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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


    love from the west; loic
    #1
    living for the past
    because the future's gone. praying in the dark that you won't go home. i should've said it better, i should've set fire to a letter. but i could run to your apartment, hope i get it started better than before; and i could write it in a poem, pretend i used to know you better than before.
    In between the unrestful nights spent coughing, the uncomfortable swell of her growing womb, and the constant ache of her body, Wishbone longs for the familiarity of her parents. It’s a childish thought, but it festers among the roots of her two current dilemmas — becoming a mother and having a body riddled with infection. There are often days where the mahogany will slide out of her cavern in Nerine into the fresh winter air and wish she could simply ask Warrick or Wound for advice. She’s certain they would know what to do (Warrick would flutter kisses over her face, even if it meant getting sick himself; Wound would travel to every corner of Beqanna in search of a healer).

    Yet Wishbone has neither seen nor heard of them since her return to Beqanna. It leaves a deep ache in her chest, one that bothers her just as much as the symptoms of twins growing or the plague. She is certain they would both be overjoyed to hear they are becoming grandparents. 

    Wishbone attempts to consolidate herself — and perhaps search for a healer just as her mother would have done — by traveling to the common-lands of Beqanna. The journey takes much longer than it normally does, especially for the adventuring woman, and it takes a couple days of labored, waddling, fever-slick walking before she finally reaches the River. Wishbone’s body finally comes to a stop on the snow-covered embankment leading down to the water. Although winter is in full swing (her breath clouds into a dragon-smoke puff on the edge of her sable nose), the very center of the river is still exposed to the air, with the rapids passive and lapping against the corners of the ice.

    Thankfully, it is morning and Wishbone knows the area might soon be swarming with other infected Beqannians looking for someone to wash their sickness away. For now, the morning is peaceful and content; the mahogany mare’s exhaustion melts away for a brief moment as she drinks heavily from the river, balancing precariously on the ice.
    credit to eliza of adoxography.
    @[Loic]
    #2
    It’s the sound of another that disturbs the black stallion’s peace - although he would not consider having been disturbed.  The stranger simply brought him out of his own mind, snapping it like an elastic band back into true reality as she steps into his field of view. He’s standing amongst young trees barren of leaves, hardly camouflaged by his surroundings, so it strikes him as slightly odd that the maiden did not notice him prior to his lapse of consciousness - but getting a good look at her walking to get a drink of cool water, the stag realizes that the girl is unwell. She moves as though her body aches, or her muscles are too tight. Curious, he thinks. He notes her swollen belly swaying back and forth with each step and he feels a pang of pity crawl through his chest. Winter has not been kind to this woman, he tells himself, as if he needs more reason to approach the ailing dame.


    Stepping from his shabby camouflage, he does exactly that. Approach her. He disregards the scent emanating from her - the almost rotten fruit sweetness of what he assumed was infection coursing through her veins. He ignores a natural instinct to avoid her, despite alarms chiming in his mind. It is not an ideal situation, to expose himself to her should she be infectious, but he is perhaps empathetic to a fault.

    “‘Lo there,” he speaks softly, his modulated voice rolling through the quiet. His honey brown eyes watch her wearily, though he does put conscious effort into not making it obvious that he is cautious. “Enjoying the season?” A humorous introduction - he can clearly see that things could be better for the maiden. The male twists his face lightly into a grin of compassion for a few moments before taking his light brown pools off of the bay mother-to-be, directing them to the bubbling water she heartily took drink. “I’m Loic. I’m not from here, and would appreciate a bit of information as to where I am,” the man speaks lightly, hoping to quickly establish whether or not the female is of sound mind and is going to trust his presence. He is by no way a malicious being, and would be satisfied with being able to give the woman a bit of an escape from her situation if only be it chatting with a complete stranger. He once more eyes the rolling water where she had drank, but does not offer to come any closer. Loic was brave and kind, but he was not one to completely ignore the caution in his mind.

    @Wishbone
    #3
    living for the past
    because the future's gone. praying in the dark that you won't go home. i should've said it better, i should've set fire to a letter. but i could run to your apartment, hope i get it started better than before; and i could write it in a poem, pretend i used to know you better than before.
    Wishbone doesn’t realize how sick she truly is until a voice speaks. She’d entered the area completely unaware that there were others around, especially when there are little places to hide among the snow drifts and barren trees. Perhaps in the summertime, she might be less concerned; the foliage grows thick near the River with the plethora of water availability and it would be easy to hide among the shade and brush. Yet here in the winter, everything is barren and bright in whatever sunlight is graced to them for the day.

