Iliad can feel the morning light cast down onto his side. His eyes open slowly and takes in the sound of the sea, the tide washing against the shore, gulls calling overhead and wind crooning in the early sunlight. Around him the air is chilled, a crisp spring morning. He gives an exaggerated yawn and stretches out his wings then leans over to grab his banjo. He flings the instrument over his neck and gets it secure and lets it rest between his wings. The obvious absence of his necromancer doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Nicodemus I swear to god if you’re pick pocketing someone,” Iliad mutters before he spreads his wings out and gets a running start before taking off into flight. “I’ll package your balls and send them back to your mother probably.” He shakes his head as he starts to circle about the shore until he finally steers his wings and starts to head out over the water. It isn’t that he finds himself inseparable from his companion, in fact, it isn’t particularly difficult for him to part ways briefly with Nicodemus but there is an understanding. They are two sides of a similar coin, bred from the same lineage. There is comfort in the familiarity, the lack of questioning in his heritage. Nicodemus was raised with the same stories, spent his days around the fire with their sisters. They are children of the wind mothers, sons of valkyries and maidens. In some convoluted way, that Iliad will never dare admit, they are brothers. Traveling with a shit stain necromancer though is better than traveling alone, so his complaints can only go so far.
Iliad
Let me not then die ingloriously and without a struggle,
but let me first do some great thing that shall be told among men hereafter.
The morning hadn't started with it's usual fanfare, there hadn't been no sarcastic whispers or the chill of a ghost prodding at him impatiently as he pulled himself from another night's rest. No silvery figures had greeted his moon glow eyes when they'd opened. It'd been a slow realisation as he'd stretched his legs out infront of himself and dragged his sluggish body to it's feet, head tilted toward the resting figure of his bard as he debated whether he should wake the stallion or leave him be. Any other day he might have leaned close, cleared his throat and serenaded him with a bastardized shanty they had picked up along the roads, not in the glorious cadence he was famous for, but the sultry tunes of a strangled deer at dawn.
Uncharacteristcally, to go along with the already unusual day, he left Iliad be. No doubt he would show up later, invited or otherwise, sarcasm on that barbed wire tongue of his. Though this time he hopes there won't be a song to go with the god awful noise the crude instrument had the audacity to scream and call it music. Large wings caught the early morning breeze and he drifted the shore with lazy strokes of his large wings, pale eyes focused on nothing in particular. It isn't until he landed, one foot after the other in one elegant swoop and sank down into the sand did the terrible realization hit. Like Iliad had dropped one of his 3am ballads on his head without warning.
There is no ghostly faces phasing in and out of his sights, no echoed voices to join the song of the ocean waves and the gulls overhead. Had they ever been this quiet? Was this a new tactic because he'd uprooted them again, following the wanderlust he and his companion held in their core? An ear dipped back and he snorted out loud. "Very funny guys," he called out, glancing back and forth between the waves and the expanse of sand behind him, "you've made your point, you're mad. You can come out now." The necromancer conceded, trying to sound genuine but fell a fraction short. When nothing happened, no hint of their faces on the wind with amusement etched on their features, his ears tipped backwards once more and he reached within himself. Instead of grasping at the tendrils of silver and white within himself, he grasped at nothing. Empty air. A hollow hole in his breast devoid of the very essence he'd been born with. The panic is immediate after that, brows furrowed and shot up as he hauled himself to his feet. Where was it? Where had it gone? Did magic just disappear like that, surely it couldn't. It wasn't like he'd been gifted it out of the blue by some old crone on the road, he'd been blessed since birth. Again he reached within himself, this time his grasp is a ragged claw raking over earth, earth that gave him nothing. The hollow feeling persisted, and all he got in return for a vague feeling of nausea, similar to he hangover he'd endured moons ago, after sipping a bad batch of ale in some run down inn they'd holed up in for the night.
