Retu[Atlas]rned

[ƒωєє...♥]

Atlas...

[/color][/right][/font]Should the sky fall and the ground tremble with sobs, should the windbreak down and the sun hide away, there’ll always be someone there for you. There will never be anyone for Atlas, not now, he had lost too many and left enough to know that his world had been in this state for such a long time that there would never be anyone to bring him back.

But there was a place. Frithen’s Drift was like a memory box, a time capsule buried beneath the soil, waiting to be found, and he had. All these years of drifting away, travelling to find a place to belong, when there had only ever been one place, and he had left it behind a long time ago.

The soil drifted beneath his hooves, a dull grey blend of carbon and ash, the grass would not grow back, not for months. He missed the lush green grass of the Drift, nurtured by the spray of the waterfall so that his first mouthful of grass was a sweet one.

The young stallion’s breath was laboured, lingering in the air like an unfinished sentence, his pale blue gaze drifted to land and rebound off every distant tree, to the steady flowing river he remembered from his childhood, how often his parents had warned him never to go near it’s banks, and he had obeyed, now though he knew why; his sister had almost died in it’s clutches. He lest his gaze rest on the water for a moment, tempted to throw his bulk of a body into the reckless waters, just to spite his parents, namely his father for being such an arse, but he contained his feelings, striding away from the water’s edge with a false confidence. The faint auburn lines of his tail hovered on the breeze, and his head swung lightly as he walked, with purpose, so much different to the laid-back, idle pace of one searching for a new patch to graze, Atlas felt belonging, and it tied it’s self around his heart so secure his chest pained.

There were no others here, as far as he knew, he was the first to step on the new ground, and it felt good, after being one of the last to step off it. His gaze drew to the point he had first spotted the wild, golden flames of the fire. Destroyed. Atlas had never felt such a contrast of mixed emotions, he was glad to be back home, he had spent most his life wishing, remembering, but now he was gazing upon his home, his only real home, torn to the bare carcass of a herd-land, and it filled him with disappointment and grief.

In his mind, Atlas replaced everything, the long, sweeping grass that brushed your legs when you ran, the rich, dark foliage that concealed the river from view; he remembered the abundance of rocks that congregated at the base of the waterfall, not the dull black skeletons of trees. Skewbald exhaled deeply, casting his gaze to the steep hill that was the border, and for a moment he saw his parents, beaming and rosy as they descended t’ward him, for a moment he thought he saw the silver figure of Aschen stood at the height of the waterfall, gazing down upon his land with pride before the wind swept him away, he never saw Roxy though; he tried to place her, but she never belonged, he only saw her in the distant moor lands, but he knew she should, somehow…

He knew of the available King and Alpha positions, after Aschen’s absence, and the new divisions, and he longed with a passion for a piece of Dreaver to be his, to own and to cherish and to welcome others to, but Atlas was too young, too inexperienced, he knew a great many things, of death, betrayal, love, friendship and life, but he did not know how to maintain a herd; he had seen the problems others had to mend with such a position, how brave and determined they had to be, and he knew that was not him. Not yet anyway.

He longed then for Lexus’ company, wishing he had let her join him, just to tell her the stories he recited in his head, to show her his birthplace and share his memories, and she would have laughed and listened, and he was sure, she would be fascinated, Dreaver was living, and Atlas had been reunited with her. He was home.

[..!INZ.z]

♥
hard work will set you free.

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Sanctis had never been in Dreaver before. He had not seen the fire, the howling wind and the thundering water. He did not remember the still calamity of the ocean, the moss-ridden heights of Ragnarok, the leafy splendor of this forest. What he saw now, the rotted trees all stripped of flesh and skin; the great decaying piles of blackened logs and corpses; the smokey, smog-bound sky up above; it was all he knew, and it was all he would know for some time to come.

For the tenth time that day, Sanctis found himself pondering the value of this place. Perhaps he would have done better with the miles of bland moorland that encircled it, or somewhere a little closer to home. That thought was dispelled almost immediately. He had to remind himself that he did not have a home, not anymore, not anywhere - he had to make this, this sooty corpse of life, a place to live.

