snow stretches across the plains, thick as a blanket and surely just as comfortable. despite everything it remains a clear, solid shade of white - flecked only with dirt here and there, disrupted only by tracks. most seemed to be equine - trailing this way and that, stale scents lingering in their wake. howl pays little attention to these (stale scents are old, easy to ignore, not dangerous), and instead soliders forward. these lands - as far as he knew - belonged to no court, no living soul. it was a neutral land, free from claims and ownership - just the same as him. it is... a strange concept, to feel kinship to a patch of ground, and so howl snorts, shoving those thoughts away. instead, he continues on - right up until he stops. ahead, across the plains, stand a herd of - things. horses? no. they are too broad, too square - their builds are different, alien in a way he's never seen. there's a good distance between howl and the buffalo and he stills where he stands, as if frozen by the winter air. they pay him no mind, for they're used to the sight of a lone stallion, yet howl stays where he is. lowers his head just a bit, squares his shoulders as muscles tense, maimed gaze never once straying from them. he does not know what they are. he does not care - but he certainly doesn't trust them, either. "" |
All Welcome - breaking the yearlings,
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 BEXLEY BRIAR
Some god is sitting on this man’s heart. Bexley knows because she has seen it before. Has seen that blank look in his eyes, the stillness with which he stands, strange and utterly obsessed with the buffalo that mill across Eluetheria - a man whose brain is being stifled, whose heart is, by something, suffocated. She watches with muted interest, aureate skin glowing under the watery light, a jewel in the deep white snow. Her swash of dark lashes flutters, and sheds flakes of ice. The air is clean with the smell of water, of winter, and then the muted scent of this newcomer underneath, quite obviously out of his element. Bexley’s nostrils flare as she inhales. They are two halves of an unconscious whole, standing opposite, still and silver. Yet where Bexley is beautiful this man is scarred; where she is gold he is murkily brown; from yards away she catches the glint of a white eye with her own deep blue, and realizes that the curve of her hips and brawn of his shoulders are made by different hands, and shivers not from the cold, but the idea of what god could have made him. Hair bristles atop her spine. Wind bites sharply into her skin. Startled back to consciousness, Bex begins her meander through the knee-deep snow. The distance between them is slowly, steadily closed. What’s wrong with you? comes a jest from between bright-white teeth, her chin raised to meet his eyes level, gaze glimmering in the cold - she almost pities him, for his obvious discomfort and a smile, brilliantly dark, breaks over her lips. @howl |
