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    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


    n e v e r w h e r e
    #1

    .puff.

    .puff.

    Her breath comes in brief clouds against the frosty air, like a dragon out of fire, insistent and interrupted. The air smells of ice, it freezes in her whiskers and gives few clues about her surroundings. The scents are anemic, familiar and alien at the same time. Horse. So many horses have crossed through here, but none known to her. The soil sleeps, the grass is drab, dry, dead, the water is too cold to taste, and it bites - at her lips, her tongue, her teeth and belly. The young mare lifts her head and crosses the small creek, heedless of the skim of ice that scrapes at her fetlocks. 

    Even near midday, the winter sun is not bright, it is weak and spiteful, and yet…

    And yet, it forces her to squint against it as it glints off snow and ice, and off some of the more fantastical horses littering the land. The bear cub stumps of her frostbitten ears flatten in feeble frustration at the sight as her eyes burn and freeze simultaneously. Her eyelids have gone bright pink with the cold and the light exposure. It was a previous year that took her ear tips, the first one, and now those that follow seem intent on taking what remains. 

    She blinks. 

    Again.

    No use, she peers through narrowed eyelids, pale blue eyes rimmed in angry red. It is a decidedly unfriendly expression, this glowering, as she strains through the haze of tears to see the horses before her. The usual and the unusual mingle, and if she is surprised or concerned by their appearances she gives no hint of it. The wind is kicking up now, surely storms are on their way. The branches of the trees pop and groan under the weight of the ice they carry, and in the distance, 

    C R A C K

    Some great forest king breaks beneath its load. An ear swivels forward at the sound, the other remaining back, a guarded look with pink-skinned nostrils chapped and flaring, warm breath rattling noisily out of them now like gambler's dice.

    She has come. Why? It seemed like a good idea at the time... No, that isn't true. But it was an idea, and she was bored.
    #2

    She's got the devil's eyes

    The loud crack echoes through the chilly, early winter air, and, suddenly, she is there. One moment nothing but emptiness, the next a woman of pewter blue laced with white stands before her. One blink, one bare glance away is all it would have taken. It’s not often she does this, but she had found her curiosity overcome, and so here she stands. There is history in this stranger’s skin, a story in her eyes. One that greatly intrigues the blue mare.

    To look at, Heartfire is nothing terribly spectacular. Her coloration is pleasant enough, but rather uninspired in a land that boasts countless equine sporting the entire rainbow and then some. Her frame is narrow, angular, with faintly feminine curves. She is neither particularly attractive nor unattractive. Bland, in a way.

    The only thing that truly stands out, the thing that sets her apart from countless others, is the unusually sharp, bright blue of her eyes. They are undeniable, impossible to miss, seeming both unreadable and far too knowing as they gleam from the still, pleasantly neutral mask of her features.

    “Hello,” she greets almost idly after a moment of thick silence. She had never been inclined to fill such silences with unnecessary chatter. Never been terribly inclined to make any attempt to set others at ease. No, she rather enjoys the unnerving quality of her stare and confusion her abbreviated conversational skill might bring.

    “Neverwhere, is it?” she continues, ignoring the niceties that might prompt her to ask questions to which she could already find the answer. No, information is easy for her. What intrigues her far more is thought. One of the few things she doesn’t have access to (a relief, no doubt, to the many who know her). “Hmm, interesting.”

    and they'll cut you like a weapon

    Heartfire
    #3

    It is important to note that she is glad the first to approach her isn’t green. You just can’t trust children to keep their mouths shut when they should. Of course, she would never call herself a child, but, well… We all know ourselves, don’t we? Still, it wasn’t exactly what one might call normal, to appear suddenly from the cold air like a swarm of biting flies manifesting horse-shape. Yet, it was also so exceedingly normal. Was she meant to shy away in fright, or look on in wonder? Attack or murmur welcome? The expectation that there is expectation holds her feet firm in place, defiant against absolutely nothing.

    The silence stretches then, long and thick, like the summer sun bearing down on wetland flowers, crushed underfoot, hooves sinking and sucking into the mud. Silence. The mud will be knee deep, and you will be stuck. Silence. Soon enough, you will be silent, too. Or perhaps not. It might not be soon enough at all.

    “Yes. Neverwhere.”

    And Neverwhere either ignores or does not notice the lack of affability in her own tone or The Stranger’s, but briefly considers that they must look odd, even in a world of oddity, standing faces-to-face, no conversation between them but the soft whisper of wind picking its icy fingers through their manes. Will they force each other into dull conversations and long, murky pauses? She deigns to break their staring contest first, if only because it makes her eyes hurt, and lets them rest against the darkness of a nearby pine grove without a clear memory of the piercing blue eyes others might find intimidating or fascinating. Her own vision is too blurry, too bleary, like glass drifting through the ocean. The burning recedes, the redness of her sclera remains. It, too, will fade some, come twilight.  

