Spice

I stood, frigid and still my forelock blowing in the wind, falling back into my eyes as the wind stopped, then started back up again, swirling around me and pulling at my mane and tail, making them swirl and spin. I like it here in the cold. Although, I must admit, I like it in the desert with Rhoa. It was wonderful.
But I had a feeling of... want. Yern to get away and explore. Just as Rhoa had.

But this time, I had gone much farther, slipping off into the Threshold of which I had entered this new land in, passing a supposed herd boundaries and to this place. It had the same type of land bridge like the Throat did. It was stupid of me to go on such a hunt for cold. It was all around me. I don't know if my Mother would like me thinking this, but I love the cold. Even though I had grown up in a warmer place where I didn't ever feel a breath of cool until the night...I couldn't even sleep because the land was still heat-scorched. I didn't like the heat all that much after feeling the cold. I didn't want to go back. I smile a small smile as I stand there in the knee-high snow thinking I would never had been here if I did not jump that dreaded fence I was always warned about never leaving.

Now, I was here. In a place I enjoyed.

I spread my mud-dappled wings, tossing my head back with a joyful whinny. It was filled with wonder and truth and something new I couldn't quite pick out yet.

But I had a feeling it was love.

ooc;; hi! i've posted this for us to get started, do you mind if it's private? sorry if you don't want it to be private. anyway, i got us started. reply when you can! <3

"Are we out of the woods yet?" "Are we in the clear yet?"

i can see it in your eyes

EREBOS

All great men, either current or foretold, had to return home eventually – even when hunting down clues of murderers and assassins, even when scampering for an unknown egg, even when playing for stone empires or stained glass. The little scion trudged through the snow and the chilling vestiges, encased himself in the raw filaments of ice, of the cold, of the constant winter embrace and would have it no other way. He’d traversed down into the valleys of dunes and beaches, of sand and sun, he’d wandered amidst verdant fields and picturesque bliss, but they’d never feel the same as the Basin: he belonged there, to the eaves and the icicles, to the tempests and the lakes, to the murky caverns and the strange mirror, born into renegade, pariah dreams and barbarian hordes. He wished for no other sanctuary, no other refuge, than the beautiful expanse just over the horizon. The Steppe, a Siberian revelation, was one more whimsical journey towards his shelter – had he not been curious, inquisitive, and intrigued by another being nearby.

If he yearned to be sneaky, he could have crouched behind a rock, stared, contorted, gazed until an appropriate time to escape or query, but a boldness fulfilled him, scorched his veins, ignited his bones, and instead, he followed the trace of this unknown scent. His strides, still lanky, still gangly, balanced precariously through the snow and ice, chiseled the same fortitude he encompassed and composed amongst the aurora lands, firm, precise, boyish, juvenile elegance to ensure no faltering, no stumbling. The lad’s gaze, a steady, piercing, eager blue, emblazoned past the crags and stones, staring into the endless void, hoping to spy, hoping to spot, the creature residing amongst the confines: unknown, unguarded, undetermined. When his resolute stare finally managed to capture the other occupant, he first noted the wings; Pegasus, a future flier like Aithniel, but where his fellow musketeer was ivory, ashen, and horned, this girl was not – painted in intriguing hues, traversing from alabaster to sienna. She was entirely foreign to him, not a face pressed into recognition, not a feature aligned to any other character, no bloodlines tracing and passed down from generations of Throat bearers or noteworthy ancestry. Perhaps she was new, agog and interested in the ways of the world like all youths were, conspiring to blend barren knowledge into future wisdom (even he was tempted, wanting to ask about her wings and if she could fly yet, what could she see from the glimmering horizon, was everything as beautiful and luminescent as it seemed). Absconding the opportunity, he chased down a icy path and emerged from the chilling crag, sometimes a Neptune behemoth, other times a winter hellion, bestowing a devil-may-care grin through boyish interludes and childhood greetings. “Hello!” He pressed his voice into a riotous crescendo, buoyant, light, springing and pervading through the frigid expanse. Then he fed her a lie, because he wanted to, because it made him laugh, because games were afoot and his unruly motivations pulsed and roamed. He stole another predecessor’s name, honored them through fabrications and falsities. “I’m Nepdon! Who are you?”

