"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
05-07-2024, 12:55 PM (This post was last modified: 05-07-2024, 12:57 PM by Zain.)
The days begin to shorten as the months pass by. Winter has come much faster than expected, but as usual Pangea changes little with the seasons. Not much grows here, just a cactus here and there. It was really the only form of flora he did not blight with his powers. Something in the way it screamed "fuck off" sent a sensation of pleasure down his loins.
Today the undead thing traverses a long stretch of canyon to the east bordering the sealine. He doesn't care for water and so he often avoids the shores of the kingdom, but today there is a draw to be here.
The long black dreads of his mane swing along his sienna-colored hide. The gaping wounds of his body began morphing again and he thinks to how long it has been since he fed. Much too long he decides. Alas there is little to eat in the way of his preferences. He snorts, head hung level as he walks lazily across the muted barren soil.
Tall rocky ledges reach high above him along both sides. Their mixed layers of yellow, red and gray show the brutal past of the kingdom. Each line a different era with a history as profound as any land in Beqanna.
In the distant horizon he can spot a break in the walls guard. Opening up to the gray sanded shoreline and the warm sea air that kept the snow of winter from enveloping the kingdom in its icy grasp. The undead being didn't care for snow either.
The gulls call overhead as he walks amongst the brushy sea grasses. White specks congregate down the shores, taking off before the waves get too close, landing just as they recede. Plucking crustaceans from the sands and scavenging remains that have washed ashore, unbothered by his presence here.
Another few paces down the beach he finds a spot where some thorny bushes have crept their way onto the lands. He stops to examine them, deciding their faint with a few random thoughts. Thoughts that are suddenly distracted as he realizes he is not alone here.
It had been some time since their experiments on the flora out on the fringes of the kingdom and, admittedly, Oaks had welcomed the mild lapse in his ‘lessons.’
He had continued to practice, though. Determination still coiled itself within his heart like a fist grasping a lifeline, a meager thread of hope. Zain’s words still burned in his mind, to focus and to visualize your power as a limb…feel it reach out from you. The spotted stallion had continued to try, still taking the instruction literally and imagining a phantasmal tree branch extending out from somewhere near his chest. Its fingers would spread wide, seeking to light upon his intended target with specific intent. However, these feeble grasps could never quite find purchase – at least, not consistently.
As winter pressed upon the world, some of the thinner-skinned animals and more delicate plants began to succumb more readily to his attempts. Oaks had not intended to see them to their ends, though; spurred with some optimism from that brief blessing of actual suppression, he had hoped to ease some of their pain – the ailing old fox stricken with a terrible cough, the beautiful primrose shriveling in the cold clay around it – but it seemed that once again the powers of Beqanna had seen fit to shift within him.
Death had returned to him, no longer held at bay by a more amicable force.
He had withdrawn again as a result, back into the depths of the desert where his magic could cause less damage. Wandering within his new home, he finds himself near the eastern edge where the air carries more moisture thanks to the briny ocean water just over the horizon. The winds are more prevalent, gusting through the canyons with the notable saltiness of the sea, and avian life kites along the less tangible waves overhead. Although the sun is bright, its angle prevents much of its heat from reaching the northern coast, leaving a minor chill on the breeze.
This coolness is amplified when he reaches the beach itself where the wind is no longer contained to the corridors of the canyon and left free to tousle his bi-colored mane. For a moment, he revels in the comfort of being alone. A quick survey of the area, however, reveals that he is not the only one here; not too far to the north of him stands the recognizable form of Zain, tall and visibly decrepit even from this distance.
Oaks pauses for a moment, vaguely debating whether he truly wants to approach his unlikely mentor or whether his loneliness suited him more. In the end, he decides it might be worthwhile to share the news of his magic’s reversion to its usual unpredictable and unhappy means. Turning, he approaches the other stallion with a quiet chuff, head held slightly lower in a subconsciously submissive display.
“Zain,” he greets the other man softly, though his attention has turned to the sickly bush of prickles next to them. A sad smirk lights upon his face. “Another casualty of science?” he asks, nodding to the wearied plant to indicate his meaning. He does not bother trying to focus his own magics, having abandoned the pursuit for the time being, but he looks toward Zain as if awaiting instructions even though they had not planned this meeting.
Surprisingly, the plant does not seem to be affected by Oaks’ own power – yet.
Oaks
