the Rift


[OPEN] The Art of Introduction

Circe Posts: 101
Deceased
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 5 Buff: NOVICE
M.E.
#1
Circe


How long had it been since Circe had found herself within the bosom of Helovia, broken and bitter and seeking another purpose in life? How long had it been since that brusque, short-spoken mare, Lakota, had offered a home for the dejected sorceress? Surely it seemed a lifetime away from the old style that she had lived her life—a complete 180 from the things she knew and the ones she loved. She was a stranger in strange clothing, riding aboard a strange, rickety wagon to a strange location in a strange place she didn’t know. It was as thrilling as it was terrifying; though her face was composed and her stance secure, there was a faint quiver racking her limbs, ever so slight, that betrayed her nervousness, her homesickness for things that were familiar.

She was a part of the Grey now—once more a piece of a greater whole, a component of a unified body. Call her insufficient or afraid of leadership, but it would be a false representation of the sorceress Circe. She was not so foolish to assume she could wear the mantle of a leader. Circe knew, while she was perfectly capable and worthy in her accomplishments, there are other, greater forces of nature that were wiser and powerful than she. And so it seemed to be with this band of Mercenaries; Circe sensed great promise within their ranks, perceiving them as a mighty force of nature. Their recent invasion of the Foothills were testament to this power.
Though the sorceress wasn’t in it for the benefits of strength—no, she was not so vain. She merely wanted to be used to her fullest potential. This seemed like the place to showcase her capability, which is why she paced here now, in the shallow, chilling waters of a tiny brook that wound its way among the valleys and crests of the land. Circe was a creature of composure, but she was quickly losing her poise to her indignation; she breathed heavily through her nostrils, tossing her head up and down, her leonine tail lashing behind her as a whip might lash the merchant’s oxen. At the apex of her frustration, Circe aimed a kick a smaller boulder; it sailed away some yards from the sorceress, manipulated by the allure of her black magic and the fury powering Circe’s blow.

She barely noticed the flying rock. This is stupid of me, she mused, the irritation starting to bloom and blossom all over the place in her head, why am I acting like this? Must resume control over myself. Yet the horned mare couldn’t deny the reason for her discontent; here she was, in the heart of the conquered territory, won by the group she had newly devoted herself to. And she had taken no part in the invasion.

She felt wasted and betrayed; shades of her previous anger permeated her demeanor, and a haze of white threatened to obscure her vision. Could she not prove herself to these warriors? Was there no room for proving ones’ self in this land? Was she branded useless before she lifted a hoof in demonstration? These and other thoughts raced through Circe’s mind, though as she paced to and fro through the shallow creek-bed, a foundation of reason stood sentinel in the midst of her emotional turmoil. You came at the brink of invasion, a tiny voice attempted to sooth behind her eyes, their plans were laid and already set to commence. You are a stranger to them; would you expect them to potentially foil their own plot by recruiting an untested foreigner? You could have ruined months of planning. Circe knew the wisdom behind the decision, and knew that her discontent was irrational—but it didn’t stop the shame and loneliness from shining through her breast.

And really, that’s what it was all about; proud as she might be, the girl was lonely at heart.








Birch Posts: 37
Windtossed Foothills Warrior
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.1 hh :: 84 Months
Adoptable
#2

Lonely. What was it to be lonely? The Arborun thinks, as he drags himself steadily through the territory that has since become his ‘home’, that it is to be content. To be in solitude is to be free from obligation- obligation for social or political interaction. Perhaps it was his lonely nature that has put him in this place- a veteran of the invasion, not quite a celebrated one, perhaps even a disgrace, failure, and yet still somehow within the ranks of the Grey.

He finds himself comforted by the soft flakes of his own magic as they swirl from the soft hum that summons his magic. His concentration is complete and all encompassing; it is the faint hymn of his past that soothes his nerves and eases his temper so that he might better understand the storm. As he plods through the wood, the level of his frustration falls with his snow. The flakes leave a trail in his wake, dotting the foothills earth, and sticking in some places where Orangemoon has turned the earth cold. His coat, thin as ever, has begun to lose its color and fade once more to a dirty white. In contrast, the red about his hocks and the sanguine flecks in his eyes seem deep and rich. There is something sickening about the blood red accents on the stallion- something dangerously powerful about his tired, yet confident stride.

He is jaded. As he walks through a typical morning in his new homeland- his homeland which seems no more like home than any other place he’s ever set down a hoof- he feels no sense of pride or loyalty. He supposes that is why he joined the Grey in the end: it is not just their neutrality towards others that appeals to him, but their apathy towards each other.

