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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    [open]  sing me a song of a lass that is gone - arete, any
    #1
    Everything seems brighter here: the white is more reflective, the leafless, skeletal bones of bare trees contrast against the gray, dreary sky. Red cardinals that flit between the boughs of dark green fir trees easily catch her attention, and though the group of women they’ve joined seem to all be somewhere on the black to white spectrum, the colors of their eyes stand out. Lagertha’s eyes are darker than her steel-gray coat, and while they hold kindness and joy at times, they are more direct and calculating than anything else. She finds that these eyes, while they have something that looks like worry, also light up with positive emotions, and oh – how they sparkle when they do.
     
    This conversation, however is not for her. She knew it when her mother failed to introduce her to the others. Wessex doesn’t take it personally – Lagertha has always been the ‘business first’ type, and she’d long ago learned to simply listen and do, rather than question. Questions got her scars (and she had plenty of those already – too many for a girl her age). Hesitation meant pain. Dropping one’s guard was fatal. And that’s exactly what these ladies were doing. Wessex scowls, and pivots to face away from the group, half-annoyed because she didn’t truly understand what was going on, and half on-edge because this land, even if it is her mother’s beloved Beqanna, could be full of dangers.
     
    But Wessex isn’t afraid. She’s built of iron and ice and can outrun the Razor-Pigs and the Spotted Dogs and isn’t afraid of the Huge Lizards with Sharp Teeth. There are things that go bump in the night that like to try and sneak up on sleeping horses, and well… so far she hasn’t seen any of those HellBeasts here. The black yearling takes a few steps away from the group of Sisters and scans the area intently. Her ears swivel towards every rustling sound, and her blue eyes dark towards every flicker of movement. Nothing. Yet. Wessex takes another couple of steps towards the unknown and roots her feet to the ground, tucking her black-to-silver wings in against her sides. The air is starting to get a little too chilly for her liking. 



    [ @[Arete] idk what this is]
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    #2
    They looked strange; half-furry because they never really lost their thick pelts from their upbringing in the Tundra but now, they swelter and sweat at the base of a frothing volcano, and some of their fur has started to thin out, making them half shaggy and half sleek.

    Beastly, they spook one another as they weave in and out of the trees.
    They like this forest, have played in it for almost two years and never once, have they been afraid of the things that go bump in the night. It might be foolish of them to lack that fear, but they are naturally aware of one another and the world around them and they trust blindly in the fact that together, they can overcome anything. They already have, in fact - the separation from their mother, the finding of their father, the waking up on a mountain to learn that everything is changed and can never be the same again. But they push those thoughts aside and it is their laughter and shrieks that pour out of their happy loud mouths as they stomp about and try to scare one another. Of course, it is mostly Spear just scaring Spark because that is what brothers do to their sisters.

    The cold pushes at them, ushers them forth from under the trees into the bright gray of the day. Cardinals fly over their heads and they pay them no mind even for all that they are chirping and red and ought to have caught the pairs of their eyes, also half red and half black - as mismatched as their skins are, painted in an array of colors, bay, white, and black. They tumble out of the trees, still laughing and now trying to nip at one another, or pull each other’s lengthening tails when they spot her - she is blue-eyed and black, imposing in her solitude and stillness. She almost looks unreal against the trees, and she has wings just like their friend Lily does but she also has a lot of lines on her skin - scars, they realize as they come closer to her, and she’s too young to be so marked up by the hardness of life that they almost pity the lessons she’s had to learn.

    “Hello,” they say together, almost as one voice from two mouths.
    “You look like you’re about to fight something…” It is Spear who talks first, singularly, his voice starting to deepen but still coltish.
    “Or someone.” Spark amends, by far the softer and more feminine of the two, as she lays her head over her brother’s back and regards the black filly with careful eyes.

    Spear & Spark
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    #3
    Their laughter draws her attention, more so than their ghost-white skin they dance amongst the stiff-backed trees. They remind her of pups as they tumble together, mock fighting and growling in play. That is how they learn to be adults. Wessex never had any siblings to play with, nor any friends to tag and dart away from. She laughs infrequently, and when she does, she thinks it discordant and jarring.

    One part of the little warrior thinks the laughter is meant to disarm her and get her guard down. A distraction, while someone else pounces. A quick scan of the immediate vicinity doesn’t reveal anyone, but of course, she could not be sure. The smells here are unfamiliar. What is normally out of place, she might currently register as ‘normal.’ They come closer, and Wessex turns back to look at the group of mares who are still talking, and takes all their security upon herself. She does not know that they are perfectly capable of handling much that comes their way. She knows nothing. And no one.

    Grateful that her wings haven’t yet disappeared (and simultaneously prepared for the pain of disintegration and regrowth), the black yearling stomps her hooves to keep herself warm and get her blood moving. Upon further examination (as she is sure they make of her), their faces appear kind and curious, and guileless. As if they’ve been happy their whole lives. Their bodies are unscathed and their eyes untroubled. How peculiar. “Hello,” she replies quietly, while her eyes dart between the two newcomers and what lies beyond them. How did they not know what a guard does? “If I have to. That’s what lookout’s do.” She says it so matter of factly, as if it were common knowledge and her actions completely normal.

    “What are you two doing?” she asks in return. Genuinely puzzled, because they must have been sent out by someone, for something.
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