Spice

I didn't hear the first word. The sound of it echoed in my mind and stilled, running away before I could capture it so I didn't care to listen for another, because perhaps it was only an echo.
But, to my dismay it was not. It was another, I didn't turn to look at it or what may come of manners, but decided if I was to be alone, that I would ignore it. It might not even be an equine. It could be a spirit of the wind. Something only I can only imagine. Something that was not magic, and was not reality. But my own made-up story. No, legend. I smiled at my idea. I wished to tell my own story one day. The story of the winds, and how I rose to control them one day. Some day.

But when he announced his name, it was so peculiar and so un-called for sI turned around. Swift as a fast running-wild cat, I gazed upon this new creature with a surprise that was unreal and...

Wholly...

This thing had one of those sticks upon it's brow. Why? I could ask that forever why the supposed gods would make a creature like this. ever. What in the world had happened to it's head? My shoulders slumped, eyes filled with a newfound sympathy for this creature. I didn't know what to say, so I expressed the emotion that was welling up inside me. Sympathy. It had never really occurred before, but I felt sad for this creature with the stick on it's forehead, it's forelock forced to shape and make it's way around the stick.

The only thing I really could say right then, in the scary heat of the moment was "What did they do to you?"

"Are we out of the woods yet?" "Are we in the clear yet?"

i can see it in your eyes

EREBOS

His game was already faltering, tipping, sinking, submerged back into icicle granules and puffs of hot air. At first, he was simply ignored, which would dismay and swindle any youth, and then the filly glanced his way with commiserative, consoling eyes, as if he was troubled, ill, or gravely wounded. For a few seconds, the colt was baffled, stunned into silence, drawn back into himself (because were there any external flaws he’d managed to forget?), and attempted to uncover another mystery. He carried no outward injuries, nor inward prejudices (he had naught to angst or be melancholy about, after all, privileged, defiant, and subversive in play, in ventures and sojourns). At least this enigma brandished itself with a query, even if it were all the more unsettling and confusing. What did they do to you? As far as he was aware, naught had truly ever been done to him: he’d lived his life in earnest, wild exuberance, a chaotic ramble of adventures, crusades, and lessons, reality taught in sporadic bursts of excitement or capricious exploits. He’d been born in the icy Basin, shielded and guarded by his wonderful parents, by his whimsical sibling, played and paraded around with his friends, a charmed fortitude, a lively cavalcade. He’d discovered magical capabilities, floated across waves and surf like King Neptune of the seven seas, desired and coveted for more, for the strange crackles simmering just below his skin, untapped, untouched, future, foretold exploitations. He’d seen his friend’s companion born, nestled and bonded, sought his own through patience and diligence. Sometimes he wandered on his own, gasped at inky caverns, solved puzzles in attempts to win a prize, dreamed, yearned, craved bits and pieces of power, or fashioned lies to see if the victims would be snared; to his disappointment, this one hadn’t even been snagged. Instead of sighing or pouting, indignation was not suitable for a prince’s features (no matter how devilish, impish, or embedded into childhood), he tilted his head, felt the air whip around the length of his rapier, and attempted to rectify the perplexing circumstances. “What do you mean?”

Spice

It was an interesting sight, if I thought more about it. A creature of difference. Wonder scouring through my gaze, hustling it's way to the front to witness this weird occurrence. I didn't let it get that big of an eye full, because manners came first in these matters. When I was meeting someone new, it was always good to put that strong and confident face on. Although, I should also show this boy something that I also have the capability to be. I can be fun. I can be exited and happy and different around others I know better. If he would let me become friends, maybe even just acquaintances. I didn't mean to give that kind of first impression as my Mother would call it.

"I'm sorry... I mumble, my head dipping low. Though it was not a bow it was a nod of sorry. "I didn't mean to come off so rude. I am Sage, but you can call me Spice. Well, call me whatever you would like..." I pause because I feel that I am beginning my little rambling thing, and look back up at him, his stick seemed something he took pride in. Do horses here act differently because they are different? Scorched by the fire of the gods, leaving a horn ... stick ... in the place of the forehead. I wonder if he was born with it.