    Droplets of chilly river-water sprinkle themselves into the sky as Wishbone startles, her feminine head jumping away from the river to twist and look at the stranger suddenly. The action causes a flare of feverish pain to run through the muscle of her neck and she winces at the sensation. The voice belongs to a dark stallion — a seemingly healthy stallion. Fatigue lingers behind the amber of her eyes, but Wishbone forces her thoughts away from pity and toward Loic.

    “I hate to say it, but winter’s fucked me up this time around.” She’s always had the mouth of a sailor, and the unique honey-whiskey of her voice (rough and low from a childhood spent in clouds of volcano sulfur yet somehow laced with that sweetness of feminity) truly adds to the effect. It’s a wonder she managed to steer clear of obsessive swearing in her days of leading Nerine’s meetings, though it would certainly be a story to tell of the Khaleesi rallying her Leviathans with profanities of encouragement.

    The strength of the dark man becomes obvious when he asks for information. Wishbone looks him over perhaps a bit more critically now, analyzing if she’s seen him before along her journey outside Beqanna. She’s only just come back herself (and this might be one reason why the plague has hit her with such a tiger-roar of ferocity), but Beqanna is her home nonetheless. “You’re in the River, a common territory of Beqanna.” A violent cough shakes her entire body at the end of this sentence, so forceful Wishbone wonders if her children will slide from her loins prematurely.

    Thankfully, the coughing fit wavers and leaves her sore and drained of breath. “This entire land is called Beqanna.” It’s a diverse country, full of beach-fronts and mountains and snowstorms and dark forests. Wishbone leans down to take another sip of water, unconcerned that the stranger might injure her. He seems to be safe enough, or at least willing to risk his life when she is so obviously ill. “I’m Wishbone,” she says as she pulls away from the river, tossing her mahogany head once to rid her tangled forelock from her vision.
    credit to eliza of adoxography.

    @[Loic]
    #4

    The mahogany mare’s response brings forth a smirk of understanding to Loic’s dark lips, and a nod from his heavy crown. She was stating what was obvious - the sickness that ran like black venom through her entirety, and faultless babe protected by swollen belly was more than likely difficult to conceal. Loic watches her eyes of brilliant amber narrow in his direction, her attention focusing towards him. He briefly wonders what life was like for her, and how she had found herself in such an unfortunate situation. “You’re in the River, a common territory of Beqanna,” she speaks. Beqanna. It was an unfamiliar name to his ears, and as she finishes his eyes dart off into the distance, taking in once more their surroundings. So far, Beqanna had been foreign and cold - but not in a desperate way. Loic wasn’t intimidated by places he hadn’t been before.

    “The River,” Loic repeats. “Seems like a fairly fitting name,” he says as honeyed eyes fall onto the babbling of cool water before them. The bay mare suddenly begins to cough and he can hear the raggedness of her lungs, how the infection has riddled them. Loic shifts towards her slightly, offering a soft muzzle in her direction - but he does not touch her. He knows that the mare is very ill, and his brain continues to heed its caution against directly throwing himself into the pits of disease. 

    It is a moment before her coughing fit recedes, but Loic is patient. “Is the entirety of Beqanna as down and out as you?” He questions, thick voice hinting at mild teasing. Perhaps a laugh would help the woman forget about her troubles. Perhaps there are more ominous realities happening around him that he’s unaware of. Perhaps he indeed has stumbled into a dark time within these new lands. “I’m Wishbone,” the girl states. He breathes a breath of cold air. “Pleasure, Wishbone,”Loic offers her as a hindleg cocks, the frozen ground making satisfying crunches as his hooves dig in.  

    He rests beside the pregnant woman, and he listens to each ragged breath Wishbone draws. He thinks of the growing life within her (completely none of his business, but he harbors a soft spot for innocent children) and if the sickness is going to affect it. He wonders if there are others like her, sick and sore, wandering throughout Beqanna. With luck, the bay woman will provide him some insight as to what he’s found himself.

    L O I C

    just a common counterfeit
    i'm an ordinary man



    @Wishbone
    #5
    living for the past
    because the future's gone. praying in the dark that you won't go home. i should've said it better, i should've set fire to a letter. but i could run to your apartment, hope i get it started better than before; and i could write it in a poem, pretend i used to know you better than before.
    Wishbone is a tireless wanderer at the very core of her being. Her childhood was spent leaping across lava-streams and racing Wolfbane along Tephra’s sulfur-blackened shores. Her adolescent years were spent exploring endless caverns and standing inches away from the granite cliffs with the roaring northern ocean below. She’d been lectured and mentored by her father and her mother and an ex-Khaleesi. She’d felt the weight of the crown on her head and the way that the throne felt encapsulated in a glass box. She’d explored out to the corners of the world and then trudged her way back again.