He does not view them as a family; even if they are one, he does not consider himself a part of it. He is a mercenary and nothing more. He is a beast long for the battle and that brief, thrilling moment between life and death. He may wander to the waterfall’s foot and explore the nuances of this land, but it is not his home, just as the water is not his crutch. He lowers his head and parts quickly aging lips to drink, but feels nothing but cold rush through him. This is his nourishment: the water and the sun. But each throbbing of the throat, each inhalation, brings him no comfort. He longs instead for cold, quiet death. He wishes to be alone.

But it is so simple to wish. He takes careful steps and submerges his aching cannons in the cold, rushing stream. Slits in the skin are filled with an icy cold and Birch is reminded of his time in the Steppe. Snow falls and hits the surface of the water, melting into its stream and becoming a part of it. He becomes faintly aware of the poetic, cyclical, and natural way of it all. He finds it predictable; he finds it trite. He sees reflections of a stranger in the water and lifts his head, his eyes, to see the image before him outside of the broken ripples of the stream.

He is no longer alone; the snow falling gently about him dissipates along with his gentle tune and the comfort he finds in solitude. He is neither lonely nor remorseful; he does not wish that he might have done more in the invasion. It is all very charming, this chance meeting by the riverbank; he wants nothing to do with it.

Rather rudely and quite on purpose, he looks the unknown mare directly in the eyes and doesn’t say a word.





img © Odalaigh

Circe Posts: 101
Deceased
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 5 Buff: NOVICE
M.E.
#3
Circe


The shadowmere would have gladly addressed the grievances of the intruding party; had she trespassed into some forbidden area of the Foot Hills, Circe would have wordlessly left those hallowed grounds, her musings and frustrations uninterested in petty wars for territory. The white shadow that ascended and partially blotted out the illuminate sky could have been a gentle greeting or a warning of sorts, had the creature chose to speak. Circe lifted her head slightly to gaze into the whitish eyes of this curious beast, beholding the trees that grew from him in the fashion of appendages and the condescending glare that lingered in those orbs of his.

What was this? Circe shook her head slightly as tiny crystals of ice began to fall gently into her forelock and mane—snow? At this time of year? She gave a slight snort that could have been construed as annoyed—she didn’t mind the cold in the slightest, but it was surely surprising considering Orangemoon barely had time to settle within the land. Did the Foothills even have the correct temperate condition for snow? the sorceress wondered, her eyes falling onto the white of the stranger’s coat. Ah. Was the brute causing this, using whatever black magic he may wield to beguile the snow fall to his fancy? What sort of temperament would a beast have to desire the air to freeze and weep tears of crystal frost?

Though Circe’s limbs had been tensed to meander away should the beast object to her presence, her stance eventually relaxed and the cock of her ear became inquiring as the brute stood silent and brooding, gazing at her wordlessly. Her head rose a fraction higher, her eyes becoming guarded; Circe didn’t quite understand what sort of message he was trying to convey. If she were intruding, she would move—but he didn’t demand her vacancy. If he desired companionship, Circe would oblige willingly—but he didn’t ask her name. It was all becoming rather irritating, with those moody eyes boring into her with no apparent reason.

Was the birch-stud challenging her?

Circe’s own gaze became narrowed as she studied his person. True enough, that white-grey coat did indeed stir some antipathy within the sorceress’s breast. Circe recalled her mother possessing such a complexion; she remembered that her matron was a broad she-beast as well, standing just as proudly and arrogantly as this stud here. Misplaced as her irritation may be, Circe’s blood began to crackle ever so slightly, her mind demanding answers from him:
What did he want, why was he staring?

“Can I help you?” Circe asked in her low, husky voice, the formality in her tone a sort of defiance to the strange beast. He was more than welcome to leave if her presence annoyed him; the Foot Hills was a large territory, and they were both free to its domain. She had noticed the scent of the Hills amongst the aroma of bark and leaves that plagued his form.

With an irate shake of her mane, Circe rid herself of the accumulating piles of snow that began to form there.









Birch Posts: 37
Windtossed Foothills Warrior
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.1 hh :: 84 Months
Adoptable
#4

She is insulted, it seems. But is there any reason why she shouldn't be? If some stranger says nothing in your presence, simply stares you down, are you to simply roll over and take it? He knows he would not. It would be a submission, a loss, he would not be willing to admit to. No, it makes sense that she is offended- he simply does not care.

