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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


    alive and burning brighter; reilly
    #1

    Screaming like a siren, alive and burning brighter.
    Pyre. It still did not feel quite like his name, though nothing else had presented itself as an appropriate alternative to the blue and silver stallion stuck in the body of a yellow mare splashed with white patches all across her garish body. Or...no, that didn’t feel quite true either. He would, he suspected, be perfectly comfortable in this shape as well, if it weren’t for the fact that it was the only one he was capable of wearing since...well, since he’d left the mountain where he’d awoken a blank slate, without so much as an inkling of his past or his identity.

    The memories that had filtered through were few, sparse and sporadic and lacking in depth or detail. He recalled the fire for which he’d named himself burning in his blood, in his bones, in his breath, burning in the air around him, burning away his flesh and the ridiculous torrent of hair that cascaded down his neck like a waterfall of yellow and white that should by all rights have been silver. Or black, for some reason black felt right too, with flashes of silver thrown in like twinkling strands of starlight. He shook his head, wrinkling his brow against the onslaught of the image, there in a flash and gone just as fast.

    Still, he suspected this female form would fit just fine if it were his choice to wear it. The longer he walked in it, the more it felt like...like the binding, choking, claustrophobic feeling wasn’t the shape itself, but that he could not change it. That his body refused to mold and twist and bend to his will the way it should have. It left him feeling vulnerable, set his teeth on edge, set off a wary warning prickling beneath his skin heavy enough that he itched. He shrugged, twitching the skin along his sides to try to dislodge the feeling, and when that didn’t work he found a tree with particularly rough bark to rub against to try to scratch the itch.

    It only helped a bit, but at least it was something. He snorted, shook himself, and lowered his head to take a reluctant bite of what was tragically grass instead of still-warm meat. Mismatched eyes scanned the forest around him for signs of approach. Bright, cheery yellow and white ears, just as mismatched as his eyes in this shape, swiveled idly about, listening for the telltale thudding fall of hoofbeats, the crunch of old leaf litter, the snap of a twig, any indication that someone was approaching.

    ((Okay, to reiterate, Pyre is what Quark named “him”self, he looks just like the description in his profile says, just like the ref that’s also there. Yellow and white tobiano splash mare. Lots of hair. Drafty Gypsy horse. Just doesn’t feel like his body fits, on account of it’s supposed to be shifty and let him be male if he damn well wants to be.))
    I am the fire.

    @[Reilly]
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    #2
    He doesn't even know what to do with himself anymore without his ability. Without it, he's just.. Well just a sexy Irishman walking around in the woods at present. With a bloody headache that didn't seem to quit. Hell, it's been two seasons and still it throbs deep in his skull, though at least not nearly as bad as it had been at the beginning. Beginning of the end? Whatever you want to call it. This change over the world of Beqanna that took his power from him. And why? What had he done to deserve this, aside from have fun and spread fun and enjoyment with everyone he had met. With his special brand of awesomeness he had been able to get away. From himself, the world, anything. Something hurt? Take a swig. Bad day? Take a swig. Ugly broad? Take a swig. Bored? Take a bloody swig! Now what does he have? An aching head, and random bouts of cold sweats despite the heat of the summer sun.

    Sure, he guesses things could be worse. There are probably others who are experiencing this change worse off than him, or even better perhaps. Perhaps he is a bit selfish, however, because he doesn't care. At least not right now. Being forced to quit his habits cold turkey had not been good for him. But it doesn't appear that he has much choice. So, he walks. He is at least grateful for the shade of the trees as he passes between them. He is equal parts irritated and relieved by the breeze that whispers through, sometimes chilling his skin and other times adding to the heat. Damn this.. He shouldn't have to feel this way. So unwell and uncomfortable. He doesn't think he's sick (although he can't remember ever being sick before, so he can't be sure), but it's more that there is a missing link within him. There is a yawning, aching pit that beckons him into its depths, but he is unable to answer the call. His head throbs again. His stomach churns. It's like he's hungry, but no food can fill him. He might be thirsty, but water could not sate him. For a moment, he clenches his eyes closed. A grunt threatens to pass his chapped pink lips, but he tries to stifle it. Chestnut ears pin to his neck as he lashes his hide with his tail in frustration.

