“ cavalier to no one in particular

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[/size]It was the wolf’s howl that woke him. Actually, the proximity of the cry was what induced the sudden snap of quaking muscles and eye widening, and a thick shroud of startled breath rolling silver in the sultry evening air. Fivel was a stalled statue of gold, ears twisting and flicking to catch any sample of meaningful sound – the pop of a twig breaking, an ominous rustling of the seagrass, nightbirds orchestrating a suspenseful tune. Tension coiled deeper than his skin, anchoring into his bones and unnerving him to the crimson of his marrow. There was nothing to detect but the rush of the murky tide up the shoreline, and moonbeams as they glittered on the dark, rippling surface of the lake. For his three short years in the Great Wood, he had never known Fisk to harbor a wolf, let alone the abominable possibility of a pack. It was so close, though! He could have swore it was. The clear veil of night exposed only the emptiness of the cape, its isolated existence as plain and drab and barren as it had always been. Fivel expressed his disappointment through the shadow of a pout while a shaky dismissal settled resolutely in his head, which was still clouded with sleep and the dreams that happen in between. Maybe he had imagined the piercing wail. Fivel was doubtful, so shuddering the feeling out of his bones in one elongated shiver, he returned to his former activity: moon-gazing. The black was young yet, and the pearlescent sphere hung like a lightbulb in the ceiling of glow-in-the-dark stars; ample light bathed the cape in the warmest glow, warmer than the sun even. A small pin-prick of a smile sojourned across his lips, catching the essence of the moon in its fineness and delicacy. His tunnel vision did not notice the stirring of shadows to the right, did not even see that there was someone slowly penetrating through the dark.

open to any. short posts = uber <3
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Phoebe

Phoebe wasn't sure if it was a dream or a real wolf's howl that had awoken her. She had been lying on the beach, in the drifting place between sleep and waking where reality and imagination blended disconcertingly, when it had come, jolting her into a sudden alertness. Either way, however, it had been enough to disrupt her sleep, sending her wandering up and down the beach with no other aim than to disperse some of the restlessness that had entered her limbs. Who'd ever heard of a wolf on the beach? The mare almost looked annoyed that a wolf would dare do such a thing, snorting softly her hooves drifted closer to the water.

It was the nights that Phoebe liked best, and despite the vague threat of carnivores she found herself enjoying the nighttime stroll. She was not a particularly vain mare, but she liked the way her white coat would shine a barely blue-white in the darkness, reflecting the moon that watched from far overhead like a benevolent parent. It might have made her more nervous about the wolves if only being by the ocean hadn't been so soothing for her. The waves lapped gently at the white sand beneath her feet, and the light of the stars and the moon was just enough to light at least a few more horse-lengths in every direction.

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[/size]She materialized in the darkness as a manifestation of peripherals, a translucency he second-guessed at first without haphazard suspicion. The shadows wavered, pulling and flowing like the ocean’s twilit, moonswept tide. The silhouette that formed was a shape of luminescence; her skin was an efflorescent shade of porcelain and ivory – she challenged the warm bask of the moon with that coat of illuminated flesh. And it was then, when the fluttering rush of a nightbird through the trees caught his attention, that he noticed her. Despite the inky evening dimness, the brown gaze he cast espied mild freckling and silvery blemishes, as well as the rhythm of her stride, how sure-footed and placated. How confident, unperturbed. She simply glided along in a state of tranquility that was mesmerizing, yet mundane. Wherever did she come by such peace? Or was it fake? Fivel the child stirred, emerging and smiling minutely, a sojourning sort of gesture: “hello.” His croon was an earthy tenor that tumbled through the natural melodies of the cape, punctuated by the amicable glimmer in his peerless and inquistive stare. “Are you nocturnal, too?” Considering the wolf cry from before, he wondered more so if she even existed – in this moon-kissed dark, figments of the imagination were prone to blooming. “Do you even exist?”