And besides, he reminded himself, Gwynfa was not so very burnt. In fact, it seemed the only sliver of land here left undamaged by whatever ravaging fire had swept through it. He had done well to find it so quickly - it would surely become valuable as more and more horses poured into this place. Yes, Dreaver was not so terrible. He would recover his strength here, replenish his wasted muscles and his dented pride, and then... Well, then he would see how high he could climb.

The chestnut picked his way through the flaky soil, hooves making soft thuds and indistinct indents as he traversed the wasteland. Here and there pale, sickly-looking grass had made a valiant attempt to grow, and a few of the trees not quite destroyed by the hungry flames were beginning to shake off soot and put forth tender branches. Still, an echoing quiet lay heavily upon the whole land. There were no birds, no rustlings as creatures wormed through the undergrowth: there was no undergrowth to worm through, come to think of it. It could have been just Sanctis in the whole world.

But it wasn't.

The stallion was nearing the sluggish, faintly glittering band of river when he was drawn up short, head jerking up and nostrils flaring. His eyes, dark and glinting like polished stone, darted along the length of the lifeless, abandoned land - but now, now he knew it was neither of the two. At last he located the source of the scent, the ringing noise in the deathly still, the flicker of a skewbald coat among black and grey and white.

Sanctis calculated. A stallion, alone, in a land laid waste. Much the same as himself, then. But he was only exploring the reaches of Neutral territory after claiming a sliver of it for himself. None of the other minor lands had been taken. Perhaps this stallion had risen as King, or was planning to?

Sanctis knew he looked like little threat. He was thin, coat dull and mane tangled - if he acted right, he was confident he could find out this stallion's purpose. So, with his head low and every movement carefully placed, the chestnut emitted a resounding nicker and made his way towards the stranger.

[ƒωєє...♥]

Atlas...

[/color][/right][/font]Ideally, Atlas would have returned to the new Dreaver, greeted by a place brimmed with horses, strangers who’s hushed mutterings of conversations he would hear, their unimpressed opinions of the destroyed land, and those who thought they knew it well, it’s past, but they hadn’t truly been there, they hadn’t seen the fights in The Stew that turned his father’s eyes to those of a dark. Nor could they remember the pleasant conversations with a stallion twice your height acting as a colt your age. But there were none of these, no vaguely familiar faces or scents that merged to give Dreaver itself a character, there were those distant scents, carried on the breeze from other lands, of both the lights and the darks, but none of the neutrals.

He stood on the bare canvas of a land, as though all the terrors of the past, all the sins had been forgiven, all the memories forgotten, there were no hoof-prints left by those he knew, no scents remaining, only the suffocating grey smoke that hung in the air just to taunt him. Was it possible to hate and love a place at the same time? Surely it was, or Atlas’ emotions were not genuine, and he knew well that real emotions tunnelled deep into the heart and bore at your dignity, emotions were the downfall of all kind, twisting your mind and changing you to do what you know is morally right or wrong.

A swallow darted across his line of vision, and he let his gaze follow it across the pale cloud-lines and the pink-edged sky, it was early morning, the sky readily ripening to the bright blue of spring. Normally at this time of year Atlas would have expected to see fledglings bravely stepping from their homes to test the warm air, daffodils lining the grazing-land, and he would have eagerly greeted the newest generation of the herd, complimenting mares on the image of their child. He would have looked up to see the trees, tentatively casting out their first leaves, pale green in the sunlight, he knew this all would be happening elsewhere, but not Dreaver. Mothers would not want to birth their foals in such a hellish place, and the birds only passed by, there was too much death here for new life to come, not yet.

Atlas turned, pale ginger strands brushed the margin of his vision, and copper cupped ears flickering with unease, he snorted, nostrils flaring, testing the scent that travelled on the air; a stallion, a stallion come to claim his homeland, to threaten and challenge him because he was on their land, he sighed, letting his blue eyes turn to the thin bare sticks of the forest, he heard the hoof-beats easily on the dry earth, each one counting down his last moments of time at Frithen’s Drift.

