is this a natural feeling or is it just me bleeding?
He wasn't sure what pulled him towards the common plains, but Lasairian suspected there wasn't much of a difference as to where he stood or traveled while the air was cold and the ground layered with snow. There would be harsher winds here, in such an open setting, but Lasairian wasn't concerned enough about the chilled wind. The meadows weren't all that much different in that respect, though it was the area he had come to know a little better, think of as more secure. But Lasairian was more interested in the sight of it all here; the ways it almost felt like standing on the highland plains again, though even those days had been rare before all of this.
Lasairian hadn't often slipped away from the Bheo even that far in his youth, though he had done it here and there just to see the world beyond it. It truly had felt like an entirely new world to explore, but it had also seemed lacking in so many of the qualities he had sought out while he was young. It still probably was, but Lasairian had chosen to leave his home, telling himself it was for his own good, that his well-being relied upon going. He still believed it, even now when he was further from all of that, from where he had thought he was willing to go. This was further yet, an entirely different direction to step into.
Yet that was what made it so safe from his own concerns of giving into temptations he shouldn't. This was better, because he doubted he would be found here, because who would look in this direction of all places? Of all instances? No, Lasairian doubted that anyone would look here for him. It wasn't the type of place anyone would suspect he would be. Which was why it was such a good cover, why he wasn't fighting against it. Just trying to sort out how this could ever be any kind of home to him. He did not feel it, yet, but he supposed it would take time. Adjustments had to be made, and he was doing his best to make them.
Getting homesick, though, was still a burden to deal with, but he was. Slowly and in small ways, and perhaps in small doses of facing it like this. Looking at the plains and remembering how close to home it was, just that hop and a skip away back then. Lasairian had never been one to show any signs of wanting to leave home -- that had always been Seoras, his older brother -- but in that came more of a shock to the community, that he would leave as well. Of this he was sure. He had been fairly content there, but there was always a breaking point, and that had come to him sooner than he had thought it would. One little mistake made, and he felt the need to leave.
So he had, and all of that had led to this. Standing here, feeling the chill through his fur, still sharp against his skin. Feeling the absence of the magic he had once known, and needing to know how to reclaim some of that. He was reaching for it, urged to keep going, keep learning. He wasn't going to give it up. He couldn't go there, could not fathom such a thing. But today was for memory, for trying to heal his emotional aches, the gaps left within himself from leaving, from ending up in a place like this that he had never dreamed he would fall into. Here he was anyway, and coping with that was not the most easy pill to swallow.
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Since she can first remember, Bexley has never been so cold as this.
In Greer-Briar, clenched tight in the pale fist of Una’s magic, the weather never quite changed: seasons were marked not by a difference in whether but by which flowers bloomed. And she has not spent a winter outside of Solterra’s comfortable warm climate since she first arrived in Novus.
Now that is no longer an option.
As she trudges across the frosty plains, her heartbeat slows and slows and slows: her blood seems to crystallize: her skin shudders against the too-intense bite of frozen wind howling its way over the fields, and every breath comes spiraling from her icy mouth in a plume of white pseudo-smoke. Her muscles clench. The previously right, metallic gold of her coat has turned to a dusty yellow facsimile from weeks of under-nourishment, chill, grief. Her bright-white hair is snarled in a mat of curls,
And yet for the first time since Acton’s death, her eyes are bright. It might be cold - it might be panic - but it is alive, nonetheless.
Because of the way her head is tucked to her chest, she does not see him at first. And even when she looks up, batting thick lashes against the little flurries of new snow, Bexley finds it hard to believe that the shape she sees is a real person and not a mirage, made for her own wanton desire. His edges blur into the snow, fading away like so many ripples of water. The swirls of wind and ice make an even thicker veil. But - she narrows her eyes and a soft slough of red appears against the white, like a tear. In another spot thinly-lined like a lattice.
That is not natural.
Bexley screws her eyes up against the blinding snow and quickens her step. Puffs of ice go flying up from the places where her hooves scrape against the ground. Morning, she calls out -
Though it could be morning or midnight, and still she would feel this knot of grief in her chest.
is this a natural feeling or is it just me bleeding?