    “I can, of course, take no credit for it.”

    A silly thing to be complimented on, a name. Was it a compliment? No matter. She did not steal it, or create it, or earn it in any way. It is, essentially, nonsense left to her by parents whose motives were, at best, unclear, and now, beyond discovering. Although her shortened ears never left The Stranger’s direction, pale eyes now turn their watery gaze back to meet hers. The roan’s white-flecked coat does nothing to dispel thoughts of the spontaneity of her arrival.

    “So tell me, are you, in fact, made entirely of flies? And if so, how is it you keep them flying in winter?”

    Tactless.


    #4

    She's got the devil's eyes

    There are many things that Heartfire could be described as, but affable is most certainly not one of them. Though she does not share the same recalcitrance this newcomer seems to, there is a certain harsh quality to her presence. Something that seems neither quite welcoming nor quite off putting. An almost aggressive neutrality that often stands her in good stead.

    The woman before her might lack a certain finesse, but it is nothing the blue and white mare finds particularly disturbing. After all, she would never be accused of being especially diplomatic herself, so she takes no offense at her companions blatant observations and untempered questions.

    In truth, she finds it rather amusing, though that fact does not slip into her bearing. Her humor, as it so often is, remains dryly hidden behind the chilly stillness of her features. The wind whispers around them, brittle fingers cutting across thick coats and tangled locks. A perfect backdrop for the unusual queen of the north.

    Tilting her head slightly, she settles comfortably, appearing as unconcerned in the face of the woman’s words as the trampled, frozen ground beneath their feet. “Of course not,” she murmurs agreeably as the Neverwhere declines culpability in the choosing of her name. “Names are ultimately rather meaningless, aren’t they?”

    After all, names are primarily breath. No, it hadn’t been a name she found interesting, but something much, much deeper.

    Her lips twitch faintly as the scarred woman continues, her blunt questions bordering the razor’s edge of sarcasm. It’s an amusing thought though, one she considers with careful intrigue. Truthfully, were she so inclined, she could have her seeing flies. Could demonstrate how easily her musings could become reality. Or at least, a version of reality.

    But she hadn’t come here to cater to the whims of a sharp-tongued stranger.

    “Regrettably not,” she replies after a rather lengthy, contemplative silence. “As convenient as that might be.” She doesn’t bother to expound however. The woman might wonder, but she hadn’t begun the ask the correct questions. And should she choose to pursue the line of thought, no doubt Neverwhere would find extracting information from Heartfire an exhausting endeavor.

    After another heavy silence, Heartfire continues, eschewing any further diplomacy in favor of the same bluntness her companion had favored her with. “Tell me, does that scar have a story?”

    A brutal question perhaps, but she finds herself curious. She can see facts, but she has so often found the world is far more gray than that.

    and they'll cut you like a weapon

    Heartfire
    #5


    Many things can become reality, and the dappled mare is apt to maintain her bored demeanor for quite a lot of them. In what capacity would she see the flies? Would they be clear and sharp? She’d never believe them real. Would they be blurry like everything else? She might fall for it, but so what? Neverwhere is not disgusted by flies, and they often do cover everything, in some seasons, and some places.

    She does pause when the other mare speaks after what appears to have been a moment of actually considering her question. Of course, Neverwhere can smell that she is not made of flies, can hear that she is not made of flies, unless they are unusually silent as well as inexplicably surviving the winter. One ear flicks, a better voice in her head reminding her not to underestimate magic.

    Do not assume logic.

    “I don’t know about convenient, it seems like flycatchers and frogs would become tiresome.”

    Just one unfortunate summer day and you’d be down two legs, one ear, and half your tail when you re-swarmed into your horse-form. Not to mention only living a few months. No, you’d want some regenerative power to go along with that one or you wouldn’t last beyond your first season.

    She drops her head when the other asks after the scarring, not out of embarrassment, or any effort to be coy, but because thinking about it directly makes it itch. Rubbing wet eyes against her knee, she wipes away the sand and vision improves in one eye, worsens in the other. This is so typical as to barely register, though she does blink several more times as though that will work to clear the problem. It does not.

    “It is nothing.”

    This isn’t entirely true. It would be hard to accurately describe the scars that run between eyes and muzzle as nothing, inflamed and angry as they are in the dry, freezing wind. The skin of her nostrils and lips is mottled with small sections of ropey scar tissue as though she had been burned horribly. And, in a sense, she had, but in perhaps the dullest of way.