The stallion came into view, a great chestnut stallion, who was much older, taller and muscular than the young pony, he bit his lip, waiting and watching the approaching stallion, the echo of his nicker danced around his ears, and he relaxed slightly, glad of the stallion’s friendliness, he turned fully, allowing a formal smile to play on his lips as the chestnut grew closer, he did not know why the stallion was here, or what he wanted, he knew he did not recognise him from his colthood though, and that he must be new to Frithen’s Drift, “Lo” he said, too quietly, too dryly, the sentence was left, hanging on the air, not quite complete, but that did not matter, Atlas was not ready to introduce himself yet, he wanted to know about the newcomer before the newcomer knew about him.

[..!INZ.z]

He was smaller close up.
What had first appeared to him to be a large, stocky, muscular creature he could now discern to be a young stallion, not so very far beyond colthood, his strength still wiry and not yet fully formed. He was shorter than Sanctis had first surmised, no taller than a pony, though the chestnut only dwarfed him by a mere inch. Surely he was too young and inexperienced to be claiming a land like this? There was more to the situation than he had first assumed, clearly.

Carefully Sanctis laid out his steps, coppery tail swinging in knife-edges of brightness about his hocks. He wouldn't get too close to the stallion, completely ignorant about him as he was, but he needed to come as near as was possible. Already his mind was whirring, producing explanations and observations, noting the way Atlas moved, suggesting why he moved so. He couldn't help it, couldn't prevent it: it was in his blood, to look at another stallion and only suspect.

They say a tiger never changes its stripes, and Sanctis had not learnt. Even after he had paid the bitter price of power he was still yearning for more, still searching for it at every opportunity. He was aware of himself even as he did it, he hated himself for it, but he couldn't prevent it. It was who he was, what made him him - or what the world, what she had made him. A grimace curved his blackened lips at that. He did not want to be what she had intended.

So perhaps, just this once...

Again his eyes strayed to the horse before him, now just ten strides away. At five Sanctis slowed, and at three he stopped altogether. His straight-profiled features tilted to one side, considering. His matted forelock swarmed over his eyes: he dispelled it with a guttural snort. However he decided to act in the next ten seconds, he mustn't appear to be a threat - he had to be unassuming, plain and flat. It wouldn't do to draw attention to himself so early on. He had to build himself up first, gain standing and importance.

"Indeed." His eloquent, rough-edged voice wrapped itself around the word as pollen binds the legs of an insect. Atlas wasn't giving anything else away, he could tell. It seemed he would have to put himself forward, then. The chestnut lifted his head a fraction; it was impossibly hard to keep it so low and recessive, especially when he was used to looking down on lowered skulls. "My name is Sanctis." Eyes fixed upon the skewbald, still trying to suss him out. "It's your turn."

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[ƒωєє...♥]

Atlas...

[/color][/right][/font]And then the ground beneath his hooves was just any ground, the sky was just the same blue god that had followed him all his life, all importance of Frithen’s Drift, all memories and thoughts had been seized by the presence of the new stallion, and Atlas found himself; limbs far-spread, gazing at the stallion through the beaded curtain of his forelock. He tossed his head abruptly, ridding his vision of the nuisance, at the same time attempting to make the motion a threatening gesture.

He was giving the wrong impression. There was no doubt about that, but like many stallions, Atlas had a strong will to defend, defend himself and the territory around him, though it was not his, though somebody must claim it someday, he wasn’t thinking practically, but he knew he did not want this new stallion to claim his home, unaware that Sanctis already owned a generous amount of what used to be an undivided land.

So, naively, he stood before the new stallion, letting his cool blue gaze dip and rise o’er the contours of the chestnut’s muscular stature, observing from a distance, his amber ears flickered to catch the words the stranger had dared to speak, turning his head away with disinterest, deep in his chest he felt the crawling vines of defeat enslaving him, though he refused to admit it. Realisation finally crept over him, quiet footsteps across his mind; he needed to do something, a lone stallion in an almost desert land should either claim or be claimed.