    Another moment passes and the pain subsides once more to a more tolerable level. Eyes of a bluish-green, turmoiled as the sea at the moment, reveal themselves again. Sunlight peeks in through the leaves and branches, illuminating his large frame. He is pure white everywhere but the very top of his red head and some streaks of red in his white mane and tail. He really is a handsome sight, tall and well muscled, but with a healthy dose of roundness. His bones are thick, his stature broad. He is the drafty type, though lighter in hair and not as much feathering  accompanies his massive hooves. Presently, a light layer of sweat causes a sheen to his coat. Shiny in some areas, a bit darker in others like at the base of his neck where it is a bit heavier.

    Taking a deep breath, the Irish stallion tries to soothe himself, and is all the more irritated with the shiver that racks him with his exhale. "Ack.." He groans on a whisper. There had to be a way to ease this agony. A way he can get his 'stuff' back. He isn't sure he can take this much longer. Another deep calming breath, and his ears perk at the scent that was brought on the breeze at that very moment. An odd one, but feminine. Aqua eyes scan through the forest around him, and it doesn't long for him to spot her. She is grazing, a palomino painted mare. No wait, that isn't right. She is yellow and white. Yellow like the sun, like.. Like some of the wildflowers he'd pretended not to notice had sprouted all over the meadow in the springtime.

    Ah, a female. It'd been some time indeed since he'd last enjoyed the company of a mare, and as he approaches her (pace unharried and calm), he expects it is long overdue. Keeping his head at a lowered level, his lids at half-mast, he lets a deep whicker slide passed his lips in her direction, the sound reverberating through his chest. He waits until he is a little closer, gauging her response to his presence, sea-colored gaze unconsciously traveling the contours of her curves. And curvy she is, drafty like his own figure, but infinitely more feminine and a few inches shorter. There is something about her scent, though. Something about her that confuses him, setting him off just a bit. Something just not quite.. right.. But he is unable to identify what it is just yet. Even so, he doesn't deem it to be important just now as he comes to face her, his eyes finally finishing their slow perusal to find her mismatched gaze. He studies them for just a moment or two, before he speaks. His voice is deep, a bit rough with unuse, and he lets his words come slow and smooth. "Hallo there,  lassie. How goes the battle?" He cocks a hind foot lazily, hips tilting a little like his head so that his forelock shifts over to one side of his vision. "Better than mine, ah hope?" The edges of his lips pull up into somewhat of a smile, a bit more like a sardonic grin but directed mostly inward.
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    #3
    Screaming like a siren, alive and burning brighter.
    It didn’t take long before heavy footfalls broke the relative silence. Pyre’s all-too-cheery ears, one a bright dandelion yellow and the other white, swiveled to catch the sound as a stranger approached from behind and a bit off to the side. Spared from the dull drudgery of eating enough boring grass to fulfill his body’s energy needs, he raised his head and turned to eye the approaching stallion. Tall, heavily muscled, well-built and drafty, though he’d been lucky enough to be spared the ridiculous hair that came with Pyre’s own drafty shape.

    Lucky bastard.

    He was white, with a bit of red topping his head and sprinkled throughout his mane and tail, and blue-green eyes that were pleasant enough as they wandered Pyre’s body the way his own mismatched gaze perused the stranger’s form. Taking measure of the man, noting the height and breadth of him, the strength in his limbs, the casual air about him, the hint of humor beneath some kind of...off-ness. Irritability, a sheen of sweat, Pyre found himself cataloguing his symptoms and felt...discomfort. Somewhere in his chest. A strange frustration, like a quiet nudge to do something when there was nothing he could do.

