• Logout
  • 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


    Find me where the wild things are - any
    #1
    Skele is loved.

    Love is not always simple – mother’s love, he would say, is just that. It can be a wild thing; a thing born of feral and unsure hearts. It can be a strange and dangerous thing.

    Of wild things, Skele is familiar. Strange and dangerous? He has followed the scent of many hairy beast of the hinterlands, searching for their lairs in dark and damp caves and in between lichen-y rocks – before mother calls him back to her, chastising him for being a reckless son. The hunt unceremoniously called off for the day.

    But of wild love? Strange or dangerous love? Skele is too young. To him all things are strange and all love is simple. And all the world is wild, chock-full of dangerous beasts!

    “RRR-AWR!” he throws his head back, stamping a front hoof viciously. The squirrel (much smaller than he by far) chatters its teeth, jerking its tail angrily, and scampers up the trunk of a nearby, naked tree. An unkind thing to do, he knows, but such is the nature of being a beast. He watches it run away, licking his chops (he has chops, right now) in mock hunger.

    Off he stalks, moving as gracefully as he can through the shrubs and trees that ring the Playground's clearing – more primitive and evocative spaces, these, all the better for imagination, thinks the boy with the strange face markings. He runs, chasing after the rodent – who is really very interesting (despite his size), now that he thinks about it. He jumps and leaps, like an acrobat (not that Skele would know what that is) from limb to limb. The black and white boy leaps along, too, much more grounded (one day, he will be able to climb, though not as nimbly as this) – following his path until the snow gets too deep and untrodden, then he watches with bright, green eyes until he can see him no more.

    He only has so much time before he becomes too old for this (this place and those spaces) and only so much time after that before it becomes a reality for him. A beast is what Skele is. A beast with a wild heart, dangerous instincts and simple cravings; evolved by a strange magic that had jumped a generation and into his bones.
    Reply
    #2

    be humble, for you are made of earth

    Love, beasts like her are not always privy to the likes of love.
    The doe-mother loved her, to be sure - and feared her (or feared for her, she could never be sure which) because she was not like them, no wholly anyway. She was too much Other, too much horse, but she could never remember if there was an Other-mother before the doe-mother. It never bothered Fur anyway, she knew her place amongst the fawns at the flanks of the does and she had been happy there.

    Until --
    Until --

    She started to appear less like them and more like the Others, heavy and big and too noisy in the forest. Even the antler-nubs had been cause for strange looks and distance; does did not grown antlers, it - she, - was an aberration and the herd knew it. That eventually lead to them casting her out as she lay under the blanket of a heavy sleep in their shared thicket. One by one, they arose silent and shy and flung themselves away from her in the predawn. Fur woke hungry, cold, and alone beneath a pale rosy morning.

    Since then, she chased after them but they were always too quick, too graceful to catch anything of them but a glimpse. Spirits, she thought, maybe they had never been more than spirits made up by her imagination to keep her going through every hardship that clawed and stalked her: hunger, thirst, predators imagined and real. No, they couldn’t be spirits because she could smell them. Ghosts, maybe, she thought as she always gave chase but never caught more than the sight of a magnificent rack of antlers or a fawn’s hide spotted like her own. Never more than, never more…

    Ahead of her is a beast, skull-faced and strange because he is stalking a squirrel until the snow proves too deep to pass through. She tilts her head to the side, curious as he roars from a throat not made for such animal noises as that - small chuffs, sharp whistles, loud neighs maybe, but not catlike roars. It stirs something in her blood - fear, instinctive and sharp, it has both an odor and a taste that leaves her shaking her antlered head in disbelief and distaste; both horse and deer in her are intrinsically afraid, but Fur - she is currently fearless, pushing through the bilious taste of alarm that creeps up her throat to stare at him.

    Staring is impolite, but Fur knows nothing of manners. She lacks them; continues to eye him as he tries to stare the squirrel back down the naked branches of the tree.

    HTML by Call
    Reply




    Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)