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Post by Deleted on Nov 22, 2016 20:52:47 GMT -6
vidar but don't you understand?
the hunger makes the man Vidar needed nothing more than the smell of the air to know that home wasn’t far. The sugary, tropical stink of Aquore’s seemingly perpetual summer was fading from his senses, replaced by the distant wrinkle of Sirith on the eastern horizon. He felt light as he climbed to the deck, and his eyes adjusted quickly from the lantern dim to the dull white sky. Even though vibrant Aquore sustained a bloom of mild weather, the rest of the world was facing winter. The cusp of Onean cold brought thick clouds and stiff southern gusts; the steady tailwind was like Kaia bringing them home.
A cursory glance revealed his family in their usual places. Alcippe’s impressive mane was billowing at the Trespasser’s bow in an unusual display of ease. It seemed the end of a summer’s voyage was enough to convince even her to let down her plaits. The sails were attentively managed by expert crewmembers, and the general air of industry was unaffected by Vidar’s scanning gaze.
His attention stopped at the highest deck, where Vladimir stood steely-eyed, facing the horizon ahead. Vidar allowed himself to study him a moment, his tense posture, his fixed stare. Vlad was always looking forward. It was one of the things Vidar admired about him most.
Vlad didn't look his way until Vidar was nearly halfway up the steps to him, even though Vidar was certain the eagle-eyed stallion had noticed him long before. He wondered if Vlad heard everything he thought. He wondered what Vlad was thinking now. “Not long now,” he said, standing closely, one ruby eye watching Vlad sideways. “I think we’ll be ashore in a week.” He left a lull, attentively eying the mute stallion for any response.
He always spoke to Vlad, always waited for an answer. Both exercises were useless.
“I missed the cold.” The hide of his shoulder was cool as it brushed Vladimir’s. 317 words | for my boy vlad |
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Post by Queerly on Nov 26, 2016 14:22:14 GMT -6
The moment that Vidar’s hooves touched the ashen floorboards was the very moment Vladimir became aware of him, not with his eyes but by the pull of his thoughts. The captain’s mind was hard to ignore.
Vladimir remembered the first time he’d peered over the Trespasser's bulwark and stared into the heart of the sea. The waves had danced with wild abandon, violent and terribly alive. Don’t look too long, a sailor had warned, the water will hypnotize you, you’ll fall right in. Vladimir wondered if the same could be said for his captain’s thoughts. Vivaciously tumultuous and at times lethally quiet, Vidar’s mind filled a room as easily as the man himself. It demanded his attention, and willingly Vladimir gave it, falling right in.
As the stallion approached, Vlad gave the deck his own cursory sweep, touching softly the minds of his fellows, the family he had come to love and live for. Once satisfied that everyone was where they should be, he allowed more than the tendrils of his blessing to focus upon his captain, gaze turning to regard ruby eyes.
Not long now, Vidar said. No, not long now. Soon they would throw anchor on Onean coast and share the spoils of their voyage as those that did not harbor petty jealousies welcomed them home. It was always a celebration, the once-dying clan rightfully fanatical over its tenacious Raiders. Vlad cared little for ceremony, but he would be glad to see Astrid. He wondered if she was already keeping watch, scarlet eyes turned to the horizon. The girl lived for those paltry weeks the Trespasser spent at harbor, and felt woefully trapped when it was gone, suffocating under the weight of her father’s ancient ideals. Her soul howled loneliness. It made him ache.
He shoved aside that unhappy thought and let his attention focus on Vidar. The slide of his captain’s skin had become devastatingly familiar. Fur prickling all too pleasantly, Vlad snorted at the idea of missing the cold. Eithne had winters; Onea had veritable ice ages, and already he was melancholic for the softer cool of Sirith’s coastline.
His gaze cut sideways, noting that Vidar was watching him just the same. The second snort was softer as he craned his neck, muzzle warm save the cool glint of the metal ring as he pressed it to the captain’s neck. Post 1 | 411 WC
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Post by Deleted on Mar 4, 2017 19:29:09 GMT -6
vidar i dont remember when the ships hit the sea,
but i remember the love and who gave it to me Vidar's eye had a clever quickness that his cautious family dreaded. His changeability too often translated into unpredictability (a quality Vidar would describe as 'adaptable', to his father's ire), always preceded by a fast glance, the dart of a split-second gaze. His eyes and his feet were never still, unless Vladimir was in his presence. His mute companion spoke volumes, if you listened correctly, studied for minute changes around his eyes, nearly imperciptible tightening under his skin, careful patterns of quiet breath. Vidar, always an enthusiast for unconventional conversation, couldn't tear his eyes away. He didn't want to miss a syllable.
As Vlad leaned against him --a sensation so forbidden in Ghosthold that it thrilled him every time--he tugged his mouth into a grin, lifting his chin away to expose his neck to his enforcer's touch. "It won't be so bad," he said in response to Vlad's unhappy snort, voice throaty. "We've got a full hull, and plenty of ways to keep warm." He laughed, tickled both by Vlad's jewelry and his own hackneyed innuendo, but there was a twinge of wistfulness in his head already. They both knew that these days at sea would be the last ones they spent in such intimate closeness. Everything Vidar built hinged on his ability to sway Gidal, and even Vidar's silver tongue stood no chance against the wrath their affections would invoke. Gidal's ability to tolerate Vidar's progressiveness was already under strain.
From the outside, Vidar supposed it looked like he was the ringleader of the circus at Ghosthold, using his vibrant charisma to build a better world for Onea's outcasts. His brothers hated him for his perceived influence over Gidal, how he manipulated their father into bending his principles.
He supposed it wasn't untrue --if he wasn't a salesman for his ideas, who would be?-- but Vidar knew the reality of his own limitations. He still lived within the confines of Gidal's expectations, able to eke compromise out of his father only when he could present it as a building block to Gidal's solitary goal: vengeance. Try as he might, Vidar couldn't change everything he wanted. He couldn't even free Astrid.
The thought made him cold. She was on the pier there for them now, waiting. It made his stomach turn to think of her --brilliant, capable, wise, and hungry for the whole earth-- caged inside Ghosthold. Mother primped her for a future spent tending fires, mixing herbs, herding children. It was a mold that didn't fit Astrid's magnificent destiny. The thought of her potential atrophying by a hearth turned Vidar's gut sour.
But he would see her soon. He had so many stories for her: A white whale spotted by the isles, the body of a gigantic serpent washed on the shore, a narrowly-avoided battle with robed nomads from the Sear, a merchant ship set aflame and a cargo hold full of opium. Their latest bounty would sell for a king's fortune in Aquore, would be enough to buy ships, weapons, soldiers. It would shift the balance of the fight against the War-Forged; they carried the war in the Trespasser's heart right now.
Then he would be able to take Astrid anywhere.
Vidar leaned his head on Vladimir's, his expression resolute, and for several long minutes, he almost (almost) had nothing to say. He suddenly changed his mind: "I hate it." Living between worlds. Choosing between Astrid or his family, his birthplace or his freedom, his enforcer or his charade. "We have to win this war." Exile was going to kill him. 573 | post 2 |
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