wander off. Who could hear the call or who wanted to remain deaf to true purpose.
But, he thinks, what is the purpose anyway?
“We break down their kingdoms, we pull apart their sense of civilization,”
A pause,
“We burn it.”
Çevik smiles then, his yellow teeth showing grim and crooked. He glances around them and he can feel something pulsing through him–perhaps it is life, he thinks, or maybe just more flames.
“We become a plague to their houses, we scatter their ashes on the wind and from them rebuild a world in our own image.”
Within the shadows of the tree I remain motionless, cept for the blinking of my mismatched eyes. I am the first to witness the happenings but not the first to gather. My curiosity ties me here, anxiously waiting for what the man promises. Another comes, and then another, before they still.
Finally, he elaborates on his purpose. My blackened head twists to view the man better with my crimson eye. I listen intently to all he promises them. Freedom, he had claimed, but I am no more convinced now than I had been when I arrived. How can one claim to give something if it was free to them already? My question is soon answered as the plot thickens. The flame licked man speaks of upheaval. Of chaos and disorder. The stripping of the kingdoms and instituting anarchy. My wings shift as I rebalance on the branch I perch on. I have never engaged in the politics of the Kingdoms, but I don't feel they are a bad structure to uphold. Of course, anything can be bad if the one to run it so chooses.
It is only a moment more that I pause at the ending of his speech. I have felt myself searching for something, a belonging of sorts, but this was not it. I was not the type to wreak havoc. My search was more family oriented, a unit of those that worked together for the greater good of all. One of strength, dignity; just and good. I would not find that here. With a leap my wings expand, flapping to bring me skyward quickly and silently. The information I received here may be useful, so I tuck it away for a rainy day. Those gathered will not even know of my attendance here...
She watches as the others gather and it does not go unheeded that she sticks out like a sore thumb. The ringmaster flicking his locks of flame, indiscriminately setting fire to the surroundings. The man that slinks up near her, the smell of extinguished fires lingering and mingling with the shadows that wreath his frame. The woman that is a most lovely vision with her crown of flames and coat that seems to glow with flickering embers that could easily ignite to a raging inferno.
For a long moment, she simmers in a pool of petulant jealousy. She recognizes that she is a glittering cloud of fairy dust among these smoldering and charred creatures. Though she typically enjoys the attention (perhaps too much) her diminutive stature begets, she foolishly fears that this will cause them to turn away, to deem her unworthy of their time. A lone black raven distracts her for just a brief minute as it settles itself into a nearby tree, but she quickly looks away when she realizes another has crept up to the group.
Well, at least this one does not seem to share a fiery trait with the rest of the crowd and that gives the rose-colored girl a tiny measure of comfort. She might have noticed the sinister red eyes lurking in the shadows behind the newest addition, but the painted man’s rough voice draws her gaze back to him.
Again, his words are lost on her. Dismantle what, exactly? She has met no kings or queens in her short time here or anywhere else, for that matter, therefore she has no quarrel with them. Having visited the Chamber, she knows that there are distinct lands with royal history, but are they truly kingdoms at this point?
She may have no desire to tear anything down, but the thought of adventure is like a cloying drop of temptation on her tongue and she can feel the craving growing once more. She refrains from speaking this time, wanting to hear what the others have to say. Her eyes, brimming with eagerness, flit from face to face and the thrum of anticipation begins to rattle her bones again.
This time, she does not even notice the raven as it quickly leaves the gathering.
all I want is a party doll to come along with me when I'm feelin' wild