The quizzical look on his face was hopefully just something for then. Because it made him look funny. His face looked better not all...Whatever that was. Whenever I saw this questioning or misunderstanding side of another, I have always decided that they would look much better with a smile. Or something more.

Because life wasn't about not understanding. You had to live it to the fullest to truly understand. And yet, you will still have questions. I wanted him to smile. Like Rhoa had done. Or smirk like the stallion in the doorway of this mysterious and new place that I now call a sort of home.

"Are we out of the woods yet?" "Are we in the clear yet?"

i can see it in your eyes

EREBOS

Erebos stared long and hard at the filly, attempting to come up with answers when she failed to yield them herself. What a strange creature, babbling and brewing out consternations of apologies, of two different names, with no explanation given to her prior statements. Maybe she was rattled, puzzled, perplexed, drifting and gliding in from some other world, and really didn’t know who she was or where she belonged? A portion of his little braveheart soul was still bothered by her what did they do to you regalia, but with naught forthcoming, he couldn’t help but wonder if someone had done something to her. He resumed his former head position, tilted his crown back into noble, regal form, because a prince shouldn’t never let it tip, fall, or slide away, and managed to retain more genial features; an amiable smile, a crafty, wily glint to his eyes, a suave aperture while blackguard ventures crinkled and coiled throughout his mind. Softer, without the buoyant edges, without the exuberant outcries, he poised an affable query, bestowed it through the icy, glacial quiet. “Which do you prefer?” All the while, he crept a little closer, a pirate scion adrift from his ship, deck, and crew, curious, wishing to explore, building and brewing questions as the chilling wind bolstered, billowed, and howled, a mercenary sapling extending his cutlass branches. Her wings encouraged him to concoct curious schemes and measures, because the only ones he’d seen were bright plumes from Aithniel, and darkened feathers from Faeanne (but hers could burn, ignite, set the world aflame!), and he yearned, desired, wanted to know if there were others who possessed the skills. They’d been given the tools; why not reap the benefits? Eventually, he’d take the world over with his rapier wit and bestial sword, sneak and slither, crawl and wreak havoc, smile and smirk and unravel tempests, delusions, and grand, majestic opulence. He tightened his presence, maneuvered forward until he was in front of her frame, all grins and boyish mischief, leaning with a feral whisper, with a mysterious murmur. “Can you fly?”

Spice

I stare at him with a quizzical look on my brow, for had forgotten why he was asking which one do you prefer, but now I see that he meant my names. I didn't really know the answer to this but a lot of the others that I had met before call me Spice. So, that was my result. "Spice, I like Spice better." I say to the colt that couldn't be close behind me in age. She smiled, a genuine and fine smile.

When he had used that voice of boyish mystery, that curious and thoughtful look in his eyes...I simply just had to answer. Usually I wouldn't be too eager to tell the other that had asked that I did not know how to fly. It wasn't impressive or anything. A 1 year old filly who sill doesn't know how to fly. Unheard of. "No, not yet. But I am getting the hang of it." I announced a bit proudly, straightening herself a bit. I had confidence that if he asked me to try and fly right then, I would at least try to show him. He was a bit handsome as well, though, the horn thing kind of killed it.

"I can try to fly, if you want...?" I said, a bit scared at this moment. But why should I be? I was sure I was going to make it. Rhoa could fly, and he was younger than me. I beat one of my wings, then the other. "Nepdon". I murmur with a smile, folding over my mouth like I had just won a prize. It was a fun name to say. It sounded foreign on my tongue, just as Jahzara had. I look at him, in wait of an answer to my question-y-comment about showing him how I fly.

i can see it in your eyes...

