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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


    the lord will smite thee with madness; nyxia
    #1
    my corrupt nature is empty of grace;
    bent unto sin, and only unto sin;
    and that continually.



    They say time is a flat circle. If it’s true, she’s in the center, and she’s laughing.
    It doesn’t touch her, time, not in the ways it should (the ways it should - she should be dead, god, what I’d give to have her rotting in the ground). Time slides over her, like raindrops on an oilslick. Untouched and untouchable, my corpse queen.
    Sometimes she looks dead – a glassiness to the eyes, see, and a sluggishness of the gait. She lacks grace – always has – and yes, sometimes she moves like she’s climbed out of a grave.
    (And her smile, oh -  like a dead thing, a rictus on those wretched lips, yet girls fall for – fall to – it.)
    But looks and are are not the same, no – Chantale, she persists.

    She is an erratic thing, my corpse masterpiece, she slumbers and rises again like some great old god (though she is nowhere near so formidable, even in all her maddening glory). She does not know what happened, not really, only that Beqanna shook and stumbled and cried out. She slept though most of it, she doesn’t remember it, not really – a hazy idea of a figure or two, a taste of blood, the snap of a wing.
    But now she wakes – she rises – and she moves in the meadow, gait lurching but eyes fever-bright, the madness awake and well within her. She eyes them with her own animal cunning, an intelligence that does not befit her to discuss philosophy, but something baser.
    And then, she sees her.

    So often, her children are a wellspring of disappointments; sniveling things that she cannot believe bear her bloodline. Not that she believes her bloodline is in any way special (it is not; my corpse masterpiece comes from common, filthy incest, a broken mold), but she’d wondered if perhaps her children would have a touch of her to them.
    They did not. Weepy, awful things, all of them, and Chantale has half a mind to exterminate them, to end the line with her and her alone, as it should have been. She was not meant to reproduce (she’d dead, or dying, cool and waxy to the touch, eyes fever-bright), and they are the evidence to it.

    This girl is not hers – well, she doesn’t think so, she thinks she knows all her children – but there’s a similarity to the features. A call of blood to blood.
    “Well,” she says, regarding her, “who are you?”


    chantale
    how original a sin.
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