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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


    Swimming in the depth of my love; any
    #1
    Ilma
    One night I will be the moon
    hanging over you

    One night I will be a star
    follow where you are
    The clearing seems tailor-made; as, perhaps, are all the places that the white mare frequents. It’s not because she is terribly nitpicky - it’s the new habit of checking a bunch of possible futures before setting hoof anywhere. As such, she felt attracted to the possibility of going left, today, and then right - perhaps she had avoided contact with a certain predator, with a certain someone. Now, peace and quiet surround her in the sunset. The world is slowly quieting when evening falls, birds have found their nests and defended their territories; most animals return for the night.

    Some night-crawlers are not yet out; and so the mare has found a place to wait. For what, she doesn’t really know. Whoever may or may not pass by this spot could still decide to take a different route, or not to investigate a mare looking like an illusion.

    Sometimes she wonders if she did anything right. But the past is a stranger to the mare now, her focus always on the future. During the war, the possible futures had all looked terrible - friends and family hurting, either Loess or Tephra burning like a hell, more lands possibly joining in and innocent children being hurt - she had tried not to do anything to trigger her visions, but nevertheless they had come in the night. Still she stayed in the caverns she had chosen, waiting for the storms to pass.

    That wasn’t to say Hyaline was the same, for her. Or even if any land of the East was still a true home. But her friends no longer ruled, and neither did she. She was a piece of that past in which she did not quite belong.

    She strolled out to the Field some days, guiding those who asked with the knowledge of the lands that she had. But between those days and the next, she wandered.

    After all, the diplomat no longer had a true home, herself.
    Hurry, the sun is waking
    Darling, don't leave me waiting
    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
    Reply
    #2




    The creature Tunnel does not make plans. His designs are created in the moments during which they are enacted. Seers do not find him easily even though he has no magical means of evading them. Most of the monsters in this forest hunt but this one does not, he only exists very still in the darkness until something comes to him or he suddenly moves off through the night.

    Nightfall comes on slowly and in time leaves behind an ever shifting world of shadows that blurs fuzzily before the eyes of all but the owls and foxes. Most are eager for the dark and predators move through the needles and leaves, scratching and rustling. Black barred ears pivot slowly, listening to these familiar slitherings. A girl, onyx and white tests his tolerance for her, resting her small head over the slope of his strong short back. Another of his pets will chase her off soon, or the beast himself may turn suddenly to punish her without warning.

    He has been in this tangled forest for years and is familiar with it’s night music and so he turns he head not toward the lesser creatures going about their routine but the silence that that pushes them back. Flat grey eyes find the subtlest and most diffuse glow, challenging the descent into total blackness beneath the ancient trees. The quiet lies just there, a meadow this time of night should be full of the sounds of deer grazing and roaming, being chased even but instead there is only quiet.

    All the pets, the precious things are left behind to drift into the twilight wood together. The monster goes to inspect the quiet, a decision made instantly. Heavy bodied, his face masked in smudged black Tunnel pushes quietly through the undergrowth and into the meadow. Large hooves carrying him slowly toward the pale creature glowing so offensively. An angel cast adrift in their forest. “You do not belong here, lightwings.” It is a gravelly voice but the words are a statement, not a threat. “You are going to attract moths.”

    like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves
    as though we were drowning inside our hearts




    @[Ilma]
    the heart moving through a tunnel
    in it darkness, darkness, darkness
    Reply
    #3
    Ilma
    One night I will be the moon
    hanging over you

    One night I will be a star
    follow where you are
    The sunlight of her wings changes every minute; slowly, but gradually, the setting of the sun becomes visible on her back. But between the trees, the light seems abundant, no matter the deepness of oranges and reds the wings are made of now. For the white mare this doesn’t matter; she’s as used to it as anyone is to the rise and setting of the light source each day.