With an inwards scoff that manifests as a light, hacking cough, he picks himself up and strides across the water. The frigorific stream splashes across his hocks as he walks; it tangles his shorter feathers and slows the blood that draws so close to the skin. His coat is thin and unprepared for the winter to come, but he is hardy and can easily withstand the cold. The metal boot turns to ice as it soaks in the water's cold and is pulled tighter to his skin by contracting leather straps. It scrapes the streambed, kicking aside rocks and sending schools of fish on their way. He stands in the water, a mere foot from where the mercurial mare makes her stand. Does she think herself powerful? Is she proud of herself?

He leans in so close that his surprisingly honeyed breath, smelling of fresh-fallen snow and dew in a forest, presses against her face. His voice a low, almost singsong baritone, he answers her: "Doubtful."

And then, in sync with the pressing of white lashes to a cheek, following a word that trails off into a song, stretching out for twenty feet, a blizzard hits the Windtossed Foothills a couple months early. In an instant there is nothing but white and cold; the stud's storm becomes a blinding screen, rendering those unused to its harsh conditions helpless. If this meeting cannot be on his own terms, he will force it from him instantly. But in the snow he feels confident and whole. In the snow his heart thaws.



img © Odalaigh

Circe Posts: 101
Deceased
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 5 Buff: NOVICE
M.E.
#5
Circe


Doubtful, he says to her, and Circe could definitely hear it--the derision in his voice.

He was much too close to her; the feeling of his breath upon her was a repulsive thing, and if Circe deigned to imagine it, the shadowmere could even feel the vibrations of heat and warmth that emanated from his mortal flesh. She wanted no piece of him; already he was proving to be very much a vexing, pigheaded obstacle, and she wouldn’t tolerate his invasion of her space. His face came close to her—in a fit of instinctual self-preservation, Circe’s ears glued themselves to her skull, and she lashed out with unsheathed fangs; she snapped at him, willing to sink her teeth into the bridge of his absurd, irritating face. Her jaws closed upon nothing but frozen air, however. The white devil was gone, vanished, among a white sheet of winter that had decided to come early.

The shadowmere could do no more than blink rapidly for several moments, such was her confusion. The sun was piercing, gentle, mercurial—but it was there, nonetheless. They had been standing in the bosom of Tallsun, with all its heat-waves and summer rains and humid, sticky winds. Now the sorceress stood in the belly of a snowstorm, her joints becoming refreshed, then rapidly chilled; her tail writhed behind her in her dismay, whipping the air and slapping the ground with unbound fury. She moved not a muscle, however; she would not loose herself in this Enchanted Blizzard of Foolishness.

For it was enchanted—quite possibly by the white brute who infringed upon Circe’s person. No, there was no possibility. There was only fact.

“I thought the Grey did not house cowards,” she spat into the snow, swallowing frozen tears of ice as she spoke, the chill of the air tightening her throat passed her husky shout, “and I’m obviously mistaken. What is your quarrel with me, brother? Face me openly; stop hiding within the skirts of your black magic!” As she spoke, limbs and branches crackled and snapped with explosive reports, falling to the ground from their perches; in her fury, Circe willed the Earth Force to grab upon these things and rip them to ground.

Was this a test for shadowmere? Was this white menace sent to new recruits to test their mettle, using his annoying manner to push and prod and instigate the new ones into rage? Was he even a part of the Grey? Circe figured as much—he certainly smelled of kin—but his behavior was lost on her, and she could not pinpoint his desire with her.

What did he want?









Birch Posts: 37
Windtossed Foothills Warrior
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.1 hh :: 84 Months
Adoptable
#6

He does not know who she is. He must remind himself of this as he turns and begins to walk away under cover of snow. Her words fly in his wake but he pushes them aside. They are nothing but spat insults from a mare who does not know him, a dark folly who stands out among the heat and blocks his path to rest. Yes, that is what he will do now, he decides. He will leave this mare and her acid tongue behind in favor of some peace and quiet. He will find it deeper in the forest, where the shadow can cool his coat and the birdsong can fade into silence with the night. She doesn't know him, she does not matter.

But... perhaps... could she know him? He entertains the thought only briefly, but once it is there, embedded in his mind and striking boldly at his heart, he cannot forget it. Perhaps this mare does know him, perhaps his tale of failure in the invasion has made its way around the ranks. Shame rises in him, a cold fury that engulfs the mind and tortures the soul. He has known too much failure in this accursed land, fallen too many times. Has anything gone his way? No, he thinks with a growl and a stab of self-pity. Death cannot come to soon, he reminds himself. Death will maybe come soon.

