[PRP] We Are the Movers and Shakers (Tiarnan, Elia, Gunnar)

[Lady_Ourania]

Ophelia had never been favorably disposed toward imaginary friends. She displayed all the typical markers associated with such inventions: a slightly lonely childhood, few playmates willing to endure her seriousness, a loving family that gradually unraveled along its seams. Perhaps she lacked the proper creative flair, or at least the capacity for self-deceit that imaginary friend-making required. The practice seemed absurd to her, desperation clad in fantasy, talking to thin air just to feel heard. But her convictions had not proven enough to keep her from wishing on a star when the opportunity arose, an act equally inane and childish in scope. It still made her cringe to think of that night, her face raised up, her hopes addressed to no one and nothing. Seeking a like-minded individual from the sky was only a step-up from creating one. Except her request was heard, and she woke the next day to find her answer standing over her. The expression he wore nearly drove her into the sky, any lingering drowsiness shaken off in an instant. His eyes were dull, but also intent, almost expectant. And when he'd bowed his head, Ophelia found herself welded to the spot. The same feathers she'd placed on the altar as oblation were woven into his hair, a distinctive, undeniable shade of red he wore like an ensign.

That had occurred several months prior, and he had not left her side in the interim. Ophelia chanced a sidelong glance in the stallion's direction as they flew in easy tandem. His wings beat the air with unexpected grace, the borrowed feathers behind his ear pressed flat with their speed. She redirected her stare to take in the ground below, carefully noting the contours of the coastline. White sand cradled dense jungle on one side and ocean on the other, the sun occasionally caught in blinding relief upon the cresting waves. He'd come to her with no name, no ties, and a relentless desire to obey her every command. That last fact frequently made her question the literal-mindedness of celestial bodies. Or at least suspect that they entertained a twisted sense of humor. Regardless, it had taken some coaxing and careful phrasing on her part before he'd decided on a name for himself. Gunnar. Warrior. It would suffice, though she found something vaguely portentous in his choice.

Yet acclimating to his presence took far less effort than she'd anticipated. While not particularly talkative, Gunnar nonetheless made for a willing companion. His size and strength simplified most encounters, her words in his mouth infinitely more convincing. At times, it was a little like having an out-of-proportion shadow on her heels, his acts and her thoughts so closely aligned as to be unnerving. Ophelia still wasn't entirely sure who had proposed that they start patrolling the surrounding areas, if her epiphany came as a result of some spare word or gesture on his part. Not that Gunnar was the type to waste either. He had, however, been the one to take over the map-making when it became apparent that she had no artistic skills whatsoever. Every line appeared intent on getting away from her, the details she held at the forefront of her mind translating poorly on their already scarce supply of vellum.

A few more minutes were spent devoting the coast to memory, her weaker eyes squinting to make sure she saw everything clearly. When she felt satisfied with her findings, Ophelia tilted her chin down in Gunnar's direction. The stallion dropped obligingly a half-second later, and she watched him chase the breeze and execute an effortless landing. The sight worked a sliver of envy loose just beneath her skin, and she acknowledged anew that his flight skills were markedly better than her own. For her part, Ophelia hit the ground at a near-sprint, and discreetly shook pins and needles out of her legs as she drew up beside her companion. Gunnar had already begun to trace the newest additions to their map out in the dirt with the tip of one cloven hoof, a preliminary sketch before committing it to paper. He paused to double-check the precise lines of the delta with Ophelia, eyes an emerald-bright contrast in the granite of his face as he awaited her confirmation. She offered a brief correction, and watched him make it wordlessly, scuffing out the previous snaking stroke. They had made a great deal of progress over the last few days, but plenty of unexplored territory remained. Deep circles marked where known, stationary herds resided, and a couple of scattered spirals where a suspected family of Kalona had recently appeared. Forests and rivers were referenced in a similar manner, viable supply routes noted in the margins.

There was also a jagged cross midway through the jungle that Ophelia let her stare linger on, lips thinned in thought. Skinwalker rumors were not to be taken lightly, even if their source hadn't seemed exceptionally trustworthy. They had yet to see any concrete signs that one such creature walked among them, but neither was Ophelia optimistic enough to think it impossible. Kalona were one thing - dangerous, deadly, occasionally full of themselves - they could be reasoned with, talked down and made to see the error of their ways. Her thoughts alighted on Verath then, and a small, sad smile tugged at her mouth before she smoothed it away. But Skinwalkers had no such impulse control. They were killers without conscience, incapable of forming bonds even among their own kind. What must that be like, she wondered, to love nothing, to want and strive toward only one outcome. Her gaze flickered to Gunnar again, studying his face in profile. Would he know? Gunnar listened to her without question, undeviating in his dedication to their cause. But compulsion, not affection, drove him to do so. Their early interactions illustrated as much. If an attachment existed, it was difficult to gauge. Worse was that he'd tell her if she asked. Ophelia rolled the requisite words around on her tongue, let them gather momentum before sinking down, shipwrecked on the bottom of her mouth. Even someone as thorough as she could admit that some things were better left unexamined.  