The issue was, Atlas knew how to travel, he knew how to survive on his own, it was difficult, something most others his age could not, but he did not know how to claim or lead, how to follow another like a minor when all he really wanted was to have a choice, for things to be back like they used to, how he remembered the Drift, with those he knew and loved. Most of them anyway…

It’s your turn…

Atlas let his ears twitch to listen to the words, turning his gaze back to the stallion again. If he were to join a herd, the quarter horse would not be his first choice as alpha, he decided. There it was again, the wrong approach, the chestnut had in fact done no wrong, he was probably a very likable character, after all, Atlas hadn’t exactly spoken to the newcomer, had he?

“Atlas. My name’s Atlas.”

OoC; Ack! Shortness...sorry >_<

[..!INZ.z]

Sanctis looked on with lazy curiosity. This stallion was like an open book - the little movements he made, the way his ears twitched and his eyes snapped to and fro, the defensive quality that seemed to manifest between him and this place. Perhaps he had lived here, Sanctis surmised, before the flames had licked their way through everything. He decided with conviction that he had little to fear from this Atlas, and that he should make an effort so that the stallion would have little to fear from him.

Sanctis was not completely twisted. His thoughts were not solely focused on power, on winning and achieving. Yes, gaining what he had lost took up a sizable chunk of thought space these days. But it did not yet consume him utterly, it did not drive him so relentlessly as to blot out his own free will. The stallion before him was not yet a suggestion of a threat before his eyes: he was another creature, alone, like himself. And seeing as there was no one else in this damned place, Sanctis had to satisfy his need for conversation somewhere.

The chestnut shifted his weight idly, allowing his gaze to wander from the stranger. True, the Drift was barren now. Ugly sculptures of ash and mud rose up from twisted tree roots; overhead, the sky was storm-bound and brooding, still choking from the great swathes of smoke which had choked all not so very long ago. But in the not so distant future, when the rains had come and gone and the new Spring had scattered seeds of life, Sanctis could see the land flourishing. Already scattered grasses had sprung up, and the plentiful waters would aid new life.

But why was he contemplating all this? The chestnut shook his head slightly, nostrils quivering with a soft snort: he returned his attention to Atlas, who seemed to have found it in himself to reply. The smallest of smiles curled the stallion's dark lips, and for an instant a set of tombstone teeth were revealed.
"Well you can relax, Atlas, I am not here to conquer."

He considered the skewbald once again. "I'm guessing you have lived here before. I'm sure it was very pleasant before it was... barbecued."

((Lulz, mine's a little crap..))

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[ƒωєє...♥]

Atlas...

[/right][/font][/size]Everyone’s been in this situation, haven’t they? Judging, misunderstanding, humiliated, only to climb back up and judge again. Sanctis must have gone through something similar, resting his wise gaze upon the two-year old. In the stallions presence, Atlas felt regressed, his youth exaggerated, his build and height, everything so different to the lithe male in whose presence he stood.

It was apparent that Sanctis was much wiser than he, something Atlas could not pinpoint, yet he felt so open, so expressive and understandable compared to the stallion, and it both irritated and scared him.

But intelligence is only to be feared by an enemy…was Sanctis an enemy, then? No. Truth be told, Atlas was confused, returning home, he was filled with exhilaration and belonging he had never felt before, but in the face of danger and alone, he had been angry and afraid, but realising he was actually in no danger whatsoever, he felt embarrassed, trying to conceal his emotions.

Roxanne would know what to do, she’d set him straight, he could see her getting along like a house on fire with this new stallion, just like her, she could socialize, she could understand others, a quality Atlas lacked, he was more like his father in that sense.

He listened to the chestnut’s words, ears flickered, bending and changing obediently to his subconscious mind. He glanced down at the ground briefly; his muddied hooves pressed into the ash ridden top-surface of soil, again, copper tresses cutting through his vision, he could feel the oaken gaze of the quarter horse on him like hot fire, his mind chasing after fragile thoughts, straining to find a reply within himself. “I know.” He said, a little too quietly, and suddenly he felt patronised, like a young colt being scolded kindly, and he flicked his tail in slight irritancy.