It was never so cold in the Bheo as all this, but it would not have been home if it could have been. Those that lived there -- one entire side of his bloodline -- they would have died due to the cold. They were sensitive to it, and terribly so. The cold made them fragile and weak, but there were downsides to everything, and that was so very clearly one of theirs. Lasairian had to be grateful to his other side for the fact that he could withstand the cold much better than them. That didn't mean he hadn't been raised with the concern of cold, but in such a culture that could not be helped.
It was what they knew could bring damage to them, and in a mixed situation, one did not often know right off what hazards would come from which side. In a fight, Lasairian could not hope to match against the higher tiers of his community; but in the cold, he could out-weather them all. The worst of their fatal flaws, but they had more than that on a situational basis. The other side had flaws of their own, though most of that was a little more shrouded from him due to sheer inexperience of what that culture actually was.
His father had not been able to be raised among others of his kind, but that was a story of it's own, and not all that prominent in Lasairian's. Yet the other side of it did open up the reason why Lasairian felt so uneasy with the winter and all that came with it. He was aware it couldn't harm him unless more extreme than this, but that did not erase how he had been raised, and that deep down unease at the mere thought of the cold wrapping icy fingers around him. He had been adjusting as well as possible under these conditions, but it was still strange to reflect upon.
Not as bad as all the thoughts of what he had left behind and why, but that was something that cut and settled deep. Something that he could not escape, even if the weather was perfectly warm and bright. It twisted itself up at his insides, but that was precisely why Lasairian needed to refocus himself. He could bury himself in seeking out knowledge, of obtaining magic once more. Losing it was like losing a limb, and forgetting it was no longer there at times. Thinking that he could flex it if he wanted to, but having it hit him -- and hard -- when it did nothing at all.
He wondered if it was perhaps because of leaving, of some self sabotage, that he was doing it to himself on some deeper level that he couldn't shake away. Hindering himself, blocking that part of himself off, because maybe that was what he felt he deserved. Lasairian couldn't be sure of any of that, but he wasn't putting it past himself, either. He was troubled and lost, so why not resort to something like this to try and force himself to figure his shit out? To push himself to find the right path again? Right now, however, he did not know what direction that was in.
Lasairian lets his mind wander as he stares out across the plains; the opposite direction in which someone else approaches. It's that, the memories he's immersed in, and the wind hissing past his ears that keeps him from noticing right off that she's there. The word called out is what catches his attention at last, and Lasairian looks over at her, his expression settling into perfect politeness as his ears flick in her direction to catch anything else she might say, "oh, morning," he responds, allowing a light curve of a smile on his face towards her.
He wanted to fit into these lands, but he was still struggling to learn the overall culture and social structure, and it probably showed. "Pardon, I was lost in thought and didn't notice I wasn't alone out here. I hope you're well?" the words are evenly spoken, and his gaze sweeps carefully over her, nothing too intense, just taking in the appearance of to whom he is speaking with. He notices the scar at her face, but his expression doesn't alter at all at the sight; in his own culture, scars that do not fade away carry deep stories, and it is not is place to ask something so personal as that.
He does not seem to notice her approach, at first. It might be the slight moan of the wind over the snow that covers the crunching of her footsteps, or the bleak beauty of the sky stretching out for leagues that distracts him. It might be that after all this time wasting away Bexley is, in fact, a ghost, and he will never notice her no matter how loud she screams. (It is not altogether improbable.) It could be anything — the possibilities twist in her nerves like the hooked end of a knife.
But then he turns, and Bexley lets out a brief noise of relief. She is alive yet! Gods willing or not. Up close the previously blurry edges of his markings sharpen, and Bexley can see more clearly that the blotch is made of thin, dark lines knocked into a complex pattern she does not recognize, a pattern so unfamiliar it almost makes her frown. It is hard to tell whether the thing is scar tissue, blood, or paint. It matches the streak that runs past his cheek. She can appreciate, at least, the aesthetic symmetry.
Slowly she draws to a stop. The bright-cold snow rises up to her fetlocks; suddenly she feels small, buried in the snow, woefully short and slight compared to the stranger. She tilts her head up a little. I hope you’re well, he says, and Bexley wishes she could laugh at it: if only he knew, poor boy, though she should be glad that he doesn’t. He would be, if he had any idea.