[Lady_Ourania]

Her eyes were on him again; he could sense the slow itch of their progress on the side of his face, the arch of his neck, and he had to work to keep the lines of the map steady underfoot. It wasn't unusual for her to watch him, a small furrow forming between her brows. She had worn a similar expression after her terror dissipated the morning he'd appeared, her misgivings waning as she absorbed him in silence. He'd woken equally disoriented on that first day, aching and heavy in his own flesh. Clumsy with life, it had taken him several steps before the placement of his limbs made sense, and he'd gathered the wings left dragging on the earth back up around his sides. A chest-level tug had led him through the forest, tripping less frequently with practice and after many a skinned knee. Eventually, he'd stumbled across her sleeping form, curled small and pale as the moon above. She'd looked tangible, fragile, and something unnamed in him shifted at the sight. It wasn't quite a possessive rush, or even an overpowering desire to protect and serve. Instead it straddled the boundaries between the two, left an impression somewhere down past the reaches of his conscious mind. He belonged with her, to her, his Wielder in any and all forms - of this he could not be more certain.

But there had been unforeseen complications. In the early days, she hadn't understood how to utilize his abilities, attempting instead to prompt some reaction on his part through vague verbal hints. The exercise left both of them frustrated, at least until she learned to speak in orders and absolutes. And so he had become her shield, her counsel, and when the situation called for it, her muscle. Her open fascination with his origins tapered off over time, but her curiosity in other areas was less easily satiated. She asked him questions and he'd answered to the best of his ability, the words practically plucked out of him. But the process appeared to reassure her, and she gradually relaxed into his company. Strange, and yet somehow... not disagreeable. Traveling alongside the Wielder often forced him to grapple with new perspectives, though most of his efforts were fleeting. If some change was required on his part, he would be told, and he would adapt. Otherwise, it seemed best to stay the course already set out for him.

Once the map resembled the image burned on the back of his eyelids, Gunnar stepped away and allowed the Wielder to examine his work. While her head was bent to the task, he quietly surveyed their surroundings, vigilance the only true safeguard against potential threats. But he did spare half an ear for her soft, engrossed murmurs as she evaluated every dip and drag of their collaborative effort. Approval, while not necessarily spoken aloud, never failed to elicit a sense of buzzing satisfaction. Such expectations were improper, he knew, and so he quashed them as they emerged.  

[Celeanor]

Somewhere between forcing himself not to care and being too busy putting distance between himself and his father to care, Tiarnan realized he'd well and truly lost count of the days... no ... months, since he'd left his home. Vaguely he remembered that the weather back then had been cooler - Fall perhaps? No, the young trainees would have been out and about, meaning his esteemed sire wouldn't have had the time to 'lecture' him, let alone allow for his 'prodigal son' to argue back.

Yet it had been cool, just not Fall-cool. Early Spring then, when tempers flared and the younger members of the herd were thinking about things other than martial prowess and who was going to score enough points with the crusty old Wind stallion to land a detail on border security. Which meant he was what --- nearly a year gone? Had it really been a year since those icy blue eyes had last held him in captive contempt?

The thought sobered him enough to focus his wandering mind back on the task at hand. Irrespective of his personal issues with his direct relations, coming from the Elderwillow had it's perks. Though many would (rightfully!) argue that the ability to know what sort of skinwalker he was dealing with via footprints wasn't really a good thing, he was familiar with the beasts to a level few in the Kawani lands were. Skinwalkers tended to leave astronomical body counts when they entered an area - a habit that left few witnesses and even fewer of sound mind who could recognize tracks. This skill he'd acquired after years on border patrol was one he employed now as he followed the rumor of a skinwalker in the area. He'd avoid the beast itself of course, but if he happened to come across others who maybe didn't know about the rumors ... he might warn them. Unlike back home, he wasn't required to alert anyone about anything - a fact he found oddly enervating. Shouldn't he be thrilled by the lack of responsibility? The ability to choose whether or not to tell someone about danger? Why was he even tracking this thing in the first place? Even the usdia he'd heard the rumor from had looked at him oddly when he'd set off in the direction the little mare had fervently indicated he should not go.