    “Nothing very interesting, rather. The sun burns it. The wind chaps it. Every year, it grows worse, or, I suspect it does. Bit hard to see.”

    If Neverwhere could shrug, she would. The delicate pink skin of her muzzle and eyelids was never intended for exposure to sun, and while the winter itself does not worsen the scars, the dry winds do nothing to help. Similarly, the pale blue of her eyes makes them sensitive to the light, causes the squinting and the damaged vision. Causes the redness of the surrounding sclera and the dark tear staining on the bit of white hair remaining.

    It was simply bad luck. Nothing could be so banal as these disfiguring scars.
    Neverwhere
    .........
    #6

    She's got the devil's eyes

    The woman before her might believe her lot in life nothing more than mere bad luck, but Heartfire does not. Oh, she does believe in luck. Certainly it’s existence has made itself abundantly clear to her. But luck, or lack thereof, is not what she is witnessing here.

    No, it’s complacency. An evitable acquiescence to the weight of the world this stranger had made for herself.

    Luck might not be something one controls, but the way in which one responds to it certainly is. Still, Heartfire had always had a strong interest in all walks of life, be they large or small. True, it’s often due to the ways in which they might somehow aid or benefit her, but she has never claimed to be a selfless woman. And though she’s not certain her acquaintanceship with Neverwhere would ever prove beneficial, the possibility is there. And for the moment, that is enough.

    Tilting her head faintly, she eyes the woman almost idly, lips twitching faintly as the dappled mare bemoans the flycatchers and frogs. It had been a diverting thought, but she has never been one to linger on might-have-beens or impossible imaginings. “I suppose you’re right,” she agrees dismissively. “Good then that I am not.”

    Though she neglects to mention it matters not whether it be a fly or a frog. Both are equally useful to her in their own ways.

    “Hmmmm,” is her only response to the uninspired explanation of Neverwhere’s scarred features. She does not press the issue. After all, it’s only useful as long as there is information to be shared. And it seems she would only tell what Heartfire already knows on the subject.

    For a time, Heartfire merely studies her, taking in the rough, exposed skin, salt-chapped cheeks, and red-rimmed eyes. It’s quite clear her companion’s sight is lacking. Even had she no ability in that regard, it would be obvious to most observers. Finally, she straightens abruptly, her blue gaze sharpening with a curious cunning (though Neverwhere likely cannot tell).

    “Would you like to see it?” she offers slowly, her voice surprisingly mild, as though it were nothing more than an afterthought.

    and they'll cut you like a weapon

    Heartfire
    #7
    It's true, Neverwhere has not done anything in her life that anyone could consider impressive. She has been a bit despicable, perhaps, in that regard. She has not stood for anything or anyone, and the boredom that has driven her has been of her own making. This is not a fact that is completely lost on her, but she is not certain that she has reached a point in her life where she is ready to make the necessary changes. She has nursed this misanthropy for long enough that it has begun to define her.

    Her attention shifts sharply when the other mare's question catches her unprepared, and she lets her guard drop a bit then, tumbling through the possibilities of what she can mean.

    Of course, she had known that the other had magic, you could not explain the manner of her sudden appearance, or her knowing Neverwhere's name without it. She had pushed the thought away, because so many of the other horses here have magic, you could hardly avoid it without avoiding them. And it had been the easier, more practiced option to maintain an unaffected manner than to delve into the less well known depths of conversation. However, there is a distinct difference in magic that someone else wields near you, and magic you allow them to use on you - if you can stop them.

    "See... My face?" She asks, immediately annoyed with the stupidity of her own words, "I'm sorry, who are you, again?"

    She asks the question like an answer will actually help. It won't, of course. The name will mean nothing to her. It simply buys time while the dappled mare considers exactly what sort of magic would be involved. She has found herself increasingly uncomfortable with magic in most, if not all, of its forms, and the idea of submitting to... whatever it is the roan has planned, sparks deep misgivings.

    Although not blind, she often misses small changes of countenance, and still, she is wary of the other's purpose. The question sets her teeth on edge, and she turns her head slightly, scrutinizing the detail-less mare in an almost comically ineffectual manner. It's hard to imagine that the offer being made is a genuine, friendly, gesture. Certainly Neverwhere has done nothing to endear herself.

    Neverwhere
    .........


    @[Heartfire] I have not decided if I like Neverwhere very much, Heartfire can do whatever she wants to her
    #8

    She's got the devil's eyes

    Though Heartfire has never been referred to before as friendly, there are those that consider her blunt candor refreshing. Of course, there are far more who do not, but one could almost say, in a sense, she is perhaps one of the more genuine creatures you will meet. She rarely finds the need to lie. Of course, when one flirts with the very edges of such dangerous truth, there is rarely any need to anyway. Others so rarely know the right questions to ask, and thus pose little danger to her somewhat unorthodox methods of conversation.

