"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 sun is setting, a soft hazy pink and orange tints the meadow. Trees, at full bloom, overhang the trail like a story book. With every step, soft dirt crushes beneath her heavy weight, in tune with her own rhythm. She is jet black, a raven, silently sweeping her way into existence again.
So long had she buried herself in the depths of shadows, and now the sunlight is allowed to beam on her spine once more.
She is elegant, beautifully so. Her body is lean from her hard winter and lonely summer. Her feminine muscles are most noticeable amongst her shoulders and hindquarters, gleaming from consistent travelling and adventure. She has been a wanderer, a lost puppy, and here she is yet again.
Homeless.
It wasn’t that she is sad, she is just passive. Passive about how the wind is winding her mane in knots. Passive about how the birds are chirping obnoxiously loud. Passive about her lack of family. Passive about how her body feels after travelling this long. She is emotionless, a rock. Happy on the outside, empty on the inside.
But, nonetheless, she is breathing.. Right?
Above her she watches the blanket of leaves grow thinner. In front of her, the abundance of trees becomes fewer and fewer until she reaches the meadow tree line. Thick blades grow, about knee high in gracious places and no lower than ankle height in favored shade spots. She feels a slight breeze tickle her muzzle and inhales a deep, relaxing breath of air.
It isn’t home, but it isn’t solitude either.
Her body emerges, feeling the full impact of heat breathe at her side. She isn’t easy to miss, isn’t hard to look over either. She is glamorous, yes, but nothing special. Jet black, onyx, with the smallest pearl white snip at the very tip of her nose.
And her prophets thumb.
Yes, her small indent in the side of her neck that looks like God pushed a little too hard against her clay while he sculpted at her frame.
Hazel brown eyes set on something.
Someone.
He is beautiful, if a man can be deemed so. He is tall, much taller than herself with a masculine build and Spanish-like nose. He reminds her of a Roman soldier in the 1700’s, he was just missing his steel grey armor.
Her eyes blink.
And blink.
And then she feels foolish, because now she finds herself analyzing everyone amongst the meadow. The palomino mare in the far corner, the chestnut stud grazing at the meadow exit. The nauseatingly beautiful grey filly christening herself in the small pool of water to the southern border.
She finds herself feeling a little ordinary.
In defense of her sudden lack of confidence, her tail swishes and her ears slightly pin for point three of a second. As if… For one moment, she feels not good enough to be in the meadow.
Though she is, and now she is just frustrated at herself for being negative.
To distract herself she hastily lowers her head, aggravated, grinding blades of green grass within her jaw. Her eyes close briefly, inhaling the sweet scent of food, attempting to disguise her discomfort with relaxation.
Unfortunately, our little Exemplary has never been a good actress.
Exemplary
I will be yours, and only yours, until the day I fade to black
I watch you fast asleep,
All I fear means nothing.
Tarnished has spent his time in the sun, forged like a sword in its fire and raised in the heat of a jungle and a desert; it taught him to find comfort in rainy days, it made him welcome the dark instead of being afraid of it; there isn’t a crown in the world that rests easy on his head and a heart that doesn’t flutter when his family is mentioned. Most of them have known power since the day they were born, his cousin Straia is a fine example—and while he admires their drive, their absolute thirst for success, he often finds himself not sharing their sentiments.
Should he?
His mother had wanted him to, groomed him to.
She’d wanted him to rule the Deserts; be a protector, a guardian.
Maybe that’s why he doesn’t.
He refuses to lift a finger to please her, if he can help it. Let her writhe around in her grave about it. About how an alliance she’d used her body to create never came to fruition. About how the son she’d poured all of her memories into hated her—because he knew, he knew what an awful creature she was.
But I digress.
If someone were to spot Tarnished among the sea of bodies in the meadow, they would notice his size first—a seventeen hands high stallion isn’t hard to notice, after all. They might take a look at his eyes and admire the intense gold, centered in the middle by black slits for pupils; they might notice he’s handsome, might notice the scars, the damage—no one ever notices the way he moves. It’s unlike the others in the sense that it’s more fluid, too quiet for a creature his size. He slinks between bodies like a wolf among sheep and in reality, he is.