Instead of laughing, she manages a wry, tired smile. Her head tucks into her chest in a vain effort to protect against the breeze, though its cold, rough hands still tousle her hair against her neck. “Well enough.” It is an empty sentiment, but he doesn’t have to know that. (In fact, she would rather he didn’t.) “And you?” Her voice is rough with cold and pain and disuse, but still it is a song compared to the silence around them.
Briefly she thinks about offering her name, then stems the offhand desire, pushes it back down into the pit of her chest. It means very little here, in the open whiteness, or now, when they are still strangers.
is this a natural feeling or is it just me bleeding?
He can't help but be as distracted as he is, and for many reasons, but it wasn't the best of things when the lands were still full of so many unknowns. There could be danger lurking, and Lasairian could have been ambushed simply for his lack of being aware. He should have been, for those things and more, but here he was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he had taken far too long to realize that someone was around. That they were close enough to speak up, and he hadn't noticed until just then.
Not good on his observational skills in any way, that much was for sure. He had enough self ridicule going on through his head for it, but he wouldn't let that cloud his expression. No, he wanted to be polite in greeting others, and apologetic in the fact that he had been so lost in thought that he did not notice her there before she had spoken. He was curious about the scar on her face and the story it might tell, but there was no way he could ask such a personal thing. Only silently muse on it, and keep his eyes elsewhere.
He wouldn't mind discussing how he got the rune scarred into his shoulder, though the tale had some parts to it that might raise a brow or two when spoken of. Uncommon practice, what he had done to put that there. Certainly as to why he had done it and what it meant. Those two things he might not want to discuss outright, though. Some things were a little too fresh and close to home for him to speak of. Even if he had done it years ago. Yet there was a good reason as to why is was still a bloody color.
Mostly, because he had done that very much on purpose. Lasairian hadn't wanted it to fade like some scars tended to do. Bleeding from the eyes on occasion, well, that was just a birth abnormality that he couldn't really shake away. He endured, tried mostly to ignore it when at all possible. Yet the dried trails down his face still remained. The thoughts don't get to stay, he's attentive to the mare there with him now. He feels like there's something knowing about her, though. He could sense it, almost.
Lasairian just doesn't know what it was or what it meant. She does look cold, though, and that is hard for him to ignore. He doesn't imagine her response is all that sincere, but how could he tell that it wasn't just because she was cold and nothing more than that? He couldn't. She turns the question to him, and Lasairian ponders it a moment, "things could always be worse, and this isn't the worst place to be right now," he responds honestly to her. And then, "if you're cold, you can get closer, and I will turn my other side towards the wind," he offers it gently.
The silence between them, though unexpected, is comforting. Bexley has been quiet for weeks and the vast majority of those she’s seen have tried to push and pull, tried to force her to talk, try to chat the sadness out of her. She hates it. It’s been hard to talk; every time she opens her mouth she feels as though the threat of tears is on the way, so she would rather not talk at all. This is different. This is an easy quiet that stretches between them like a promise.
Her eyes linger on his bloody shoulder. Bexley herself hosts a myriad of scars (though only one is easily seen), but none are so intricate as his. Almost like a brand — like it is a marker of some cult, homeland or religion Bexley has never been privy to, something she cannot even begin to understand. Still she watches. Her curiosity always gets the best of her; now is no different. And she is even less shameful th toan normal thanks to the bleariness in her eyes and the cold seeping into her bones.
She hardly hears him when he offers to protect her, deafened by the squeal of the wind and the dull, buzzing sound of her own brain running in circles: Bexley is staring into the middle distance with blank blue eyes until his voice registers, melodic in the cold, and then she snaps to consciousness, her gaze widening. She tilts her head closer to him. “I -“ Her voice is brittle in the cold air, cracks even before it leaves her throat, and her brow furrows.
Kindness is uncommon here, especially recently.
“Thank you,” she says finally. And though some part of her is embarrassed, she is too weak, mentally or physically, to refuse the offer. Instead she slowly comes closer and angles herself at his side so that he blocks out some of the wind. Up close she finally realizes how much taller he is than her, and looks, for a long moment, at the dark red that drips from his eyes and the fact that they are a pure, perfect silver rather than a more normal color. “Here.” With grit teeth she conjures up a little sun and throws it in an arc to rest above them, where it sheds a hint of warmth down on their backs. “Sorry. They’re normally stronger.”
But it does help a little, and that’s all that matters. “Are your eyes okay?”