    No doubt she has caught her companion quite off-guard with her offer then. One could hardly classify their conversation as the beginnings of a great friendship (though, truth be told, Heartfire has never had what one might call normal friendships). So it must come as a shock that she would make such a massively life-altering proposition so easily and so quickly. Of course, she would hardly choose to share that it is neither particularly difficult or unusual a feat for the roan mare.

    One corner of her lips kicks upward in a faintly wry almost-smile as Neverwhere stalls by asking who she is. It’s a rather obvious ploy, but then, Heartfire cannot especially fault her for it. She doesn’t know Heartfire could do such things with or without her permission. Of course, there would be no possible benefit to Heartfire if Neverwhere didn’t know what had occurred, so in this instance, it behooves her to ask.

    “Heartfire,” she replies simply, after a moment of tense silence. She pauses before continuing rather dryly, “Although, I cannot imagine what clarity it might provide.” Always the wrong questions, but she would hardly be the one to point it out. With a soft sigh, she clarifies almost gently (though one could hardly mistake it for kindness), “This is a limited time offer. So then, do you trust a stranger? Or do you risk spending the rest of your life wondering if you made the right choice?”

    and they'll cut you like a weapon

    Heartfire
    #9
    There was not much she could have done to protect her ears, and even her face, in the winter and summer of the high desert where she was born. And perhaps she might have made efforts to limit the sun exposure, later, but the damage had been done already, and it limited her travelling to stay only in the shade, to never leave the treeline. The bad luck had been in her genetics, in her place of birth, but the rest, the rest had been decisions, good or bad. If the scars are worth what she has gained, then they are nothing. But, so far, she couldn’t say that it has been worth it. Perhaps being in this new place, that will change? Other places have disappointed.

    “None at all!” she responds with false enthusiasm to Heartfire’s dry comment about clarity.

    It doesn’t help to know her name.

    And she’s pretty much one hundred percent sure that she is about the make the wrong choice.

    The other mare is puckish and vague, and gives no further explanation of her motives. She only adds the count down, a silent clock that ticks away in Neverwhere’s mind. But her decision has already been made. It had been made as soon as the offer was extended.

    Neverwhere came here because she was bored, and she continued to be bored, but the flavor of the place is seeping into her and stirring something in her breast. She still dislikes magic, yet she is curious what Heartfire is planning. And, well, she is selfish, too, because she is willing to set aside her concerns to do something that might benefit her, because even if it doesn’t, it might be better than the dust of boredom that has settled so thickly over her life.

    “I don’t trust you at all, Heartfire,” Neverwhere responds at last, a smirk playing in her voice. She takes her time in spite of the threat of a time limit, curious, but reluctant to be led along on a game whose end has not been shared with her, “but sure, let’s see what happens.”

    Neverwhere
    .........
    #10

    She's got the devil's eyes

    One thing Heartfire has found to be true over and over again, is that there is rarely a wrong choice. Choices are, most often, merely a reflection of those making them. Certainly there are poor choices. But wrong? Well, she has seen many make what others would deem a wrong choice and come out far ahead. Just as she has seen many make what might be considered the correct choice regret their decisions immensely.

    In the end, it really seems to be about what one wants, consequences be damned. Even Heartfire doesn’t quite have that perfected, no matter how much knowledge she has at her disposal.

    She can see the woman’s decision before she ever utters it out loud. It’s there, in the subtle gleam of her eye, the faintly unwilling prick of interest, a hint of greed as she mulls over what it might entail. In the end, it wasn’t really even a choice at all. Only the cautious and fearful would decline such an offer. The ones who had something to lose.

    And if Neverwhere truly has anything left to lose, Heartfire would eat her tail.

    A gleam of satisfaction flashes across her blue gaze as the dappled mare gives her consent. Heartfire tilts her head, stepping closer (just a whisper of hooves across frozen ground, not near enough to touch). “You’d be a fool to trust me,” Heartfire agrees mildly, voice lilting slightly. “And a bigger one had you declined.”

    Perhaps not the kindest thing to say, but she is not often kind in her honesty.

    For a span of time, only her breath indicates her continued presence, but as she meddles with eyesight not her own, the world would no doubt soon become much clearer for the scarred woman. A haze lifting, the sharp features of the mottled blue and white mare coming into focus, blue eyes unnaturally bright in the mask of black and white. Until, moments later, the face is replaced by another. A perfect replica of the woman before her, with chapped, pink cheeks and red-rimmed eyes.

    and they'll cut you like a weapon

    Heartfire




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