He’s quite the successful hunter and can lay waste the entire meadow, if he wants to—if someone he loves should will it. It’s what made him so valuable to the cult and their cause; strength, coupled with agility is such a deadly combination. A fact they learned too little, too late. He is beautiful, but in a different sense—beautiful because there is something about danger and death that captivates the mind. A person might get torn asunder, but their soul shivers—anticipating sweet release.
She’s a small thing in comparison, a black thing, he might have mistook her for a mere shadow among the trees if she didn’t move so suddenly; he turns his head and matches her stare, equally analytical—equally curious. But she grows nervous before he does and starts looking around, almost as if she didn’t belong. He knows he doesn’t. So Tarnished moves in for a closer look, smiling—he might have even looked half-charming, if not for the sunlight glinting off his fangs. “Lost?” He asks, though he doesn’t really give off the impression that he’s going to help if she is. He’s never much cared for being a woman’s white knight, really; it’s only ever bad luck that he always finds himself filling the role. “Name’s Tarnished, or Nish, if you prefer.”
tarnished
Vanquish x Nocturnal equus mutatio, immortality, disease manipulation, trait immunity
She doesn’t see the flecks of gold in his eyes. Not at first.
She sees the strength in his shoulders, the masculinity in his frame. She watches his stride slink like a cougar gliding between horse bodies and scattered evergreen trees. The way he is so graceful, elegant almost, but yet his aura a shade of cold.
Cold. Like something terrible has happened before.
He is a predator; skilled in the art of stalking, master of the interrogation. She can feel his atmosphere press onto hers like a door trying to close an over flowing closet. Her aura is so much warmer than his, a pretty tone of pink or a pale shade of orange. Her dreams have no nightmares, her body has no scar. She is a clean slate, a pristine antique vase that has been kept locked in a grandmother’s china cabinet.
he’s so tall
She, unlike him, isn’t captivated by danger. Her greatest fear in fact is death. She worries one day she will come to that time in her life, old with wrinkles, bruises, and an unflattering muscle tone, and close her eyes to sleep but never to wake up. Her fear is of the unknown; does she truly die, fall into an acoma, never realizing what happened but just an eternity of blackness? Or, does the light at the end of the tunnel greet her spirit like a child coming home from her first day of school, surrounded by souls who traveled just as she did—exhausted, but fortunate to forever wander her second life happy and free?
Death is her biggest fear, and therefore danger is her enemy.
Knowing this should chase her away, her wall of guard should go up and her heart should race. Though, none of this happens. She is enticed by his aura, coldness, dark. She longs to pick apart his introverted mind, piece by piece, heart to heart. Though danger is petrifying, the gift of knowing someone’s story is all too intriguing.
even in my wildest dreams
He is watching her.
He is coming to her.
And she is very, very awkward.
She shifts to face him, no longer trying to ignore the fact this brute has found her way to her space. Her head lifts slowly, hearing his baritone words ring into her ears like the lowest note on a base guitar. Just a low hum of comfort.
Soft, but strong.
“No,” she exhales, realizing all along her breath had been held for an unbelievably long time. Her heart begins to pound, even her organs know it has been far too long since the last time she socialized. Even a body part only functioning her blood flow is telling her he is a very big step. Why not the little grey mare over there… She seems easier to talk to.
But no, she doesn’t move, her outer atmosphere is as cool and collected as she can possibly make it. “I got sick of the heat, felt I was getting a sunburn.”
That’s a lie. She enjoys the heat of her home, but sometimes the grass feels greener in another place.
There were certainly no individuals close to his quality at home.
“I like Tarnished,” she states openly; the quality of a good name should never be shortened. True, it might be quality over quantity, but Tarnished sounded like too sophisticated of a name to be cut.
“Exemplary,” her eyes level at his, her words coming out of her mouth smoother than a knife spreading margarine. So easy, even, that she was even surprised.
Even her heart let off just the slightest bit.
Exemplary
I will be yours, and only yours, until the day I fade to black
