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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 close my eyes and count to ten [aislyn]
    #1


    Tommin knows about monsters.

    They had been the villians of his childhood fairy tales, stories that his father had muffled to him in his choppy and uncoordinated language, half stories and part stories, stories that were never finished because the effort of speaking had been too much on his deaf father and his slurred words. Tommin had finished the stories himself, he knew enough about the fantasy of illusion to know that there was a happy ending, even after the most terrible trials. As he grew older, Tommin also realized that in reality the happy ending was not always the one people experienced in life. That sometimes death was the happiest ending, a release from all that is bad in one‘s life. It was a dull thought, and not one that Tommin wished to dwell upon immensely. He was determined, with almost a foolish, youthful sort of passion, that his life would not be dark and dreary and sorrowful, even at a time like this, when he is so, so very alone in this big giant world. 

    And so he does not see being in this strange land, all lone as a bad thing, or a negative thing. He sees it as something new to be explored, to be pulled apart and taken away until it was as acceptable as being in his own home with his own parents. He smiles, even when there is no reason to. Even when he is aware that there are monsters out there, in this very meadow. Aware that they are there, that there are others out there, that is, not that those out there, roaming about are actually monsters and most of them would probably not be the best company for him to keep. He was still just a young, little boy. Maybe not so little anymore, as he edges past the age of a yearling. His legs are still lanky, but his neck begins to grow thicker, and he grow stockier, muscle slowly building, but with the softness of his mother’s face and the brightness of his father’s eyes. It is not surprising that the most innocent parents have produced such an innocent looking son.

    He likes the snow, has always liked the snow. The way he can leave hoof prints behind him anywhere he went. Tommin could know exactly where he has been, while the unmarked path before him meant that he could go any where. Any where at all! What a fantastic idea! Those knees lift high as he prances through the snow, listening to that satisfying crunch as each hoof lands upon the snow. He puffs out his red chest as if he were so much larger than he actually was. He had no reason to be afraid, after all, his future was wide open. He could be a knight one day! And knights are not afraid of anything, they are brave and bold and daring. Just like Tommin believed himself to be. The bravest of all knights. Sir Tommin!

    Oh, he loved how that sounded and as if to prove himself he stomps his feet in the snow, spreading his legs wide and lowering his pale head. It would seem he were fending off an imaginary foe of some sort. He then tosses his head before pushing off from the ground and running through the snow, stretching those young limbs forwards with each stride. He stops only when his heart hammers in his chest and his sides heave with effort. But he quickly attempts to steady his breath as he raises his head once more to throw that bright blue gaze around the meadow. If he was a knight he would need to protect the land, and there could be danger looking around every corner.

    Tommin knows about monsters.
    He just doesn't always recognize them. 




    T O M M I N
    { Run and live fast as we can, throw your clothes and cares behind you to the wind. }

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    #2

    chaos is only understood when
    it is loved by the wild,
    not the weak.

    She had been born a fearless girl, and it showed.

    She had been born in smoke and fire, when Loess had stormed Tephra with their dragon-shifters and their shadow-spinners, forcing the land into flame and darkness.  One of the first things she had heard was the distant sound of battlecries – and then the soft sound of her mother’s voice, trying to urge her to stand as the fire burned closer, and the volcano rumbled its threat. Within her first moments of life she had learned what it meant to outrun danger, and instead of living her life in fear, she had embraced it.

    She had escaped death as a newborn – she is so certain she can do it again, and again.

    Her mother was never amused by her reckless behavior, but as Aislyn grew older, there was little she could do about it. Even though Tephra was still her home – it was still where her mother most often returned to, and where her father could sometimes be found in the greatest depths of it – she had fled its borders long ago. Beqanna was vast and exciting, but her and her mother didn’t share the same idea of what an adventure consisted of. She had already explored all that Tephra had to offer, and she could feel her wanderlust begin to stir.

    The common lands were not always her favorite places to come. They were well-traveled, and she much preferred the secret caves of the mountains, or the darkest shadows of the forest. But on occasion she found that she grew bored with her own company, and if that feeling decided to take root rather than be a passing thought, she would venture down closer to the gathering areas.

    Today she comes to the meadow, her breath fanning in plumes of steam from her nose as she makes her way through the snow. She looks across the open land with vibrant pink eyes, and a few flakes that drift from the sky settle in the raven-black of her mane. She is oddly colored, with a coat that is panther-black, and peculiar smatterings of porcelain-white all across her. The fuchsia of her eyes, such a startling contrast against her black face, is what sets her apart the most. She doesn’t have any magic or tricks or skills to speak of, but she was intriguingly beautiful, even at such a young age.

    She sees the other colt in the distance, and for a moment she just watches him. With a tilt of her head, she can see that he is engaging in some sort of mock battle, and she immediately is drawn to him. When he pauses for breath, she bounds over, sending snow spraying behind her as she eagerly and unabashedly encroaches right into his space. “Hi! I’m Aislyn,” she says in a voice that still has the girlish trill of a youth, her eyes bright and glittering when they find the brilliant blue of his own. “What are you doing?”
    Aislyn
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    #3


    He smiles when he sees her and he’s not entirely sure why. It isn’t a normal reaction, to smile at a stranger, especially when strangers are such bad things. But there was no denying it, Tommin would smile at the bogeyman if they had met on this cold day. But Aislyn was not a monster, she would not rip his lungs from his ribcage. No, she is a pretty girl and she wears a smile on her face. A smile that looks so much like his own: young and innocent, with the promise of their entire lives ahead. But should she be afraid of him? He has the potential to do some terrible things, and although he is young he will grow to be a male, muscular and large. He could hurt her accidentally, he could hurt anyone with out meaning to. Of course, right now, Tommin is so young, their male and female bodies almost indistinguishable from one another. There are no masculine muscles from his chest, nor feminine curves from her, just two children.

    He smiles because she looks like she is so happy to see him and happy to be here, and little Tommin has the most wonderful idea; he would be friends with her. He takes a step forward, his foot finding its way into the white snow covering the meadow’s ground, just as she addresses him. She is so close to him that glacial blues spot the fog of breath that tips from her lips into the wintery air. But, Tommin hardly sees anything wrong with the sheer closeness of her, they were going to be friends after all. “Hi, Aislyn!” His excitement is evident, from the way he nearly stands on tiptoes as if wanting to take flight like the hummingbird drumming beneath his equine skin, to the way his voice is bright and clear, like an icy lake in the midst of this cold winter. “I’m Tommin,” he tells her, as if being Tommin was the best thing in the world, and she should be awed by him being Tommin. The truth though, was that being Tommin was simple, wonderfully simple.

    What are you doing? He ponders the question for a moment. Right now, well right now he was acting as if perhaps he were a brave knight, but in general? Well, the dunskin boy did not have the faintest idea of what he was doing in that case now did he. But that isn’t what she means. He tilts that little head looking at the girl. “I was playing,” he says, simply, “What are you doing?” He asks her. Of course, she was talking to him, but perhaps she has a better answer and those ears stand attentive atop his little head with wide, satellite dish eyes tracing her face, ready to hear what she has to say.

    That little nose catches something though as he listens, something strange for this time of year that is swallowed by cold and ice. Little, paper thin nares twitch as it reaches him. Tommin has another question it would seem. “Why do you smell like heat and water? Do you come from the beach?”


    T O M M I N
    { Run and live fast as we can, throw your clothes and cares behind you to the wind. }


    @[Aislyn]
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