nothing beautiful without struggle

POSTED: Wed Jan 30, 2019 8:09 pm

[WC: 231]

Fires had blazed the night of the full moon. Morgana had been at one – a bonfire where ritual was performed and prayers sent to the powers above. She drank and took mushrooms and had laughed and danced and enjoyed herself. It was a wonderful night, even if she went to bed alone and had no company save her pile of blankets and furs. She dreamed of strong arms and handsome faces, and woke in the morning feeling determined in her course.

She stuffed extra goods in the basket she meant to deliver elsewhere. This would be a good excuse, she decided. Morgana was less concerned about a reason for her visit – once she got there she could talk her way in, and then she could oh so conveniently offer to lighten her load. She could make him tea, and make herself some for the road, and perhaps he would escort her part of the way on her journey. It all sounded like a perfect plan.,br>

The shock and horror on her face when she found his home in ruins was genuine. Some of it was for her plans, of course.

Brocade? She called, looking about as if meaning to summon him from the air. The ruined place was no longer warm, but she still approached it with caution, her basket forgotten where she had dropped it on the path.

Salsola
The Warden
User avatar
Mel
Luperci
light as a feather
stiff as a board

POSTED: Thu Jan 31, 2019 1:13 am

If Brocade had believed in such things, he would have thought that perhaps he had been cursed. His family had grown up well enough, with strong armed Dirge and the pretty Velveteen all too eager to have their children grow up and spread their families name. It was a strange goal for a gypsy family, for most wished for their children to wander with the caravans, their blood lines running between the wheels and horses that carried them – strengthening the lines of their territory and sending sons to battle in the skirmishes.

Now, as he stood in the centre of his burned down cabin he wondered if wandering would have been so terrible after all.

This cabin had tied him to one place; had anchored him to the child who sat spewing hedge-magic from the room at the top of the stairs. Now he wandered freely through the woods, tracking mule deer and boar – he devoted pieces of himself to the forest that rose around him like a citadel – and it was in these moments that he realized the truth of his wild heart and wished more than anything for the freedom that whistled between the hoary trees.

In the spring the thistles Etoile had planted around the front of his home would be sure to bloom – the spiky flowers beautiful and dangerous as they tilted their violet heads toward the sun.

The drawer was still there taunting his thoughts and it was for this reason that Brocade returned to the husk of his home. It had sat against the base of the stairs but the flames had eaten away at the legs and forced it to topple over, the drawers crumbling to ash beneath his fingers. The soldier crouched in the debris and poked through it with a stick, the set of his eyes deeply curious as he slowly pushed the drawer aside to reveal all that it had shielded from the flame.

It was nothing of note – a burnt piece of paper marked with Symre’s scrawling hand in runes that he did not understand. He discarded this with a grunt but felt himself stiffen at the dark patch of fur that lay twisted together with a red piece of twine. It was dark and perfectly black – puffed at the end as if it had been caught against a barbed wire fence and removed. He held it aloft and growled softly, inspecting it beneath the soft sunlight that danced between his fingers.

It meant something, but he wasn’t sure what.

The sound of a woman’s voice startled him from his thoughts, and he clacked his teeth together as he shoved the item into the pocket of his tunic – his tattered ears twitching as he recognized the sing-song voice of Morgana Revlis. The woman approached tentatively through what remained of the surrounding snow, her bright eyes standing out against the dark fur along her cheek bones.

”Morgana?” Brocade trotted through the ruins of his home, smiling at the woman as he came upon her, ”This is no proper place for a lady such as yourself.”

He looked for a moment to the sky as if to look for the hawk which sometimes trailed the Revlis woman.

When he dropped his head Brocade noticed the basket in her hand and felt his brows raise. ”What is that?”

Salsola
The Director
User avatar
Amanda
Luperci Vedetto, Milite
you forget I have a gypsy heart
listen to the wild

POSTED: Fri Feb 08, 2019 7:33 pm

How easy it was to imagine the little house – a poor looking cabin, as far as cabins went, but charming in a rustic way. Cared for, loved, it had been repaired and cleaned by its occupants, revived as things which did not properly live but carried memories could be.

Now she found herself staring at blackened wood, a charred mess of material unsalvageable. This filth, this trash, this had been someone's home only hours ago.

The soft skin below Morgana's right eye twitched.

Brocade appeared from the wreckage, unharmed and untouched, and Morgana gaped openly at him as he stomped across the yard so pleasantly removed from what seemed to be a tragedy. She wondered at this, and his vague distractions and casual talk.

Her jaw slackened, revealing her sharp bottom teeth. She forgot her act and found herself blinking rapidly, trying to retain some shadow of this facade. One hand reached for him, the other pulled back to her fluffy chest.

What happened? Morgana wailed, looking between the Director and the burnt house with obvious concern. Oh Brocade, your house! Are you all right? Is your niece all right? What happened? She repeated, forgetting the goods behind her as someone with easy access to such wealth was prone to do.

Salsola
The Warden
User avatar
Mel
Luperci
light as a feather
stiff as a board

POSTED: Mon Feb 11, 2019 8:30 pm

It was strange that some members of Salsola had wandered past his ruined home – some with vindictive expressions, their smiles hidden behind curled palms or tightened fists. It was a moment where the game was displayed in full force – jealousy, rage, and pity – all of it paraded by as Brocade lay curled in his tent. He had even seen the Slaves with their curiosity, their collars jingling as they passed, though with each day the site grew colder as if it were a grave.

It was in some ways. A place where Brocade had climbed rank, hand over fist – had fallen in love and found his way through the thistle and thorn of The Kingdom.

Morganas goods were forgotten as she took in the site of it all, and Brocade hesitated a moment – ignoring the way her fingers clasped his forearm, and the way her eyes had widened as she glanced over the soot and ash that now stained their feet. He clasped a hand over hers and was surprised by how warm she felt against his palm.

”I’m not sure – I have been coming back here to look for clues.” He huffed a breath, close enough to blow one of her unruly curls.

He wasn’t sure why his mind kept leading him back to foul play, but the suspicious side of him wondered how it was that so soon after The Shield Supper that his cabin had been torn down into nothing. ”I’m alright, Symres alright.” His eyes darkened and without thinking he rested his chin against the crown of her head. ”Adelia lost one of her sons.”

”I haven’t found him yet.” He rumbled and pulled her closer, ”I appreciate the visit.”

Salsola
The Director
User avatar
Amanda
Luperci Vedetto, Milite
you forget I have a gypsy heart
listen to the wild

Salsola