EREBOS

“Nice to meet you, Spice.” The Cheshire smirk spiraled into juvenile nuances, a dip in idle curiosity, springing into specious upheavals, clinging amongst the icy vestiges and courting throngs of winter’s final breaths. It swerved a little low, belied into a slight frown when the filly admitted she couldn’t hasten to the air yet (and wasn’t it disappointing, to have those grand wings, to have the ability to fly and murmur and whistle into the air, but no capacity to do so?). Perhaps it was the same as he, both too juvenile, both too fresh, both too new to recognize or utilize the potential within themselves (for him, the enigmatic things bubbling and brewing in his chest, but how to make them work, how to grant them manifestations, how to compose the pernicious whispers to unravel) – maybe the Pegasus had tried, attempted, and practiced, and simply didn’t have the correct skill yet. Was there a certain age they should have known how to slide into the wind, gesture and bat their wings, match bird songs and swells? His information on their kind was sorely lacking, but instead of drudging through ignorance, he continued to give over to the crescendo of curiosity and the ambient sway of niceties, forging only names through the genial haze. He did want to see how one could fly (he wouldn’t try it – he knew better than that now), but to know how and why and what boosted them into the sky would be a triumphant, extraordinary lesson even poor Zikar-Sin wouldn’t be able to provide them. She flapped her plumes, and his gaze widened, fascinated, and riveted, on the pulsing feathers and the dulcet, soft mechanisms (how did they lift something to massive, when they appeared so miniscule, delicate, and feeble?); he leaned a few inches closer, studying the appendages closely. The young lad’s voice echoed through the glacial chambers with its exuberant boom once more, regaling his excitement over the possibilities, over the opportunities, to hasten a maiden’s flight. “It’d be so cool to see!”

Spice

I ponder the reasons why this young fellow could be so fascinated in her wings. I tilt my head to the side, examining from a more obscure view, gazing at the horned child with interest.
A new idea has stuck me. I smile, it was not a smile of mischief, more like interest and thoughtful wishes. "Okay. If I show you flight, you tell me about your head-stick." I nod at the thing atop his brow with a curious glint clinging on to my emerald gaze. "Promise?" I hold out my hoof, just for him to link with mine. It was a thing me and my mother used to do a lot when I was younger. It meant that the other person promised to do what the deal had set up for them. Like they where linked until they upheld their side of the bargain.

My mind flashes back to when I fell from the sky in the Throat. It didn't hurt much, just my muscles (from being strained) and her back ankle, which she had rolled in the fall. I didn't really like the thought of me, my body, falling from the sky. What terror it must have brought to the witnesses' eyes. I shake it off mentally, smiling as I stretched my wings out and in, out and in. I chuckle as I shoot a glance to the colt, spreading my wings fully, I start to run down my make-shift track, imagining the lights blinking for liftoff. The cold snow feels nice on my hooves as I push my way though it.

I start to flap, and ascend, the cold wind already buffeting my wings back, I hold them in place, so I wouldn't be thrown back and flap more, hoping too rise. Not as far as I had in my last scary and seemingly suicidal flight. I then, in my weird attempts to turn, I go in a semi circle, hoping not to catch on to an air current, I would be pulled away instantly. I look down at him, straining my neck, flapping in place as I had when I tried to look down at my friend, Rhoa.

"Are we out of the woods yet?" "Are we in the clear yet?"

i can see it in your eyes

EREBOS

A noteworthy proposal with an unfortunate blemish tagged in its lines: Head-stick. “You mean my horn?” A Unicorn’s prowess was in question, as if she’d never seen such a marvel upon one’s head, and a sense of pride overwhelmed, fulfilled, his little chest in a widened puff and tilted skull, eyes widened, shocked, surprised at her unfamiliarity. The lithe cretin wasn’t offended, but the threads of his heart begged to unveil and surmise explanations, a call of duty, a siren song of creeds and upheavals. His species’ dignity and honor were conveyed through the swords, the rapiers, the cutlasses, the knives emblazoned across their brows: showing, manifesting, displaying the distinct, tangible depths of their power. He thought his own was a wonderful specimen, much like his father’s, smothered and hovering in magnificent sable, dipped in watery convictions, sharp, keen, capable of future endeavors, crusades, and campaigns. He thrived between and amongst descendants and predecessors of equivalent scimitars, created and amassed from barbaric beasts and infernal warlords, cast from stone, from rain, from death and fire. The little lad would have no qualms in waxing poetical upon their esteemed qualities and factors, and after he stared at her proffered hoof, he administered the same promise, lifting his foot to crash against hers. The identical boyish smile curled across his lips, as if she’d just signed a deal with the devil. “Promise.” But then he watched, he marveled, he studied, as she practiced her own calling, witnessing and delving into the marvelous display. She ran, she galloped, she pressed into the ice, and then took-off, flapping, beating, fluttering, and rippling, and he couldn’t fathom how the feeble, delicate, flimsy looking feathers and wings held her aloft, streamlined into the sky. The puzzling, befuddling, confusing anomaly sparked and buzzed, spun a tempest, a gale, amidst his avaricious mind. The pondering pulsed through his lungs, pervaded along his throat, burst along the chilling horizon, a feral crescendo, a curious exuberance. “How do they hold you up?”