    He twitched the skin on his shoulder, dislodging an imaginary bug as if he could shake the unnameable sensation so easily. He would have offered up a greeting of his own, but the strange stallion beat him to it, his voice deep and slow with just a hint of gravel despite the smooth flow of his words. And those words sent a shiver of warmth flowing beneath Pyre’s skin, unexpected and confusing and all too familiar. If he only knew why. Something in the cadence of those words, in their shape and their rhythm and that lovely lilt, it did delightful things to his insides even if they were the wrong shape.

    Puzzled, Pyre nodded a greeting, searching the stranger’s eyes for the cause of such an inexplicable reaction. He could almost feel words like that crooned in his ear, could almost remember--but it was gone just as fast, slipping away before he could grab ahold. “As well as can be expected, given the circumstances,” he replied, mirroring the larger man’s casual pose and trying for a friendly smile instead of the sultry look that seemed to want to take its place, all because of that voice. “Which is to say, it could certainly be better. But the company’s welcome. Maybe we can distract each other for a bit.”
    I am the fire.
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    #4
    Ah yes, it has been too long since he's been in the company of a woman. And a lovely one, at that. Standing in front of her after looking her over, he feels her own eyes traveling over him like soft petals of some yellow and white flower. Warmth spreads where ever her eyes touch, leaving pleasant tingles along his skin in their wake. It's almost enough to chase away all the discomfort he feels. It makes him want to stand up straighter, show off a little, but the steady ache in his skull and the emptiness in his gut keeps him standing as he is- relaxed, and trying to keep his discomfort off his face. And probably failing, if she could read the tightened wrinkles on his pink nose.

    She speaks in response to his greeting and takes her own relaxed stance. He nods in understanding and agreement. If she had anything to lose as he apparently did, he could imagine just how 'well' he could indeed expect her to be. His aqua gaze falls from that twinkle in her bicolored eyes down to the somewhat crooked smile tugging the edges of her lips. He briefly wonders, unabashed, if they are as soft as they look, but before he can truly begin to imagine them grazing his skin, she is speaking again. He listens, and a somewhat mischievous grin finds his own mouth at her words. Slowly, his gaze traces back up to her eyes as he sends his reply. "Well, dearie, it may please ya to know that ye look better than ah feel. Certainly a welcome sight after tha day I've had." He pauses, lids drooping a bit as he ignores that annoying ache and throb in his head, refusing to let it overpower the more pleasant tingles and ache he begins to feel elsewhere.

    The yawning pit within him calls again, beckoning. Old habits do die hard, it seems. But he tries to oppress it, focusing on the sunshine and clouds mare before him. His limbs itch to move a little closer, and since he battles more than one urge, he loses this one. Stepping leisurely forward, his muzzle reaches toward the edge of her jawline, close to her neck, where he can breathe in her scent and softly blow warmth there. "I must say, a distraction would be most welcome." He keeps his voice low this time, his tones a bit more rough and smooth all at once. And slowly, he retracts his head from hers, blue-green eyes hooded and inviting. There is a light smile, almost lazily pasted on his lips. "If Beqanna hadn't taken it from me, I would have very much liked to show ya just how much a distraction I could have provided." There may have been a touch of bitterness in his voice then, but for all the good he feels, even without his gift. And even with the unwell that hadn't left since it'd been cleaved from him. Who would have thought that a female would have brought the cure? Or at least, a bit of a reprieve. A distraction could prove quite healthy for him, or perhaps them both. Curious, indeed.
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    #5
    Screaming like a siren, alive and burning brighter.
    Pyre studied the stranger’s face, let his eyes rove the stallion’s body again, trying to pinpoint what was causing such an odd reaction. It wasn’t the shape of him, nor the look in his eyes, nor the mischief of his grin as it played across his lip, though those were all well and good. But when the man spoke...Pyre would’ve just let it go, but the reaction persisted, a tingling warmth that returned whenever he heard that voice, felt the words flowing across his skin like a caress.

    Curious.

    Still, the subtle signs of discomfort in the other man distracted him, spurring Pyre to fix whatever ailed him somehow. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, not that there was really a damn thing he could do about the problem, but somehow that little fact didn’t seem to matter to the frustrating ache in his chest compelling him to act.

