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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


    vulgaris
    #1
    She is old enough to know that when someone is coughing so hard it stains their lips in bitter red, it is bad. Old enough to know that when skin is hot and wet and stinks of rot, something must be wrong. There is so much wrong, all the wrong, and it is everywhere and so loud against a world dressed in white, a world that mocks them while they bleed and break. But the world is starting to have its own stains now, she’s seen them. Bloated bodies with mud and snow churned beneath them while they fought hard not to succumb. Rain drops of red against snow and bark and rock, spittle like liquid rubies.

    She is old enough to know, that if the world cannot escape, then neither can she.

    But she is too stubborn, too scared, too stupid to give in. So she runs because she knows how to do this too, knows how to run until the bottoms of her hooves aches with bruises from running over uneven ground. Until her sides have scrapes where all that soft, black fur has been rubbed away on the bark of the trees she passed too closely by, crashed against and went careening off in some new direction. Until she, a young child who should be so untouched in her newness, looks just exactly like all the other broken bodies she tries to leave behind.

    Maybe, maybe if she looks like it, like this sickness that seems to slowly be claiming so many, maybe it won’t come to claim her, too. Maybe it will think she’s already sick. Already bleeding from hairless patches along her shoulders and her hips - and if she runs fast enough, the sickness won’t notice the bruises in the places. Won’t realize the only sickness she has is her own ruinous fear. 

    So she runs until her legs burn and her lungs wheeze, until the sun slips from the sky like a dropped coin and night comes to take her eyes from her. Until the only thing that finally, finally stops her is the immovable mass of a body much larger than hers. She collides with him, can feel the lethargy in her legs as she tries and fails to pull them beneath her, to catch herself before she stumbles and sprawls in the cold snow with an audible thud and dazed groan.


    @[vulgaris] feel free to pretend she fell over a log near him if he would in fact have stepped aside :|

    @[The Plague] can you make her sick pleeease?
    Reply
    #2
    @[warlow] has been infected by the plague (rolled a 1).
    She will show symptoms (rolled a 4).
    She will not express a trait (rolled a 6).
    Reply
    #3
    VulgariS
    take me, take me back to your bed. i love you so much that it hurts my head.
    say, i don't mind you under my skin. oh, let the bad parts in, the bad parts in.
    He tries to ignore the death slowly spreading around him, since it fails to ever sink its claws into him. His children are all safe and Leliana manages to keep her sickness at bay, for the most part. Today he ventures from home in search of others who might not be so lucky though. He has seen children like Sabbath, born premature in the wake of the plague and left motherless in the bitter cold of winter. Maybe he can offer them a safe place to stay, he thinks with a slight frown as he lifts his gaze to the forest surrounding him.

    But he’s dragged from these thoughts when a child collides with his side, making him take a step back to catch himself. He can’t see well in the dark of the night but her warmth radiates golden against the blue-black of the snow. Vulgaris lowers his head once she groans and he sniffs at her curiously. Was she alone like the other children he’d seen the past few days? He couldn’t imagine Sabbath or Adna being alone out in the wilderness like this. The serpent steps closer and bumps her forehead as he might his own children whenever they fall.

    Are you alright? It’s not safe to be out here,” he mumbles while the words spill from his lips in white puffs of breath. She’s gasping for air and he fears she might already be sick judging by her heaving lungs. “Where are your parents?

    He lifts his head and searches the trees for some sign of others following behind her, but there is only the sound of their collective breathing. Vulgaris nervously paws at the snow as he looks back down at her, a heap of boyish legs and exhausted eyes. “My name is Vulgaris, by the way. What’s yours?” A half-hearted smile, then, as he attempts some normal conversation to soothe her troubled mind. He supposes she could follow him home if there was really no other place for her to go.
    @[warlow]
    Reply




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