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    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


    All strange orders of monsters - Deimos
    #1
    I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
    I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
    And now I call you to pray

    “This place needs to be fed, Famine.”
    He smiles, but the humor eludes the boy.
    He looks up at him from deep, sunken sockets, his thin, bony head tilted. It is a dumb, empty look – he does not suffer fools kindly. Go away boy, if you have nothing to say.” He shifts his weight, stepping out from a shallow cave where they hide from the noontime sun.

    Without speaking a word, Famine ambles by, his gate stiff and wobbly. Sickly and weak, but Sinew had promised: there is more to them; claims to have seen them as they are meant to be on the Mountain’s peaks. He had conceded that it was easier, in any case, to let the boy fade away on his own steam than to provoke the ire of his mother.
    And yet, he perseveres; everyday, he grows thinner and more ghastly looking, and every morning, he wakes up and and shuffles through the wastelands like some delirious consumption patient broken free from a pest house. Amazing, in a cruel kind of way. His brother is a sturdier boy.

    He watches, from the corner of a hard, black eye as the colt disappears entirely. “This place needs to be fed…” he mutters to himself, again, a thought that had been lodged into his head by an agitated dream – one he cannot remember, but for a few colours, like globs on a painter’s palette: red and blue; grey and green. Wet and glistening and then, strangely alive. 

    The gift-giver moves away from the sandstone hollow and out across the unbroken, dusty valley. Only a couple of years ago, this place would have repelled him. Perhaps, he might have brought a pretty thing here to see how the climate affected the decomposition
    (– would they desicate and mummify?)
    He prefered the rich moisture of the Forest. The earthy quality of their perfume once laid out on the ground. The way the leaching of fluids made an island of brown grass around them, and then…

    —he could have lived happily as the Forest’s warden. It’s keeper and it’s sower.
    He is a simple man.
    But also an arrogant one.

    Now he has a vast, feral wilderness of ugly, pocked rock to call home. (But, if it were fed.) The gift-giver comes to a stand by the river’s edge, stretching downward to slake his thirst from the turbid, cold water. 
    He could love her, he thinks. For now, he tries to enjoy the brokenness of her, but the novelty of Pangea’s birth is wearing thin. Now, she needs to be made theirs. She needs to be made his.

    She needs to be made pretty.

    POLLOCK
    the gift giver



    @[Deimos] I am so garbage right now. It'll probably get better.
    [Image: kkN1kfc.png]
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    #2

    There is the insanity that comes but once in a life… insanity that, while it is insane, makes more sense than any sane body could ever hope to be.

    That, in a nutshell, is what makes up the Gift-Giver.

    Deimos has waited here in this wasteland, collecting his minions, building his strength—brought to his knees and loyalty by the horned King. He had followed him here to this barren place in search of some place to call home… mostly so he would not have to suffer the asinine of the field and meadow. Someone as he should never have to put up with that kind of stupidity.

    The ground around him is dry and dusty, and falls apart in flakes around him as he walks. Creating canyons in his wake, he approaches. The land is thirsty, that much is certain. And it craves blood.

    As Deimos sees the thoughts rolling around in a jumbled mess inside Pollocks mind, he is satisfied that there is a madman at the helm of this ship. Perhaps it means something can actually get done.

    He approaches from the side, looking down into the valley alongside the king. He says nothing. It is not his place anymore. So, in deference to his king, he waits for the other man to make the first overtures. A dry wind blows.

    This place sucks.

    What hell was destined to be unleashed?
    DEIMOS
    cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
    HTML by Call
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    #3
    I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
    I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
    And now I call you to pray

    Deimos.

    So few capture Pollock’s… appreciation. like he has.
    —Sinew, of course, because even as a girl she was endless and offering; Lirren, because she refused to break, and that meant he could continue to bend; Her;
    —the god-king (and his pantheon, in which, he knows now, Deimos occupies a pedestal and effigy);
    —Bruise.
    —Rapt, because he was yielding and docile and devoted;

    (So few know his appreciation—it is a smarter thing to ration praise. Sinew and Lirren and Her became acquainted with it quite intimately; Bruise, he thinks, knows it without having to be coddled with it, something he refuses to grace any of his whelps with.)

    He had sensed something (as with Harmonia before him) in that man when they first met. How could he not? Though he been beaten and striped by those thieving whores, as they all had, he felt like a storm—sounded like a war path being beaten through the very earth he walked on.

    (But of course the bastard is a magician.)

    The gift-giver had left, very shortly after having drawn him from the wretched dredges and into a dustbowl hell. He had paced his brine-soaked, craggy, perilous coast. He had examined the hinterlands—the salt flats and the strange, twisted rocks that lay beyond the nerve center. He had mulled things over, felt the weight of that kingdom and thought to cast it off his back.

    That would not do.
    He likes being king. A lot.
    So he came back.

    He is glad, then, when the war machine finds him. He had noticed, tangentially, the monster’s activities as he brooded and muttered and thought about fertilization. He doesn’t ask, he’ll ask him why he collects small things when his mind is not so preoccupied.

    A bone-dry wind blows, as it does, and it carries the savage scent of stagnation, dust and famine. “I have been thinking,” he does not let his eyes drift from the vast, grey waste below, but his mind (that viper’s nest that beast can ast his claws in with ease), paints it with gaudy, hematic strokes,

    (...and where they fall, tough but fair tussock grass grows; a promised land unfurls…)

    “this place could use some color.”

    POLLOCK
    the gift giver
    [Image: kkN1kfc.png]
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    #4

    Dust has exactly one color. Brown. And Pangea was full of it. The man wrapped in black preferred his world to sport a bit more color. Red—the color of blood, and of life. And Black—like the shadows; the night.

    And of Death.

    And so the goat-king makes his utterances—a babbling sound that was riddled with a dangerous, steely tone. He wants to paint the town. Something that Deimos wholeheartedly approves of. He turns away from the rather dismal landscape, centering his cold gaze at the leader. “What did you have in mind?” Pollock’s mind was not a place he dared go venturing—though the gift-giver was fully capable of presenting a formidable attack, it was important to understand the asset of a good ally—they were so few and far between these days. And frankly, the madness that lay there was not one that Deimos was willing to take on himself. Better to let the leader speak his mind and let the war machine dissect his words.

    He is one of the few that command the attention of the son of Mars—when the ram speaks, he will listen.

    DEIMOS
    cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
    HTML by Call
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