He'd never been attached to Iliad, in the sense that he could never be aprt from him. They had been independent from each other before they met, and they had remained as such. Not to say he doesn't like Iliad, there is an easy friendship that has formed between them, a quiet understanding of where they've come from. Today, he's never been more glad in his life when he spotted the Bard's figure overhead. "Iliad!" He tried to instill his usual brand of mirth into his call, but even that failed him. "Come to serenade me with one of those horrible ballads for leaving you in bed?" Tried was the key word, because when he replayed his own voice back in his head, he sounded positively miserable.
"their speech goes here and this is the color"
NICODEMUS
Throw me to the wolves
& I'll come back leading the pack
It comes as no surprise that he eventually stumbles upon the figure of Nicodemus. Iliad spots the brown figure before he hears his name called. He gives out an ear curdling high note that is well out of his range, it’s sole purpose to grate along the necromancer’s nerves. “That is the start of my new master piece. I’m titling it “My Traveling Companion Is Tone Deaf”, and it’s inspired by you.” The antagonism rolls off his tongue easily until he catches that tone. Nicodemus lacks his humor, the sort of easy snark that is exchanged between them on the best of days. Something is fundamentally wrong with his companion. For a moment he wonders if his high note was truly that bad, if his pterodactyl shriek surpassed some boundary and perhaps triggered some deep rooted fear(perhaps Nicodemus held a secret fear of extinct reptiles). Maybe calling Nicodemus a fart sniffing turdwad the previous night had genuinely offended him.
“I can tell something is wrong,” he says, “Now you need to puke it up necromancer or I’ll show how impressive my lung capacity with that dreaded note I showed you before.” He stares down his companion, despite his lame attempts at offering concern. Compassion and gentleness have never been his strengths and he can only assume Nicodemus has no desire to be coddled. Maybe the ghosts have decide to take steaming hot shits on him, or maybe teenage hormones are really getting the better of him. Shit… What is the proper way to go about comforting a friend? Or better question, how does one go about comforting Nicodemus? Maybe he should take him to the nearest cemetery and find some dancing skeletons…
iliad
Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away.
Ears rammed back against cream and charcoal locks as Iliad's latest note reached his ears, truly, how the bard could continue to reach impossibly high and impossibly abnormal tones was beyond him. Surely, he'd thought, every time the silvery stallion opened his mouth, it couldn't get any worse. Everytime he was proved horribly wrong, already, his newest and latest discovery rattled through his skull even after it'd faded from existence. He'd be feeling that for the rest of the day. "It's beautiful. I love it. In fact I was you to sing it to yourself every night before you go to sleep whenever I'm not around. To remind you of me." He managed, it's useless. Iliad had caught his tone before he'd pulled himself up enough to give the second attempt of sounding normal a try.
It was a shared trait, being terrible comforters. Nicodemus had never been blessed with that particular talent, a rough shove and a wry joke had often been his go-to before he awkwardly offered a wing in more dire circumstances. He'd hover in the background uncomfortably, an ear tilted ready to listen but otherwise looking like a fish out of water. It's some small comfort that Iliad offers him a familiar brand of concern. He didn't like being coddled, and he doubted that it would ever change. "It's a little early for me to tap into my inner masochist for you." He lamented with a dramatic sigh, as though he was scandalized by the whole idea. It faded after a moment, the necromancer sucked in a slow breath and shuffled as his brows furrowed.
Part of him didn't want to admit it, because if he said it outl oud it would confirm the fact that he was no longer a necromancer. Part of him wanted it to be some insignificant little thing that he and his bard could laugh off and go to a burial site and have fun. Well, wholesome fun for him, not so much for the unfortunate relatives that got to watch their grandmother rise from her grave to do a jig, or chase down some thugs. Or that village he'd royally pissed off by resurrecting the local hero from his final resting place. It'd been funny, he defended still. The hero had been a real sport, as he danced around to the rattle of his own bones. It was a stab in itself to realize that he couldn't do that now.