EREBOS

For all her efforts in courting guidance, prowess, and inspiration, she didn’t galvanize much wisdom or information. The world’s mysteries continued laying uncovered, dismayed and untarnished, earning only the slightest of sighs as she touched back down to earth, ignorant of her own gifts and abilities, inept at recalling their worth. His eyes followed and flicked over the illustrious plumage, over the quaking limbs and feathers, struggling not to show his disappointment as another labyrinth door remained firmly shut. The young beast furnished a quick mask, the winsome smile, the gallant, intrepid means and measures to an end, the beseeched, swift brow of a refined, rogue gentleman, while his heart sparked an exasperated plea. For the bitterest of seconds and instances, he almost thought to not relish her with any guidance on the grand lineage of the horned beasts and their broadened swords, their intriguing prowess, their illustrious capabilities, but his mother’s wisdom outweighed the satanic stretches of ferocity, and he quelled in quiet acquiescence. There could be other times for subversion and rebellion. His boyish voice ghosted through the air, a tinge of disenchantment floating in its wake, an idle, fraught hand toying with the strings of delusion. “That’s too bad.” He glanced upward, towards the long rapier extended from his brow, a formation of kings and queens, gods and goddesses, stories and myths drenched and soaked in the wiles of cunning witches and spellbinding motives: hardly a fair trade. But another piece of him wanted her to see, wanted her to know, of the legacy, of the supremacy, of the dominion unicorns held. Erebos pieced together what information he had, swinging his head side to side, listening to the whistle of his cutlass as it sliced and pierced through the wind – ceasing to laugh, to regale, the filly with his own bits and pieces of knowledge. “All unicorns have horns.” His eyes widened, immersed in the alluring snare, lacing his mischievous stare over her wings, her features. “Some have giant antlers! Or two blades!” He paused to gain his breath, to maintain the enlightening ferocity. “We can use them for lots of things – but mostly for battle!” His father’s punctured enemies, his brethren’s conquered foes, his kin’s dominated waterways, sands, and beaches of Isilme – and reached out to the valleys below, the peaks behind, wielding dominion and might.

Spice

He sure was animated while talking about blade-headed things. It was funny. The way he spoke of the horn atop his head like it was so much more. He used the royal we. In other terms, I would hate it when they use this way of speaking. Be he made it sound as though there where actually more of him.

Wow. How naive. I smiled, though not a smirk, I said in a mocking-like tone "there is not more of you..!" I thought back to when I had met the Wildfire. Those could not be what he was talking about. He had said antlers...but he could not be right. I didn't really want him to be right.
What he said about especially using them in battle kind of scared her. His where as pointy as a sword. And with something that dangerous atop your head...you would be like a walking monster-type thing. But, he didn't look like a particular monster.
Be he did when you picture red blood dripping from the tip of his horn. I take a short step back. "I mean, there could not be any more of you, right? I mean, you don't look all too regular." It was true. He was the one of the only horned things I had come across in this Helovia land. And the other -I was sure it was only a decoration- The Wildfire seemed to have them all over his body. That was the only reason I doubted it was real. Tied on.

I look to him with a small smile on my face to cover my uncomfortableness. "I mean, not to be rude or anything."

i can see it in your eyes...

