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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


    Dawnlight and sunburst -- Andulvar
    #1


    Ever since she stepped foot upon Beqanna, she has found herself longing for the gracelessness of the ocean, the effortless dance of wave and shore and sand, the mourning-cry of gulls and the salt-breeze which has entangled her mane – she was borne upon the shores of the Sea, in lands far gentler than these, to a small mother and a generous father. She has no sad story to tell, no birth-turned-death, no refusal of acknowledgment; she was coddled and petted like any cherished youngest, the least child and single female of three brothers, all of whom absconded from their homeland before her third birthday. And it was then, after the years of baby-wonder were over, that she came to know the yawning, burning longing of her own soul: it was there, had always been, but these are not the thoughts which come to children concerned only with food and warmth and love – and she had been given all three, and more when she wanted; but she was not unlike her greater siblings, and did as they had before her youth had ended – she escaped in the night from a lifetime of concern and appreciation, and deep into a world which had nothing to offer, no aid nor support to rival that to which she had been raised.

    Cradled only by bough and fir and leaf, she knew that she would pledge a lifetime to the careful consideration of these things – but Saedís knows what it is to long for something more.

    She wanders, as she so often does; far from home and familiar beach. She has followed the river tonight – all grace and stardust. She wears her shawl of stars, finds solace in the way their light plays over the silver-shine of her skin. In the dark of night; she is a small beacon of starlight and dreams as she twirls around the trees. She does so until her nostrils catches a scent which she cannot discern: is it friend or foe, horseflesh, or some other… unknown beastie?

    ”Stranger! From where have you come, that you are lost among shadows in such a fashion?”

    She cannot know of that which she speaks; she is surrender tonight, malleable and limpid as a pool of water beneath the gaze of the winter moon – her eyes hold no hardness, her stance no resistance, and she is quiet as an austere schoolchild amidst a church service. She waits. She does not know what she waits for, but a small voice at the very bottom of her mind tells her to, so she does.


    @[Andulvar]
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