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Phoebe

Phoebe wasn't a mare who was particularly lighthearted. She was optimistic, but never silly--you would be hard-pressed to find a time where she would be flirting or even really joking-- simply because such things never really crossed her mind. She was a loner simply by default, even though she never denied a companion; this was why it something of a surprise that she laughed (it might have even been a giggle) at his suggestion. "Of course I'm real." The mare stated in her simple cadence of a voice, turning her head slightly to one side. "Why would I be anything else?"

He too, was light enough to be fairly visible in the darkness, except for his mane, which would have simply been a cut-out of his coat if it weren't for the shine it took from the moon. Phoebe looked him over with some curiosity as they stood, studying one another.

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[/size] ‘Of course I’m real. The absurdity of thinking otherwise struck him like a slap of cold water in the face – ‘Why would I be anything else?’ – and Fivel dropped his head low in embarrassment. “Oh.” Quiet, like a secret, he ushered the first thing that came to mind into the air, a syllable that was barely audible and she would have to strain to hear. He pondered what else to say as ridicule colored his blood a pale shade of humiliation, the uncertain glimmer of topaz lenses catching her casual and indifferent regard. Socializing was an obvious weak point, a floundering notion Fivel could not grasp without thinking too much outside of the box; he still doubted that she was real, though, in spite of her sure-footed testimony. “Well, I don’t know. It’s nighttime; strange things happen in the dark.” He protested weakly, a childish tone flickering in and out as he shaped the words. Blank of anything else to say, Fivel took to watching her, curious where she had come from, how long she had been here – proof, really, that she was what she proclaimed to be. In the back of his mind, the wolf howl was a constant reminder that something was off, and he had no one else to blame but her. “What’s your name, then? I’m Fivel.”

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Phoebe

At first Phoebe couldn't understand why the stallion suddenly looked so shame-faced, why his reply came out so soft and sad, like a child that had just been hit. Then she reflected back on her part of the conversation, and felt guilt at her words--she hadn't meant her words as an insult, but he seemed to have taken them that way; there had only genuine askance. How the night changed and twisted things into strange contortions! She was about to apologize when the moment passed, and the stallion moved on.

"That is true." She readily agreed to his change of subject, trying to make him feel better. She knew what it felt like to feel sad, and wished it on no other being. "Did you hear that wolf howl a moment before?" She still wasn't clear on whether or not it was a dream, but if there was a time to clarify her own curiousities, it would be now. But he continued on without her, apparently distracted by her own rudeness.

"Fivel, is it? I'm, Phoebe."

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[/size] That was the thing about Fivel, young, capricious Fivel; he had the heart of a lion, but sometimes it is better to imagine him as a vulture. He is a scavenger by nature, lurking in some airy, far away place until a moment presents itself intriguingly. He does not thrive in the corporeal world, per say, keeping contentedly to himself most of the time; but then there are incidents like this one, ‘did you hear that wolf howl a moment before?’, where he quite simply just does not know how to act. “Yes!” Plain, gold-brown eyes blazed with conviction, and the childish set of his jaw came unhinged in excitement, “I thought I had imagined that – hoped, actually – because I've never known a wolf to come to Fisk before.” Fivel looked away, inspecting every shadow with infantile curiosity and a touch of archaic skepticism, the contours of his body tensely laced with wonder. Consequently, he seemed to have forgotten he had company – it wasn't until she mentioned her name, “Phoebe?” that he found himself drawn to her again. And he said her name so peculiarly, too: his mouth scrunched as his tongued slapped against the back of his teeth, shaping the syllables fluidly “As in the epithet of Artemis, Phoebe?” and brokenly “Fee · bee, meaning bright and shiny?” and inquisitively “Or just Phoebe?” Smilingly, he waited for an answer.