    But before he could put the feeling into words, he got a good bit sidetracked as the other man stepped closer, closing the distance between them until he was almost touching Pyre, muzzle hovering right over his jawline, breath flowing across his neck and setting sparks to flaring in all those interesting places that voice had left warmth settling inside him. Well then. “Would it now?” he found himself crooning, his eyes drifting closed as he melted just a bit beneath the onslaught of such inexplicably familiar tones that sank into him and felt...almost right.

    Almost.

    Subtle undertones of dissonance were just enough to keep him from tracing his lips along the other man’s neck and inviting him to distract away, though not quite enough to stop the soft little groan that almost-caress evoked as the stranger pulled away. Pyre half-opened his eyes, and for half a heartbeat the ones that met his felt like the wrong color, like they should be--but he couldn’t quite place it, and the sensation was gone before he could figure out what the hell it meant, slippery and elusive and aided in its escape by the words falling from strange lips and drawing Pyre’s attention. Words that drew a low, throaty laugh out of him.

    “Yeah, you’d be seeing a very different side of me too right about now if my body were capable of showing it.” A few less curves, a bit more height, a new color, a sex that felt like it fit more at the moment...all superficial details, but still, he felt so constricted, so confined, so bound. And sadly not in a fun way.
    I am the fire.
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    #6
    There is something utterly intoxicating about mutual attraction. A different kind than our Irishman is- or was- capable of inducing. (Damn, the throb in his bloody skull.) Both are similar in their own ways, but ultimately different. Soft breathiness, narrowed vision, thoughts cloudy, senses and self-awareness heightened. It was a delectable feeling, easy to get lost in. Clearly Reilly is an addictive personality, and if it wasn't his ability he'd grown to crave (sometimes more than life), it was definitely this.

    She allows him close to her, and his whole being tenses and relaxes at the same time. That moment of curious acceptance passes in the close space between them, becoming heated by his almost-touch and the breath he softly blows across her skin. He sends whispered words to her, and she croons a sultry retort. His own reply is something of a deep rumble in turn, resembling a "mmm" sound of approval at her words. It is almost too good to touch her, as if closing the distance and feeling her warmth and softness meeting with his would ignite a fire too hot and wild. Too quick to control. It isn't something he fears, simply one he wishes to prolong. He savors the moment for a breath or two before he pulls away, turning his heated gaze to her face. The hushed groan that slips from her is nearly his undoing, nearly has him delving in for more. Oh, he wants to.

    But then her lids lift and her eyes search his, and something shifts. There is a blankness in her gaze, for only a second, as though his eyes are not those she expects to see. A silly thought, and a fleeting one. It is there one moment, and gone the next. He wonders, briefly, who it is she had wanted to see. A lost lover, perhaps? The mere speculation brings on another bout of chills and his head aches, stomach churning. He tries so hard to avoid flinching, blinking away the sudden dizziness as he speaks to dislodge the pain and bring her focus back to him. It seems to work somewhat, but his aqua eyes widen a bit as she barks a laugh in response. Intrigued by her words, he tilts his head a bit (as much as the tension built in his neck would currently allow). Not so eager to let the sparks die between them, that mischievous grin plays back over his lips. "Hmmm, that so, is it?" His voice is low, husky and deep.

    He moves again, slowly, stepping in toward her and sidling along her right side. He allows the barest of touches (his shoulder brushing hers, his velveteen nose gently grazing over her back), taking in her scent as he passes and rounds her curvy behind. Reilly is a gentle sort, not overtly pushy or perverted in his intentions. He has a practiced way of reading women, only going as far as is comfortable between them. And so, he keeps his neck craned over her haunches, muzzle placed at the point of her croup as he then comes up her left side. Retracting his head, he prolongs the glorious feel of her sunny hide against his blanched white, with his shoulder still barely touching her own. "Wouldn't mind finding out what your body has to hide, if am being perfectly honest."

    Oh, Reilly, if you only knew.
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