Snorting aside his internal disharmony, Tiarnan chalked his current predicament up to old habits, and picked his way around the old skinwalker tracks. Looking further afield for any more signs of the beasts movements yielded little at first, but a second sweep registered movement far off. Freezing, the alicorn kept very still - wondering if he'd been spotted as well.

Too busy worrying about home to worry about what I might stumble across out here ... if I'm lucky that isn't the skinwalker up there. He mentally chastised himself, teal eyes narrowing into the distance.

Lady_Ourania

Tag! Apologies for the length and rust!

 

[Lady_Ourania]

A speck of gold on white along the horizon caught Gunnar's attention, the exact shape of it far off but foreign, an unknown variable and therefore of possible upset to their plans. He growled low in his throat, a rough, scraping note made strange in the mouth of a creature disinclined toward carnivorous habits. He saw the Wielder turn to look at him once more, following the intensity of his stare with her own eyes. The vague frown pulling at her mouth increased his alertness, and he took up a position in front of her as the other being approached. Was this the Skinwalker of which she'd so recently spoken? If yes, his utmost duty would be to protect her from its depravity, even at the cost of his own continued corporeality. It was a sacrifice he would make unflinchingly, a code of obligation written into his bones.

Yet as the distance between them closed, the figure resolved itself into that of a stallion, peltless and sun-licked. He finally halted a ways off, and Gunnar watched him with his lip lifted to show flat, unremarkable teeth. A mask concealed much of the stranger's face from view, but there was no overlooking the proud golden spiral that curved out from his brow. Briefly, Gunnar regretted his own weaponless state, the empty, underutilized spot upon his own scaled forehead. It fell away quickly, however, and he allowed his stance to widen, prepared to accept his chances as they stood. Contact near his unguarded ribs made his hard gaze flicker sideways, and he saw the tip of his Wielder's wing where it rested lightly against the downy underside of his pinions. He recognized it for what it was: a bid to stop, to wait. Gunnar resisted the urge to grit his teeth, and dropped back into a less aggressive posture, allowing her to step around him with only a slight twitch along his wingspan. Though his instincts knotted and writhed at her boldness, he knew from personal experience that while the Wielder was many things, she was far from stupid, and would not risk herself needlessly. With that in mind, he stayed in place, resolving to hold out for whatever came next.

She estimated the map of the region to be roughly half finished, though there remained a few sketchy areas that required additional reconnaissance. Always her gaze was drawn back to the cross, how it might best be dealt with given their limited numbers. Based on what she had learned from hearsay, Skinwalkers were fiercely territorial beasts, which meant that if one was nearby, it would remain so for an extended period. Engaging it head-on was sheer idiocy, of that she had no doubt. A carefully laid trap seemed the best way to go in that case, though it came with its own wealth of disadvantages. For one, anything set to spring required close monitoring on their part, lest someone innocent trip into it. Skinwalker-specific traps were not implausible, but she suspected baiting them made for a less than pleasant task. Anything revolting enough to entice Skinwalkers and Skinwalkers alone would not suit the faint of heart. Still, make it too obvious, and they would give it wide berth on principle. Most of what she'd gleaned indicated that they were creatures of simple needs, proud and bloodthirsty, but not without a certain measure of intelligence. It also depended on the kind of creature pitted against them, whether agility or brute strength were the mechanisms behind its menace.

A harsh noise from Gunnar snared her focus, and she turned to see what had evoked something as unusual as a sound. Someone stood at a fair distance from them, large and imposing enough to have ruffled her companion's feathers. If she strained, Ophelia could make out the elegant plait to his hair, the dove-grey and gold of his wings. But the main draw was the armor that covered his face and banded around his legs. A warrior? He looked like nothing so much as a knight of sorts, but Ophelia knew them to be a relic of a bygone era, a legacy lost to history. She shook the silly, romantic idea out of her head, lips pursed as she considered his presence. His stillness seemed to indicate a matching wariness, though between her small stature and Gunnar's lack of predatory features, she found his hesitation odd. A feint? To what end? Still, better to be polite than to start a pointless row with one of the natives. Moving slowly and exaggerating her movements so they would be seen, she tipped her dark head in his direction and unfurled her wings slightly, an acknowledgement and an invitation in one. If he were familiar with the region, perhaps his experience would help them to track the Skinwalker, or at least augment their map.