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Phoebe

Phoebe had no idea which meaning her mother had been thinking of when she had chosen the name for her soon-to-be-orphaned daughter, but it seemed like it might make her a bit of a kill-joy to talk to Fivel about her suicidal mother. So she simply made up an answer, the one that best suited her fancy at that moment--in the night. "The epithet of Artemis, goddess of the moon." She told him proudly, sweeping her tail across her freckled coat, which shone intermittently luminous and shadowy as sparse clouds drifted over its dimpled surface. "A remarkable power to have, isn't it? I'd love to just have the animals flock to me as they do to her... and the protector of all the mares and fillies of the world, too." There was an edge of wistfulness to her voice as she spoke, looking around herself as though expecting the goddess to emerge from the bushes around them.

Of course, she didn't.

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[/size]Fivel wasn’t sure what he would think about having that power. Animals flocking to him? He conjured the image of chipmunks with nut-filled mouths and venomous snakes that would devour them on sight; he thought of rabbits snatched up in the jowls of a coyote. And then he concluded that those deaths would be because of him – or rather, the need for the animals to flock to his presence. So, no, he couldn't agree with Phoebe, but he wasn't going to spoil her wistfulness with what he considered pragmatic thinking. Instead, he nodded dumbly, brown eyes shifting back and forth without looking for anything in particular. He pawed listlessly at the ground. The silence settling between them grew uncomfortably loud, and his ears started to pop vexingly. He despised silence, especially the awkward kind. “So…” he started, kicking a small, blue-gray pebble her direction, “where do you live? You don't smell or look familiar.” Blunt as always, Fivel didn’t feel that his inquiry was crossing a boundary. Hopefully she would not either, and if she did he would shrug it off and move on to the next question. That was one thing the buckskin could always be counted on: being whimsically indifferent.


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Phoebe

As Phoebe stood comfortably in the awkward silence, completely unaffected by that sort of thing, she once again surveyed the stallion before her. She watched with a vague interest, taking in his mute nod, the random pawing at the sand, and finally the pebble kicked in her direction, the color of a river after rain had stirred up the silt. When he finally spoke again, she paused for a moment before answering, choosing instead to watch him again for a moment; not because she thought his question was anything out of the ordinary (she was blissfully unaware of such trivialities), but because she was trying to puzzle out the sudden transition into awkwardness, and then the subject change. It was a petty thing, but Phoebe just couldn't help herself. The whole world needed to be explained to her, no matter how ridiculous the ideas that she came up with were.

Even, the question itself was one that was harder to answer than most. Phebes was a gypsy by example and design, and she lived nowhere except where she happened to be before nightfall. "I live.... everywhere, I suppose." She said, looking around them at the cape, which she had arrived at just today. "I haven't been here in quite a while, so I suppose I don't yet smell like salt and sand and wind."

ooc Soo sorry it took me this long to reply! I'll be quicker this week and the next.

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[/size]“I live… everywhere,” Curiosity perked, peaked even, Fivel studied her with a narrowed glance that someone, hopefully not her, might mistake for suspicion. His nose wrinkled and an ear pivoted, cocked in her direction; “I haven't been here in quite a while, so I suppose I don't yet smell like salt and sand and wind.” She most certainly did not possess the scent yet, but it was mostly a matter of time. He could barely sense it from himself anymore, he was so accustomed to the perfume. However, Fivel wasn't so interested in body odor as he was fascinated with the first part of her answer. As imaginative a creature as he was, he could not conjure a fantasy where one could live everywhere. What was home, then? What was safe, sound and sanctuary? Everywhere came attached to his mental images as an open sky, a rolling endlessness of land and fragmented details here and there – but comfort, joy, satisfaction did not accompany the feelings stored in the picture. Everywhere, he thought, seemed lackluster, and although he was not saddened because it must have been a preferred choice on her part, Fivel still felt some sense of remorse. A slight twinge of pallid melancholy. “What is it like?” And, perhaps too, jealousy, “I have never been outside the wood. This cape is my refuge.”