    In truth, she still isn’t sure where she fits. The crown was an honor to carry, but the responsibility forced her recklessness into seclusion. Wishbone could center herself in a kingdom, make a name for herself there and make Warrick proud, wherever he is. Yet the behavior of rooting her identity into one of a peaceful kingdom-member isn’t as appealing as roaming Beqanna’s territories aimlessly. There are no places for Wishbone to slip into quietly and happily; everything rubs and itches and pulls along her skin.

    She supposes it will all become pointless when the twins arrive.

    He is a stranger in this land, as Wishbone had been during her years of exploration. When her forelock is successfully out of her vision, her amber eyes focus on him again. He doesn’t smell of any place she’s been before and part of her is drawn to know where he might’ve come from. The diversity of the world amazes her — it is part of what drew her to abandon Nerine’s crown in favor of the distant horizons beyond Beqanna.

    “There are a few lucky bastards out there,” she says, the finger of amusement curling her lips upward. “Some of our lands are protected from the infection.” She doesn’t list their titles only because she doesn’t know them herself. Ivar hadn’t mentioned if Ischia was protected or not and Nerine didn’t seem to be. Wishbone aims to explore further if her children-riddled, fever-soaked body will allow it, but for now, she’s at a loss of answers. “It used to be a lot better than this.”
    credit to eliza of adoxography.

    @[Loic]
    #6
    a body in the funhouse
    “There are a few lucky bastards out there,” Wishbone proceeds. Loic wondered if what she was implying was a very contagious virus running rampant throughout these lands. His neck stiffened slightly in recoil to the thought, but he shakes it off as casually as he could. “Some of our lands are protected from the infection,” Infection was the word of choosing for the sickness. The infection. Surely, a small outbreak of cold symptoms would not have itself dubbed such a substantial label. The woman does not continue with the names of the regarded places. “I’m sorry hard times have fallen here,”Loic offers, hoping the sentiment may mean something to Wishbone in her ill state. 

    “ It used to be a lot better than this,” The dark stallion can hear the emptiness in her voice. “How long has it been?” He asks. It is concerning that he has entered an area that seems to have been contaminated with an illness unknown to him, but he shoves his fear away, knowing that he is already in the thick of it and can’t turn away. “Have healers been found?” Loic curiously asks. He was not sure whether it was his business, a stranger, asking questions about a possible plague, but arming himself with information was his best point of action. 
    LOIC
    #7
    living for the past
    because the future's gone. praying in the dark that you won't go home. i should've said it better, i should've set fire to a letter. but i could run to your apartment, hope i get it started better than before; and i could write it in a poem, pretend i used to know you better than before.
    A small part of her wishes she hadn’t come back. If Wishbone had stayed in those endless, wide-skyed strange places outside of Beqanna, she never would have fallen under the biting teeth and red-hot fingers of the infection. Her face would be fuller than the way it is now, narrowed and angular with her cheekbones sharply present beneath her hollowed-out eyes. She would not have had to pick her away across brooks streaked with tendrils of dark blood and pus-colored secretions. She would have been able to avoid the aching hunger paired alongside the dull lack of appetite.

    Wishbone also knows that if she had stayed outside of Beqanna, she would never have gotten pregnant. She still hasn’t decided whether the twins are a blessing or a curse — perhaps only their arrival and childhood will determine that. They certainly feel like a curse under the weight of the plague; the symptoms of pregnancy is already heavy enough without the additional symptoms of a fierce infection.

    His questions only further recover that piece of her that dances with regret. “I don’t know,” Wishbone admits. “I was born here, but I left a few years ago to travel.” She had seen many things during her time spent away, but Beqanna was always in the back of her mind. Nothing outside of this country ever felt like home. “When I came back, everyone was sick.” Ever since her rearrival, Wishbone has done little investigating. Nerine was soft and quiet during her time spent there, Ivar didn’t speak of the plague in Ischia, and the infection (and her pregnancy) fell upon her so suddenly that she barely had time to explore much past the close vicinity. “We have healers in Beqanna, but I’m not sure who or where they are.” If she knew, she would murder for one right now.

    “And where are you from, Loic?”
    credit to eliza of adoxography.

    @[Loic]




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