Not when the spirits were silent, not when he'd nearly caused himself a stroke trying to drag them forcefully to him and found that the hole was indeed real. "It's gone." He offered simply with an exhaled breath. Realizing that his statement could mean anything, his moonglow eyes shifted off to the side, fixated on a nearby patch of grass as though it was suddenly the most interesting thing on the planet. "My magic. It's gone. Like it packed up and handed in some kind of leaving notice, only, without the leaving note." Nicodemus elaborated with an awkward shuffle, feeling entirely too uncomfortable with the confession.
"their speech goes here and this is the color
NICODEMUS
Throw me to the wolves
& I'll come back leading the pack
Iliad receives the back from Nicodemus with the stupidest of grins. “I will sing it to you softly like a seduce lullaby as you’re cradled in an embrace of cotton clouds and stardust,” he says, letting the sarcasm roll of easily despite the obvious distress of his friend. How was it that his mother would comfort her sisters? Perhaps he should try tenderly kissing his cheek to replace the sadness with irritation.. That might be the best he can conjure up for any kind of legitimate form of comfort for his comrade.
His feathers fluff up almost indignantly as he waits for some kind of explanation. When it finally hits Iliad blinks. “Maybe um…” He says as he tries to find some words that might offer any form of comfort. “Maybe uh.. I think perhaps we might have stumbled into a ghost dead zone,” he says as he nods slowly, “I bet in a little bit they’ll pop their heads out and throw their usual shit at you once again. Until then I can happily fulfill the role of obnoxious asswipe,” he says and throws a wing to lightly hit his shoulder in a playful gesture. “Because someone has gotta fuck with you in the mean time.” It’s perhaps one of the worst attempts at comfort in the history of mankind but at least it’s something.
iliad
Now the wind scatters the old leaves across the earth, now the living timber bursts with the new buds and spring comes round again. And so with men: as one generation comes to life, another dies away.
"You don't even know the definition of seduction, you'd dry me up quicker than the desert the moment the first note left your mouth." Nicodemus snorted with a laugh, he's grateful that Iliad isn't a sap. He wouldn't quite know what to do with himself if his friend suddenly did a 180 and became the bastion of sweetness and gentle words. No their back and forth banter and tactless well...tactics worked for them best, and it let him focus on anything but the impending internal screaming he can feel welling up in his being.
He can at least appreciate that Iliad is trying, in the way he knows and expects, to comfort him. "I suppose you could have a point." Even if he doesn't quite believe what the other stallion is saying, even if it could be somehow plausible that there is a ghostly dead zone which has given his spirits the proverbial zipped lips. That's unnerving. He's never really had to comprehend his magic too much, it's always been there. Like a comforting blanket on a cold night. But before he can get too far into his own head again, Iliad's voice pulled him out with another infamous barb and the skull marked stallion scoffed. Shuffling slightly, one painted shoulder dipped to bump against Iliad's own. A subtle 'thank you'. "As long as you don't fuck with me before sunrise, I'll take it. Because I really will have to consider suffocating you in your sleep. Your snoring torments me enough, that old haggard crone used to mimic you something fierce."
"talk"
@Iliad
NICODEMUS
i'm a cold day in august, i'm a stream too shallow
i'm a heart shaped box with no letter inside
“Believe it or not I can be quite the sultry femme fatale,” Iliad says, “I’d moisten your desert up so fast. You’d shift from a wasteland of deprived emptiness to a lush, full rain forest.” This banter is comfortable, despite the blatant crudeness rolling off his tongue. He’s relieved Nicodemus doesn’t expect more from him. Neither of them have ever been known for sentiment or gentle words. There is a strong concern and care for his friend, but he can’t do shit to bring back the undead horrors that lurk. It’s a bit reassuring to know there won’t be a gaggle of dead shits floating around, though he’d never admit this to Nico.
For the moment he seems to have convinced him of this mystical dead zone. Things will be okay… Eventually. “My sweet little tender star baby, how could you speak of such foul play?” He says giving an animated gasp. “If you crush my windpipe you will surely damage these tender vocals.” He says, “Besides, then I’d never be able to sing you my good morning song ever, ever again.”
"talk talk talk"
