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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


    i swear you'll see the sun again; any
    #1

    I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
    tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife



    A long time ago, Sleaze was taught to pray.
    The prayers were a jumble of things, an amalgam of what his father recalled from his mythos, but this was all Sleaze knew, and so he never questioned it. He lived in the meadow with his father, repeating the prayers. He knelt until his knees were worn bare.
    And sometimes his father would lay his head across Sleaze’s back and sigh, and he never questioned this. For a long time, he knew no one other than his father. He knew nothing but what he was told.
    Sleaze was, truth be told, a very stupid boy.

    But then his father had left, quite unexpectedly, and with no reason given; and Sleaze, alone, had had to set off.
    He’d come to Beqanna, a throng of other horses and worlds, met creatures much more powerful than he. He met terrible creatures, and, at times, became a terrible thing himself.
    Eventually, he stopped praying. The things he saw stripped belief from him.

    Sleaze is long-grown now, and a much different boy than the one who had knelt in the meadow. He even looks different – no longer black, like his father, but instead a dark purple (though he looks black in the dark, it’s only when light hits that such color is revealed). He bears scars, some physical, some mental. He bears an ability, one he has mostly quieted, to creep into others minds.
    (He hates this. He has mostly smothered it. He has too many terrible thoughts of his own to want to know anyone else in that awful, intimate way.)
    He is still a rather stupid boy.

    Stupid, and lonely too – it’s always loneliness that drives him to these places, among horses who feel so light beside him (he isn’t privy to their own private darkness, he, the fool, assumes them happy); So he walks back into the meadow, a deep purple made black in the shadows, and he watches them, all the strangers he doesn’t know.

    sleaze
    cancer x garbage
    Reply
    #2

    Novel



    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,


    She watches them too. Strangers on a strange planet. All sharing a field, as though pretending to ignore each other is the most normal thing to do. Perhaps it is. Perhaps that’s all the reason they have for being on this earth. In this land. Strangers drifting passed each other, not even a nod of acknowledgement to recognize everyone doing the same exact pointless, lonely thing as you.

    Novel notices, and she finds it exceedingly odd. But in the eye of the raven, everything is different. Life is so much less serious. So much less everything. It’s easier, to pretend. Easy to think that this could be the rest of her life.

    But she is not a raven, not truly. Though the bird has stolen her soul, it cannot pluck away her mind so easily. And so she watches. She peers at the odd and the lonely alike, wondering. And when the boy of purple arrives in the meadow, such sad heaviness in such a forlorn package, she can wonder no longer.

    The loud caw rings across the meadow, heralding her appearance. She has never been good at silence. Never been meant for invisibility. With a wild flap of her wings, a stray feather drifting away behind her, she drops to the meadow, avian head tilting as beady black eyes fixate upon the silly purple stallion (they’re all silly, truthfully. To the raven). With another loud squawk, her body lengths and elongates, shifting in what is no doubt an uncomfortable display from bird to horse.

    For a moment, just the briefest second, her coat melts from orange to blue. But then it shudders and ripples and purple bleeds across her skin. Coating her until a matching color of the deepest purple graces her coat, a delicate, odd little twin to the stallion before her.


    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before.


    Reply
    #3

    I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
    tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife



    Once, he saw horrible things that may or may not have truly existed.
    It was a strange ordeal, terrible, one that left him half-mad and purple, with the ability to possess others (he doesn’t use this ability, not on purpose, he hates it).
    In the ordeal – the dream, or nightmare, or alternate universe – he saw monsters, girls, a clown with a Glasgow smile, a tiger with no face. And, later – shadow creatures made of darkness, a more visceral horror, but they did not haunt him the way the others do. Curious, the ways of madness.
    (He died there, too, drowned and burned and suffocated. The memory of death lives in stark relief.)
    So it is not with complete horror that he watches the raven transform itself into a mare, though his eyes widen and his breath catches, curious and a little frightened.
    He watches as her coat then changes colors, deepening into purple until it matches his. He wonders if he is being mocked.

    “Hello,” he says, wary, “you made quite an entrance.”
    He watches as the last bit of blue is swallowed on her coat. Indeed, it’s quite curious.
    “My name is Sleaze,” he offers then. It’s all he can offer.

    sleaze
    cancer x garbage
    Reply
    #4

    Novel



    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,


    Hello. She should say it back, she knows. A part of normal conversation. She has eavesdropped on so many she could easily tell you all the normal niceties a good horse ought repeat. But the words lock in a throat that seems to have forgotten how to do anything but caw. And that is not a sound the equine throat is meant to make.

    It’s easy to forget how to be a horse.

    For a moment, feathers shudder across the deep purple of her skin. The raven reasserting itself. There is comfort in familiarity. It’s easy to slip back into a skin she has worn for what must be most of her life. But she remains, skin twitching as she settles back into that nearly black color.

    Eyes the color of rich earth flit across him as she peers with curiosity. Leaning closer, she stretches out her muzzle to touch at him briefly before skittering backwards. Sleaze, he says. Her head jerks up sharply as her eyes fix on him. Sleaze.

    She should give her name. It is the way of things. Clearing her throat, she shifts uncomfortably. Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. She shifts again. Shakes her head. “Novel,” she finally manages, a sharp, staccato burst of sound that startles her.

    With a snort, she stretches her nose out once more, close, not quite touching. Abruptly, she snatches at a stray strand of his mane before withdrawing sharply, a ripple of cheery yellow shivering across her coat before it settles into that monotonous hue once more.