But as occupied as he is by his thoughts, the idea that the mare may know him circles back around. Perhaps her comments have some meaning, perhaps she is hoping to harken back to the invasion. Maybe everyone knows. Maybe everyone hates him for what he had done- no, failed to do. Suddenly, he turns back to face the mare, letting the veil of the storm subside as a path is cut in the snow to make way for his figure. "I am no coward!" he bellows, snapping back as she attempted to do to him. His teeth strike air intentionally, but he rage is clear and powerful. "Where were you when I fought on the front lines? And how quick were you to call this land your home, as if you'd fought for that right?" he neighs out in pain, feeling every blow from the battle once again. The injuries fall fresh in his mind, the shame burns hot in his breast. The storm still rages around them, leaving clear space so that they might see each other even if the world cannot.

"I fell fighting! I may not have stood tall at the battle's end, but at the very least I was a part of it. You have no right to call me a coward," he snorts with finality, arching his neck and turning away from her once more. Snow gathers in his boughs, weighing him down physically, bringing him down to his emotional state. It is rare that he feels such passion. It is uncomfortable and unwelcome. He blamed this stupid mare, whose name he does not even know. He wants her to leave him be, he wants fate to strike her down and bring him peace.

But fate is not in his control.

[[Sorry about my season fail. :x]]

img © Odalaigh

Circe Posts: 101
Deceased
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16hh :: 5 Buff: NOVICE
M.E.
#7
Circe


The snow continued to swirl about, a thick vacuum of white between the enraged stallion and the confused sorceress. Circe snorted hard, backpedalling hastily as his teeth lunged for her, rage etched into every line of his face and the curve of his neck. Now that he was close, the desperation shone clear in his eye; his passion was surely a threat to the shadowmere. And yet Circe didn’t even bat an eyelash in response to his attack; the indication of violence did nothing to shake the warrior mare from her perch of resolve and irate poise.

No. It was his words that rattled her so.

*"Where were you when I fought on the front lines? And how quick were you to call this land your home, as if you'd fought for that right?"

Circe’s nostrils flared, her eyes lighting with a mad twist of a spark. Her ears glued themselves to her poll; her neck arching in an exaggerated fashion, the sorceress reared slightly, her head tossed, her mane weaving through the snow as her tail wove wildly and stuck quickly freezing ground. His words touched the rawest of nerves—the knife in her wounds was twisted ever more, and once again the shame and burning restlessness awoke within Circe’s breast. Where were you when I fought? It was the very question that ran through her mind, day after day, in the twilight of waking in those moments of solitude. It was what fueled the bitter edge and the foul taste in the back of her tongue—the idea of being a useless blade to bring to battle.

You were a new recruit. You are a stranger to them, the voice of reason struggled to bring to light, but Circe’s humiliation would not be stifled, not now. Not when one of her very own shield-brothers voiced her own guilt—with his voice, he had made her worst fears very much tangible. There was no turning back from it. Circe was a inadequate warrior.

*"I fell fighting! I may not have stood tall at the battle's end, but at the very least I was a part of it. You have no right to call me a coward,"*

The shadowmere gnashed her teeth; a growl was beginning to rumble in the back of her throat. It was rare that Circe would ever lose her composure in this fashion—but the swirling blizzard around them was a secret room, a vault of hidden indignity that was unearthed and brought to light. This strange stallion had his skeletons, but it was Circe’s own transgressions that threatened to rattle in the closet. “I have every right,” she hissed, her tail still thrashing about, whistling in the air with its weight and the power of Circe’s self-hate,Yes, you fought! You probably fought your hardest! And yes, you may have fallen—but you fell fighting, as you said!” There was no way in knowing if his words boded truth, but Circe trusted his word, the word of a disgraced warrior…and the disgrace was etched into the bark of the ridiculous tree that rode upon his back.

“I did not fight…I was too new,” came the painful confession; Circe dropped her gaze for a span of heartbeats, before returning her blazing eyes back upon her quarry, “And yes, I call this land my home with less of a right than you have. You bled for this earth. You shed your sweat for it—you properly earned it.” She then stamped her hoof, the fire behind her words springing forth as though splashed with methane. “Why, then, did you hide yourself from me in the winds of a damnable snowstorm? Why do you meet me with shame? You should hold your head high, higher than myself! You should act as a warrior who earned his keep instead of some sheepish beta male with his tail between his legs, hiding from his own infamy and showing unprovoked hostility from his own herd mates! Shake of the pain of your injuries and fight instead of lashing out against those who’ve done you no harm, you pathetic, socially-awkward bastard!

She sniffed, her mouth curving in a sneer of contempt. “And that is why I call you a coward. I do not take the right—you give it to me yourself on a silver platter.”

[Sorry for the wait! D:]







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