But then the stallion spoke again, and this time his head snapped up. Was he that readable? Once again he was pushed into the vortex of memories, images imprinted in his mind, of the little picturesque land with a running waterfall and lush grass. False memories of he and his parents in happiness, and for some reason, Roxanne, once again trying to place her in vain.

He drew his gaze back to the painfully kind eyes of Sanctis. “I wouldn’t know” he said dryly, smirking at the chance to prove him wrong, a pathetic attempt to make the stallion feel a little of what Atlas was right now. “It’s as new to me as you are.” He said pointedly, lying and gritting his teeth, casting his gaze about the place again to inwardly agree. It had been a beautiful place

[..!INZ.z]

The ropes of irritation tautened inside Sanctis, curling with practiced ease at the pit of his throat. He knew about mares. He knew every trick they played, every shape they screwed their bodies into, every soft-whispered word that was flaunted as an invite to something more. He knew about mares; or, he knew about the mares he had encountered. He knew about stallions, too. He knew about an enemy, a threat: a horse as tall and as heavy and as powerful as him, staring him in the eyes, ready to usurp him.

But the chestnut knew nothing about another horse.
He knew nothing about a stallion or a mare who was out for nothing and who had nothing, who was as blind and unassuming as him, who was inanimate, unprovocative. He didn't know what to say or how to act around Atlas because Atlas was neither a threat or a danger. This should have been when he didn't have to think about acting or talking, when he could relax. But Sanctis had forgotten how to relax. His social skills had never been exactly burnished, and now he was feeling it.

And this stallion, barely out of colthood, wasn't helping.

Sanctis tossed his head, the faintest of lines creasing his smooth brow. He wasn't a mind reader, and he wasn't one of those irritating gypsy-types who could peel emotions off a horse's face. But it didn't take so much to pick up on the annoyance Atlas was radiating, and Sanctis wasn't exactly blunt-edged. He didn't really blame him. Stallions were suspicious of stallions, as a rule. Sanctis above all knew that.

All the same, he was a little tired of the constant competition to have the upperhand.

He tilted his head at the stallion's defiant words, denying the urge to grin. "If you insist," he replied evenly, uncaring whether he had been wrong or no and unwilling to contradict Atlas at this point. "Though, it begs the question why you're standing here staring at a pile of ash." The chestnut shifted, tail worrying about his hocks. He did not mean to appear patronising. Standing next to the skewbald made him painfully aware of how very young Atlas was, and how not-so-young he was now. He had wasted those years, he reflected.

The paper-thin flesh encircling his nostrils quivered, flaring with the faint beginnings of a scent. Sanctis raised a brow, eyes straying across the skyline. Perhaps this place was not so devoid of life after all.

((Sorryyy, crap.))

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[tiss]

You can hear the wind calling names and hearing hoof beats. There was a jet black mustang galloping down the valley. The black stallion's hoofs beated on the ground like thunder. He went past trees and and ran by the water. He know he was the best stallion. He is a loner and will go to your face and say mean things about you. The stallion's mane flowed in the wind and his tail followed the wind. His eyes glowed in the sunlight and he saw the birds in the sky. He stared at the trees and and saw things crawl. He galloped into the the shade and he stopped. He looked at the ground and saw hoof prints and he followed the hoofs prints.He went to the end and saw it was a ditch. He saw on the other side there were the hoof prints. He backed up and galloped to the ditch and jumped it. He made it and looked at the tracks.



He walked on the trail of the horse and snorted. He walked silently and went to the end of the tracks. There was no more tracks and no horse. "Shoot i thought i found a horse on my land." Kio said. The mustang galloped to the clear water and jumped init. He went to the other side and walked on. He galloped to the tree and saw grass he grazed on it for awhile. He walked to the a part that had tall grazz and he layed in it. He fell asleep and layed flat there. He woke up and got up and walked to a river and jumped in. He wanted a bath so he gave him one just with water. He jumped out and galloped to the nearest good grass. He he took big bites and walked to a tree. He got some leaves and ate some. He spit them out "Yuck theses taste bad." He galloped off and he galloped for awhile.