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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


    by the pricking of my thumbs; any
    #1
    WICKED
    SOMETIMES ITS MY LIFE I CAN TASTE

    And so, in the end, Grandfather had left. He had taken his grandchildren with him, and after they had all grown and turned one into the other, Wicked sought to retrace his steps. Doing so brought him home. 

    And he was much changed. 

    His dark purple hide was big, and his horns were massive. They clung to his head like massive black spires, twisting and gnarled, just like what was left of the stallion's heart. His black leathery wings were like his father's. He'd never met the man, but he'd heard Mother curse his name enough times to know what his father looked like. His black eyes were now seasoned, experienced. He was a killer, and there was one definable thing about him. 

    He preferred the taste of meat and blood over any other. 

    The mere thought of it set him on his insides, and made him hard. Feeling the intimate connection of warm blood and eating the still-beating heart of your prey was something that could not be matched by the munching of grasses, which he found tasteless. He would much prefer drinking an enemy's blood than vegetation any day. 

    And though his name was Wicked, he did not feel Wicked. He simply was, who he was. He could not help how he has been raised--dipped into the river Styx practically ever since the day he was born. 

    His face is grim set as he looks over the meadow... Shaking his head, he tosses his horns in an aggressive manner. He may have been the youngest of three--the runt--but even his sisters could not deny that he had grown to be by far the largest of them all. He was the brunt of no one's jokes any longer. 

    pic by kyle thompson html by call
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    #2
    She stood, the edge of the tree line daunting. The sun ached her eyes, as if she was a vampire only able to be exposed to the pastel moon. There was something triggering about staring out into the field of tinted yellow grass, dying as Autumn did every year in a dramatic colourful exit of fallen red, yellow, and orange soldiers. It was a scenery of never ending, a landscape to swallow her whole.

    Our little bird had realized the very vulnerability of her own existence, and it proved to be petrifying.

    One claw forward, the light snap of a twig spooking her sideways, her wings fluttering in a mess of partial takeoff and utter awkwardness. Her nostrils widened as she lowered her head to the dirt, a deep inhale before exhaling a loud snort. Her ears trickled backwards to the coo of a song bird, her heart pace quickening with every ticking second.

    It wasn’t until she lifted her head she realized her entire body had been exposed to the yellow sunlight that beamed down on her malnourished, pale blue roan coat. Her feathers dull from lack of bathing. Every inch of her was thin, and frail. Her mane a tangled mess of forest residue and wind tied knots. Along the side of her ribs a long scar tracing upwards in a slashing motion, only visible when her wings fluttered or stretched.

    Perhaps it was the focus on fear itself, the idea of being completely at mercy of life itself, that she didn’t hear the nearby traveller. Perhaps if she had, she would have hidden back into the shadows, blending into her secret abyss and attempting a more social lifestyle next year. Either way, she wouldn’t have stood still like she did.

    Her head swung around, the left side of her face visible though her vision slightly impaired from the harsh sun. Her eyes scanned over his deep, royal purple toned coat with his enchanting horns and familiar wings. Briefly, her mouth opened with what she hoped to be a voice of confidence, and experience.

    It turned to be a meek, “hi”.



    B r i n e
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    #3
    WICKED
    SOMETIMES ITS MY LIFE I CAN TASTE

    Wicked is not familiar with the company of those other than his family. His color is telling enough - his heritage, well. He has all too well gathered the idea of what heritage means. But, unlike his mother, and many of her siblings he has managed to escape the curse that one wrong move ends you up with a brand stamped to your butt and a name that sounds as though it were generated out of a factory. And if his name had ever been anything other than what he knew of himself, he never knew it. All he could hear was Not-Mother hissing at him, over and over again...you wicked little thing.

    Born slow. Born with no wings, and no horns, he was the youngest of triplets born in a time when magic was scarce. It was only when the magic dissipated and his horns and wings started to grow in that he had learned - much too late, because Not-Mother had already dumped him by then - that Wicked looked just like his sisters... and that he would end up becoming the largest of the three.

    If it seems that he's stuck on his size, its because he can barely believe it himself. He was born the runt. And now he's huge.

    And so, he's standing restlessly at the tree line, unsure of how best to proceed, when a blue girl appeared in his view. She seemed to thin - terribly so - and his lip curled visibly at the sight of her. She had wings, not unlike his, but his gaze appreciated the feathers, whereas his hung like big bat wings with large talons that stuck out, clinging to whatever he walked past. And when she said hi to him, he instinctively stepped back - not out of aloofness, although that is what he is sure that is what it will be percieved as - but out of shock.

    Nobody spoke to him. Not ever.

    Not without a nasty joke behind it, anyway.

    He stares, shaking his head with those fine, gnarled horns of his, and he smiles, albeit briefly. "Hello"

    pic by kyle thompson html by call
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    #4
    Well, I don't know what I've been told.
    You never slow down, you never grow old.
    The meadow had seemingly become her place of comfort. It is an open space, wide and exposed, and it managed to make the short haired coat of the caramel girl shiver slightly. She is not pleased to be so exposed but it was a solid place nonetheless.

    The sounds of a few words are easily heard in the meadow as most horses had taken to the forest edges to copulate. Disdain sucks her teeth at their irritating depravity. Disgusting. Pale hazel eyes flick to a pair of equines not far off from where she stands, the cream of her mane wrapping around the svelte clutch of her neck. She listens acutely to their very new conversation, her eyes roving the purple boy with his leather wings and pretty horns. The shy mare seems to wish she would melt into the ground with her downcast eyes and girlish whisper. Disdain takes it as an invite to come say 'hello'.

    "Bleak day." Her tone is flat as she looks to meet the gaze of the violet male, the other woman forgotten in this interaction, as she meets his gaze with her own. She is a tall leggy mare and the stallion still towers over her. The curl of her lips expose her interest in the animal but she breaks the heavy gaze to meet the mare's. A tilt of her caramel head muses if the pale woman will a speak but before she does receive a reply, Disdain returns her light green-gold eyes to the dark ones of the terribly pretty boy. Disdain shifts her weight from smooth hip to tip to the other as she waits for someone to say something.
    Disdain
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