* Haha, trust me, you're all shades of fine n' dandy. Always take your time. (:
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Phoebe

Sad seemed like strange emotion to be aroused by her answer, Phoebe mused, as she watched the face of her companion change as he pondered the thought. The emotion that haunted his face was not exactly pitying, but defiantly something akin to it; remorse or even something dolorous. "I have never been outside the wood. The cape is my refuge...." Why, and nothing had ever seemed more sad to her than that! A life without variety, the constant changing of speed and scenery, faces and scents, seemed all he was content for; to her, however, such a thing seemed imponderably dull to her, even at a place like the cape, where the tides rolled in and out, and the birds came and went as they pleased.

"Oh, it's lovely." She told him promptly, nodding in agreement to her own words. " I just don't see how you can stand the same place constantly, all the days of your life. Doesn't it ever get dull?" She asked, almost concerned for him--what possessed anyone to lock themselves in one place, and never experience anything beyond what they already had.

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[/size]“Yes,” Fivel supposed with a small, whimsical smile, “I do say it does become dull by and by.” Pondering thoughtfully on the outside, the buckskin fellow breathed through the spiral of a sigh, his mind wandering on and on without a clue as to where it was going, or which road to explore. Simply, he sought knowledge, but there was the crux of the problem: he had not the ability to go beyond the border. “I cannot bring myself to leave until She returns. If I left and She came looking, we would both be lost.” That earlier smile faded, inching free of the stitches as his dark mouth settled into a pressed straight line. “At least here I know where I am. Until then, well, I can dream.” It felt like a weight, saying such things. A very heavy weight, one with manacles around heartstrings and things of that poetic nature – it was a taxing notion, but Fivel bore it contentedly. Resolutely. Dauntlessly. To him, he believed that there was no other choice. Until She returned, he would have to remain. A lighthouse must always set the ocean alight for ships to make it safely home, and he, he was her lighthouse, no? “Will you tell me more about the outside?” Adaline. “I would like to know facts instead of fantasies.” One day, she would come home again.

* Now it's my turn to apologize! D8 So so so sorry for your wait! And for Fivel's creepy incestuous-ness. x]
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P H O E B E; She... the pronoun seemed to hold immense importance in the mind of this Fivel, and being a mare that was not particularly inclined to any strong, passionate emotions, and a stranger to love for it, a tale of lost love was irretrievably intriguing to her. A mare that was still alive, but separated from her soul mate by some tragic twist of fate--she found her curiosity, always the deciding factor in her life, aroused by the mystery of it all. "I will tell you everything I've experienced in my travels," She told him resolutely, her head once again bobbing to verify her own truth, "If, later, I get to hear about this mysterious 'She.'" Her voice was demanding, not in an entirely offensive way, but more of an ambiguous giveaway to a nonexistent childhood and little parenting.

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[/size]‘I will tell you everything…’ Currently, it began to register that this might be something, the sort of something that leads to what Fivel had only heard of in rumors, and never really imagined he would want for himself. Friendship. The epithet of Artemis shone more brightly then, perhaps the brightest in her entirety, the idea catching hold in his cobweb of loneliness and a sudden and quite fervent, if not ferocious, desire overwhelming the poor fellow with want. Want and want, and more want, until it was a never-ending series of impulses and recklessly formed hopes. Phoebe, he thought, could be a friend (‘if’), would be a friend (‘later’) – must be a friend! – ‘I get to hear about this mysterious “She”.’ “No.” So blatant, it slipped right out of his mouth before he could stop himself, and his eyes grew wide with what was unmistakably remorse. “I promised Her,” Fivel chimed inanimately, ”She doesn't like me talking about her. I hope you will understand.” Pleading with those same wide eyes, Fivel was a child distraught; his hopes were a cluster of folly at his feet, destroyed by the same infantile hands that built them, always, and tore them down, always. “Maybe when She returns, I can introduce you. Then She won‘t mind; She‘ll be happy.” The same infantile hands, the same lies, the same hopes. Always. “Until then, you will still tell me, won't you…” he paused, hesitating and unsure, and nervous as a schoolboy on his first day at the playground, and just as pathetically lost, “… friend?”

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