[mature] slit wrist theory stains us all. [open/any] - Printable Version +- Beqanna (https://beqanna.com/forum) +-- Forum: Live (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=17) +--- Forum: Pangea (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=89) +--- Thread: [mature] slit wrist theory stains us all. [open/any] (/showthread.php?tid=25710) |
slit wrist theory stains us all. [open/any] - Set - 12-05-2019 Lace me up, lace me up, he sings under his breath, nostrils flared wide and red. The singsong words tumble gently from absentminded lips, stark contrast to the violent influx of oxygen, his breath crashing in and out. The rust-colored sandstone flashes underneath his hooves in a mindless blur, bits of rock and dirt disturbed and dislodged, tumbling down the edge he so precariously races along. One in front of the other, he mumbles, unearthly bright gold eyes glancing down and then back up a moment before he shutters them from the world. A howl rumbles, gathering strength. It mixes and tangles with a roar, reverberating in his chest before pouring out ahead of him. Anger simmers in its folds, clinging to his sweat-slicked body as he leaves the sound behind him, lungs burning, eyes yet closed. A step misplaced by the breadth of a hair would send a mortal to bent and crumpled death some hundreds of yards below. Immortality, and all that has come with it, has fed his inherited sense of indestructible, helping him to walk a line that he only would have dared once, lifetimes ago. The wind whips into a frenzy as he curls off to the right, sending one last spray of rock off into the canyon, striped hooves finding footholds on a path he’s run nearly every day since spring broke out in the shadowmare’s kingdom. It runs wild fingers through his mane, blocked by the dreads tangled there, sliding like a lover over his drenched hide, only to be left wanting in his wake. The earth begins to rise, subtly at first, then more dramatically. Here fatigue sets into his muscles, acidic and aching, but he does not curb his pace, does not open his eyes. Muscles bunch and grip, slinging him forward, teeth grit. The edge looms - five, four, three - still he does not slow. Two. His heart pounds wildly with the thrill of it. One. His eyes snap open at the same moment he reaches the highest peak of all the broken mesas. Empty air yawns in front of him, the wild wind beckons and he does not hesitate to throw himself after her with a triumphant crow. The distinct thrill of free-falling, when you have pushed your body to its physical limits, is a high he will never cease to revel in. Like a rock he plummets earthward, flipping over onto his back before rolling again. The earth seems to rise from her resting place, greedy fingers outstretched, but today is not the day. The itching starts across his shoulder blades, bone shifting, changing, muscles tearing and knitting together again at the whim of he who controls them. He had miscalculated once before, not shrinking enough to balance out the force of gravity. It fucking hurt. Since then, he’s perfected it. His hooves brush the dry earth in a gentle kiss that belies the violence simmering in his lean frame. He stretches, shaking his coat out with a low groan, the now-dried sweat obnoxiously itchy. RE: slit wrist theory stains us all. [open/any] - Islas - 12-06-2019 isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone Islas @[Set] RE: slit wrist theory stains us all. [open/any] - Set - 12-19-2019 The ravage that riots underneath his skin surges and trembles with need. A primal need to lash out, to flay muscle from bone, to lay waste to a soul that is not his to take but still it thirsts. He closes his eyes at the sound of the stranger’s voice, as if the mere motion could leash his demons. His control is tenuous as of late. Starlace’s return had been more of an unsettling reunion rather than the joyous occasion he had anticipated when they’d broken the veil. But … she has not really returned, has she? His skin ripples beneath the black and white of his hide, as if something living were traversing the space between. The steadying breath he draws is a pitiful, dusty one and the auric eyes that draw ‘round to meet hers are wild and molten, features etched in a scowl. “A bit,” he snaps, ears laid low against his skull. A magician of capricious thought and emotion (though, aren’t they all such?), few lingered long enough to make such observations - let alone mark them out as precisely as she has. It is an experience that he has not known for some time, the unsettling feeling taking up residence in his chest. Set’s eyes narrow, head tilted to one side as they leave the captivation of her depthless gaze to ascertain the nature of her interlope. Up and over the jut of her cheekbone, down the length of her neck, tickle-tap down her spine … He frowns, catching the purple-black of her eyes again without prodding at her with his magicks. Something ethereal hums in her flesh; it momentarily soothes the edges of his unwarranted fury, the cacophony faded to a dull roar in light of the curious creature. “Who wants to know?” It’s childish and unimaginative, this question that cracks with sarcasm, but in this moment, he cannot bring himself to care. @[Islas] RE: slit wrist theory stains us all. [open/any] - Islas - 12-25-2019 isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone Islas @[Set] RE: slit wrist theory stains us all. [open/any] - Set - 01-09-2020 The bite in his reply does not anchor, nor does it spark a flame as he would have expected. She regards him with the same flatness that his father’s gaze once held. Akin to the hollow black of a shark’s, there is no answering emotion in the deep purple of the mare’s eyes. Curiosity floods through his body, deftly and effectively flushing out the rampant anger; the switch flipped on his capricious emotions. He shifts to face her fully now, ears flickering forward and then back again. Intrigued. When she answers his silent questions with all the enthusiasm of a rock, he lowers his head, cocking it to the side in contemplation. A star? He had met a lot of interesting characters in his travels to other worlds and underworlds. Shifters, aliens, creatures and gods of old. Monsters. Ana had borne him a daughter whose touch could hypnotize, and their son is a demon. Never a star, though. He would have thought that, given their brilliancy, they would be wondrously animated. He has never considered what it would be like to not be rife with mortal emotion. To be fair, he has never really considered what it would be like to be anyone but himself. He has always been self-confident, staying on just this side of arrogance. Impulsive, volatile, erratic. All fine words to describe the piebald stallion. He regards her a moment more, turning her name over a few times in his mind, examining it for the shine of familiarity. A lone coyote, its ribs sharp against its rough, dirt and sand colored fur, trots past, a tongue-lolling smile for Set, a blank stare for Islas as it drifts off toward the river. The small bats in his mane murmer quietly as they shift and resettle. Gold meets purple. “What is it like to be a star? Why did you have to be reborn?” His tongue holds a myriad of questions but these are the two he chooses first, earnestly. He shifts his weight. He knows what it is like to be reborn, at least, to suddenly inhabit a body that is your own but makes little sense. RE: slit wrist theory stains us all. [open/any] - Islas - 01-21-2020 isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone Islas @[Set] |