EREBOS

His disappointment didn’t last too long - her confusion, her befuddlement, her ignorance made him laugh. It crashed and rolled in waves of ebullient rise and falls, crested and reigned with a flood of wicked enjoyment, bestial amusement, devil-may-care exposition and composition. She had no notion, no idea, that beyond the walls of frozen peaks and valleys, were many more of them, thriving, existing, in the cracks and crags of caverns, in the overflowing valleys, in the vicious tundra – and then some beyond their wonderful Basin, living amongst other kingdoms and empires. His rogue eyes pulsed with something akin to savagery, and the smirk scorching his lips widened, a bravado heightening and pervading from his young structure, watching her carefully pick apart his words, too unknown and too foreign to comprehend or understand the nature of the world before her. If she was uneasy, restless, over the notions of his species flourishing, covering the realms around their icy shoals, then his next tones weren’t going to assuage or relieve any of her sentiments. “Oh, there are hundreds of us!” The blue scion tipped his head towards his homeland, cresting and unfolding glaciers away, a bestial outreach, a baleful outcry, where auroras stretched across the horizon and danger lurked and treachery brewed and his heart remained. “In my herd, we have almost all Unicorns.” Erebos failed to mention Aithniel, because a protective slate was chiseled there, pushed against his throat and lodged in his skull (because they wouldn’t take her wings, he’d assured her of that), or the other strange creatures lurking in the midst, the Patron God and his reflecting mirror. The little prince spoke once more, seemingly, purposefully, building her unease, pricking apprehension, emboldening trepidation, puncturing the last few syllables with singular dread and foreshadowing. “And they live in other empires too! They’re everywhere.”

Spice

I couldn't believe this. He was telling the truth. And I was wrong.

Not that I envied him for being right, I just really wanted to be right. For my own reasons. I lower my head in thought, though quickly snapping it back up. I couldn't let him think that I had shame over my own thoughts.

I was still young, I had an excuse to be wrong sometimes. Every has an excuse to be wrong. Even if you are the oldest most wise horse in the world, you can still make mistakes, as her mother says.
I wanted to see them, all those unicorns. I really did. Not to try and prove him wrong, that they where just a figment of his imagination when I ask where to find them. I am just scared they are not particularly nice with sticks upon their brow, they might find themselves menacing. Going after young children with stab wounds in their mind.

I shake the awful image mentally, looking back up at him. "I'm sorry my ignorance at the fact. I thought I was so right I did not see what is right in front of me." I smiled a kind and understanding smile. I got together my own thoughts, trying to make them fit together. "There cannot be only one of you, you must have parents! You cannot be alone in this world anyway, who are you really?" He must have parents I think desperately. I didn't want to be wrong again. Who ever did?

I await his answer, when a sudden urge washes over me, pushing my will down under the water, where it could not breath to stop the urge. I wanted to see the others. So badly. I wanted to see real antlers upon their crown, not just a decoration, a commodity... I wanted to see real. I wanted to see half Unicorn half elk. Whatever type of animal had horns like that. I wanted to see blades! I wanted to see three four, five on them. Could they be anywhere else? Maybe ram horns! Who knew, maybe I would see them some day.

I sure wanted to.

i can see it in your eyes...

EREBOS

Satisfaction, contentment, smugness in her incomprehension rolled and contorted through him; a glorious sense of pride and haughtiness, the blistering arrogance, the boiling arrogance, coiled in layers and lacquer – and for some seconds, he wanted to scare her, frighten her, be the bestial creature laden in the woods, springing behind trees and conspiring to swallow, consume, innocent knaves. She was sorry, but he wasn’t: his smirk, his snicker, widened and grew to an almost dangerous degree, if it weren’t worn on a child. His conceited, brewing sense of ego nearly urged him to pour and spill a whole series of information about their world, because he could recite stories and tales from ancestors, from conquests and triumphs, to defeats and insurgents, battles waged and fires kindled, but another portion of him stilled, tempered the ruminations. The scion stilled, narrowed his gaze, allowed his eyes to wander back over the immaculate horizon, the rising of peaks, the height of glacial expanse, the might, the weight, the ferocity of a dominion he held near and dear to his heart. He’d only offer so much of himself, of his brethren, to another, and nearly held it under lock and key, safeguarded, secure, but Spice asked, and the pervading essence of confidence bolstered his boldness, savored his sedition. “Of course! Don’t you have parents?” Insurrection inflated and curiosity convoluted, because he’d never been alone in the world – there had always been someone there, in the mist, in the thickets, in the rime and frost, to protect and shield him from the antics of the ignorant. He ignored the conjecture at who are you really, for pretending to be your grandfather in name and name only was a raw stretch for a boy barely a year, and carefully tiptoed around the subject by bestowing her the herald of his herd, but not the location. “I live in the Aurora Basin. Where’s your home?”