    The stranger’s decision to follow up and investigate makes him known to her, the moment he makes it. That’s not to say that she sees him coming from far away - only that he does not surprise her when he appears to speak. She lifts her head to regard him, and lets whatever is left of the light dissipate just a little early - he seems to be more comfortable in the dark. For her, it is only a minor adjustment - it is so every night, now just a moment quicker. The white, ethereal mare shrugs at her new companion. ”Moths?” she smiles a little at his remarks. Moths are the least of her worries. For all that he accused her of carrying around the light, now she is a white shadow, a ghost in the darkness of the forest. But that’s not something she would rib in this moth’s face. ”Why would the moth belong in this forest any more or less than the light it chases?”
    Hurry, the sun is waking
    Darling, don't leave me waiting

    @[Tunnel]
    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
    Reply
    #4




    Many come into this forest but he only interacts with a very few, usually only those unlucky enough to run into him directly. Its unusual for him to approach someone of his own accord. He considers her reply, eyes readjusting as the lights go out and she becomes a dim gray-white in the increasing darkness. “Moths are creatures of darkness, would you really want to see them in the light of day?” Dryly, and he moves closer still. He is no moth after all and does not lose interest once the light is doused.

    Tunnel has no respect for personal space, he places himself beside her so that his side hovers only several inches from her pale one. This woman may have dimmed herself a little early, taking on a muted appearance but the blue creature beside her is shadowed by blackness shadows leaching into his skin like ink stains. “What are you doing then?” He  rumbles, gray eyes wandering from her to the dark clearing in which they stand. A pitiable place for a night time rendezvous by most standards, worse still for a hideout. The stallion could easily drift away into the dark where his precious things might gravitate toward him again but does not do so yet.

    She might prove more diverting than his dark pets.

    like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves
    as though we were drowning inside our hearts




    @[Ilma]
    the heart moving through a tunnel
    in it darkness, darkness, darkness
    Reply
    #5
    Ilma
    One night I will be the moon
    hanging over you

    One night I will be a star
    follow where you are
    The blue grullo is an interesting figure, if not a little unsettling. Referring to himself as a moth drawn to her light, she can understand. But the way he creeps up on her or asks her is she really should want to see a moth in the light of day, she knows what kind of male he is.

    Unfortunately, her only son was once forced on her. Unfortunately, both his father and her son are blue dun males - though without them actually being as blue as this one.

    It was a time long ago, and she is an old woman now. Or, perhaps she feels that way with everything that has happened in her life after Llowell’s birth. Suddenly, she misses the friend who stood out for her - a man she had waited for, only to find a feral mountain lion instead. Now, she’s not so sure if she wants any man in her life at all any more - save for a single night perhaps.

    Neither matters as she deflects his question with a shrug and staying on-topic - not acknowledging the fact that the blue male referred to himself - one could think she was naive and didn’t know what he meant, though they would be mistaken. ”I happen to know beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I’m fairly certain that when one studies a moth more closely, they’ll find something pretty and intriguing there.” It is a philosophical answer to a hypothetical question, and she turns her head when his body heat lines up with hers, her flank not just yet touching him.

    From afar they might look lovers, but she is in no mood to take that illusion and run it any further. A quiver of her flank, as if an itchy fly had landed on it just before, and sweep of her tail to her hocks give away her irritation at his forthcoming, and she steps sideways minimally to let the cool clean night air form a barrier between them. It won’t hold long probably, yet it’s the physical contact she doesn’t approve of - not just avoiding him, but almost like a mother would do with her child when teaching it boundaries, she scolds him with her body language. Subtle - perhaps not something he picks up on, but the levels of scolding only start with this one, and she’d go by them step by step until he gets it.

    His question stops that train of thought - pauses it, really - and her fire-coloured eyes meet with his darker ones, observing, calculating. ”Resting. Grazing. Wandering to places of potential, so I happen to be where I need to be most of the time. You could argue we were supposed to meet - I didn’t know who would be here tonight, of course. But there was a potential meeting here.” She shrugs. ”It could be unimportant, though. The gift isn’t always decidedly accurate. But I like to think my presence can have an effect on someone, or their choices. Even if not right away, then in the future.” Why she tells him all of that, she isn’t quite sure. A stranger in the night is perhaps easier to talk to than the ones we already know; maybe it works both ways this time. Perhaps, she muses, getting out of the caves was a bad idea - or perhaps getting into the forest is. But she refuses to believe she is nothing; she just admitted that to him and to herself.

    So perhaps this insight is all she needs tonight - perhaps it is indeed time to mingle with the world once again. The only questions being where, when, and who.
    Hurry, the sun is waking
    Darling, don't leave me waiting


    @[Tunnel]
    Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
    Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
    Reply




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