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Post by akitapup on Dec 23, 2018 21:33:09 GMT -6
ULRICH | BLOODY FLANKS
The snow was melting. Finally melting, and though it wasn’t an incredible amount, it made a difference. Lupine and ryegrass stems broke the surface of the snow, crystalline structures catching the light of the morning. Long shadows fell over his form from the trees, standing like giants of a forgotten age. While it certainly started to look the part of spring, Ulrich’s thick coat of hair clung to the season past.
As much as he loved winter, the past months had been deplorable for his family. Marching through blizzards, births in a cave would have been avoided if they were at Ghosthold. Their home. Wasn’t much of a home, he mused, but it was stable. It was safer than whatever this was.
Indeed, it seemed everything changed south of their home. The air softened past the mountains- the bitter bite of the air he once breathed had disappeared down here. The jagged rocks, the broken ice floes that appeared like floating glass; there was none of that down here. There were trees. There were flowers. There were War-Forged.
Lowering himself to the ground, he bent his head, eyes closed. Black mud stained his bushy fetlocks and clung to his hooves like a thick syrup but he didn’t care. After all, it made him closer to his Goddess, the earth mother. Dirt and all. Gathering his breath, his gentle voice a whisper on the wind, he began to pray. He prayed for easy nights, for safety (especially for the children), for justice. Hell, his heart burned, beat for justice. What would those pathetic lowlanders know of trial or of the earth mother, with what they had been through? What justice or heart would they know of, sending away their own kids to be used as packrats?
They were no brothers of his.
Brows furrowed, he opened his eyes to the ocean view, sunlight dancing on the waves. At least each day brought something new.
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Post by ThatDenver on Dec 24, 2018 18:06:37 GMT -6
EMELIÉ
The south was… Off.
Emelié was born in a time when they still called these lowlands a home – when they could still partake in the cushiness that Kaia’s bountiful earth was capable of offering. It felt foreign returning to them after all these years.
Once this might have been home. She honestly could not recall where exactly their old fortress and town had even stood – she had been young, and it was so very long ago.
Now it was hostile ground, foreign and full of their enemies. Beautiful, yes, but in the same way that a wild predator might be beautiful to observe from a safe distance.
Emelié followed the rocky coastline, gently weaving her way across the soft melting snow, the first budding signs of fresh vegetation, and a the few hardy coastline trees. They had set camp here for now, but many of them had wandered off, deep in thought.
Some offered the pretense of gathering, scouting, hunting; others, such as herself, simply needed time to think. A bit of quiet.
They had been through so much. They had lost so much, even on this journey. And despite herself, Emelié was afraid, afraid the next crack would be the very last one. How much more could they take before the hardships broke their bonds, and the Flanks separated forever, as Vidar’s group had already done?
She was woken from her grim thoughts by the faintest of sounds; the breathing and soft movement of another, the sound of hoof on ground. Emelié raised her head, peering at the coastline through her heavy bangs. Soon enough she spotted the familiar, sturdy form of Ulrich, seemingly just as deep in his own world as Emelié had just been.
Emelié threw her head back just enough to get the sea salted hair out of her eyes and walked up to Ulrich. As she drew close, she could pick up single words from what seemed to be a prayer, and when Ulrich was done, she said: “I hope you ask only for good things, little brother.”
Her voice had a slightly amused edge to it; an edge that barely hid a genuine need to connect again, now that they were so splintered.
Word count: 369
Post #1
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Post by akitapup on Jan 9, 2019 9:50:39 GMT -6
ULRICH | BLOODY FLANKS
The voice of Emelié pulled him out of his thoughts, blue eyes wide as he noticed the mare standing to his side. She was a comfort to have on this journey, some sort of reminder that they were not all lost despite what the others may believe. The split had been dark and difficult, and breaking apart from those he regarded as family stabbed his heart. Was it truly so easy to abandon your lovers, your siblings? Bitterness and resentment grew at the thought of Vidar's abandonment. Fortunately, it was those like Emelié, Ansgar, and Synn that kept him whole and steady.
Sending her a crooked smile, he pushed himself back up, flicking the mud of his knees away from the general direction of his sister (even if she was not related by blood, after all, that hadn't saved the clan) and into the rocks near the frozen beach.
"Always good things, big sister," he said, dipping his head. He looked out to open sea, the froth of the waves building up against the sand. The sound of the crashing waters was calming, repetitive, and funny enough it reminded him of home. Softening, he lowered his eyes to his feet, taking a double glance at the mare beside him. He admired her as much as any stallion (perhaps more, even). She had suffered, too, from the lowlander's ruthless revenge against the Flanks. Each side took, and took, as was the state of war. They took more than just enemies, though, they took lives. Ulrich himself had brothers, sisters at one point, before he was born. Emelié had a brother, too. No Flank was exempt from loss, not even children.
Clearing his throat, he spoke, albeit hesitantly; "You think we'll be alright, Emelié?" He did not want lies or comforting words, he wanted the truth, bitter as it may be.
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Post by ThatDenver on Jan 10, 2019 7:32:57 GMT -6
EMELIÉ
She smiled at him, dipping her head as well. Her expression was one of gentleness – after losing her own brother, she had used the opportunity to bond with those who were not of her blood, and Ulrich had always, in some ways, reminded her of Joel. While not truly similar, the two were not exactly dissimilar either, and there was something quite comforting about drawing parallels and seeing shades of those lost in those yet living.
Joel should have been here. He should have been here to teach the younger ones, to tutor them in war and magic alike. Had he lived, Joel would have been some years older than Ansgar.
Perhaps Joel could have been their leader.
Alas, it was not to be.
“That is good to hear”, she replied easily, stepping closer to him until they were nearly side to side. A far more comfortable and intimate way of discussing, one befitting family and friends. There was certain comfort in the closeness too, a realness and a promise that the other person was real, that they were still here, that they could survive.
Still, the hesitant tone in Ulrich voice when he asked the question mirrored her own troubled thoughts. Flanks were nothing if not survivors, hardy beyond all reason, but now…
“I don’t think we’ve been alright ever since Vidar and his crew left us”, Emelié said with honesty. “Left” was a nice way of putting it, too. She had less nice words for it as well. The traitors.
“This exodus is wearing us thin. I think we will survive – the clan always survives – but I don’t know what will come of our goals”, she went on, and then added, more hopefully: “I am sure Gidal has a plan. We only need to meet up with him.”
Word count: 300
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