    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before.


    Reply
    #5

    I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
    tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife



    She is strange. He can tell that much, her movements betraying something not-quite-equid. He watches with fascination as the feathers ripple across her skin, her body an ever-changing thing.
    She is strange, yes – but so is he, albeit in different ways. None of his strangeness comes manifested on the outside, it’s all in his memories (if they’re even memories and not strains of madness).
    She gives her name, but before he can respond she stretches out towards him. He does not move to meet her, only stands still, passive, lets her close the distance. His skin prickles at the warmth of her breath, and it almost feels like something meaningful, for a moment, until there’s a slight tug and a strand of his mane between her teeth.

    He blinks, startled.
    “What do you want with that?” he asks.
    Overhead, there are other ravens – perhaps drawn by her. He wonders if she is something more powerful – their queen, perhaps. He feels his own power, having so long lain quiet, stir.
    He doesn’t use his possession. He feels strange and terrible enough in his own mind, and has no desire to touch others. But when it was first granted to him, it was as uncontrollable as a wild-caught dog, reaching for everything, touching their minds. He sank within the trunks of trees, within wolves – but had he touched the minds of the birds? He can’t recall.
    “The raven,” he says, softly, “what’s it like? To be one?”

    sleaze
    cancer x garbage
    Reply
    #6

    Novel



    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,


    Memories are fleeting things. There and gone, almost forgotten until something tickles. Until a nearly similar memory comes along to join, mashing up until it’s more fantasy than truth. It’s odd what one can think of as a raven. Not for her, perhaps. But others would certainly think so. Would one think her insane if she said memories are useless and silly? That they are pretty lies your mind makes up to coat the acid of truth? Even if sometimes they aren’t very pretty.

    It’s funny. The mind can so easily make one a monster when they are really just a beast like any other.

    Or maybe, it’s just the wild imaginings of a raven woman. No one has ever said she’s managed to keep all her equine faculties. And it would be a lie if they did.

    But these are hardly bothering her imagination now. No, her attention is wholly fixed on him. On the subtly glimmering strand of dark purple she had managed to pluck from his crest. She surprised almost, delicately lined head popping up as her eyes widen. She doesn’t release her prize however. Instead she shakes her head, the long strand rippling with the sudden movement.

    With an unmistakably pleased expression, she tucks her head around in a rather awkward twist until she is able to fling the hair over her withers. Turning back, she beams at him. Whether she had heard his question or not is uncertain. Either way, she does not reply, instead merely peering at him with satisfaction.

    She flicks her ear casually, perfectly at ease with such companionable silence. But then he is speaking again, asking after the raven. She blinks, staring at him with momentary confusion before tilting her head with avian curiosity.

    “The raven?” she repeats, her voice still throaty and rough. Almost a croak. She ponders the question, lips tilting into a frown, unsure how she is supposed to respond. She has never considered what it’s like. Not really. Finally, after what must be an uncomfortably long silence, she brightens. “Free,” she finally chirps. “Light. Not like a horse.”


    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before.


    Reply
    #7

    I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
    tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife



    He has not wanted to be himself for quite a while now.
    If he were crueler, or more careless, he might use his possession to try for a new life – to inhabit someone or something else, to live that life instead of his own. But he would not do that to anything else, he is not a thing he would inflict on anyone else. He does not know his own power, not truly, and even if he did, he wouldn’t want it. He has never wanted to be powerful (he tasted power, once, in the arena, when Master gave him powers, when he fought, and it was an ugly thing, sickening).
    But –

    Free. Light. Not like a horse.

    These are things he wants, and the desire is an overwhelming thing, hollering inside his chest.
    He looks at the skies. There are birds overhead, scattered, and he watches them.
    Free.
    “Oh,” is all he says, at first, already doubting himself, trying to bury the glimmer of a thought that skips across his mind, a possibility.
    He is chained and heavy, not free and light. He is not meant for those things. Such is his lot.
    Oh, but he wants --

    “I have--” he begins - stupid - “I can possess things. For a while.”
    The other, wild raven is still overhead. He thinks of beating wings.
    “Would you…”
    Don’t.
    “show me?”

    sleaze
    cancer x garbage
    Reply
    #8

    Novel



    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,


    Her brow furrows. Possess. It is a weighty word, and she is not so certain she cares for the sound of it. Possess. It does not sound like the raven’s penchant for acquisition. A possession of sorts, but for pretty glimmering things. Things that are odd, unusual, capturing the fleeting imagination.

    This does not sound like that. Is she a pretty thing to him? A thing to collect and gather? She doesn’t think so, not the way he whispers those words into the air, so painfully halting. Like a fearful thing.

    Her skin shimmers as she tilts her head quizzically, as though trying to understand. A flash of blue ripples across the purple, as though his fears race across the canvas of her skin. For a second the sunset of her own natural hue melts across her frame before the colors still once more, a perfect mirror of his.

    “Possesssss,” she tastes the word on her tongue, drawing out the last letter into a low hiss. It feels heavy in her mouth. Abruptly, she straightens, her brow clearing as a faint frown touches her lips. “That does not sound free,” she declares in a throaty croak, her dark gaze finally settling on him, questions upon her lips. “Why? What for?”

    The raven, for all her curiosity, is a suspicious creature. And Novel no less.


    Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before.


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