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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


    play it cool then smart
    #1
    draco
    His father being the proud creature he is, it is only right that Draco follows suit. The crimson horns on his head are still small, but they are handsome, and they cast shadows upon his face that sharpen the glow of his stars. The glimmering red of his eyes tell truth upon truth: he has seen too much for a colt six months old, and his mind constantly spins with the knowledge. Father failed me, he might think, when the cremello king turns tail to tend to Pangea. I am but a bastard child.

    Still, the boy holds his head high with the grace and prowess of royalty. His eyes are disdainful when they settle upon the citizens of Loess, and they grow even darker when he observes the one member of Sylva.

    His mother the unwillingly leader of Sylva and his father an unwilling warmonger, it only makes sense that cruelty is the sword that he wields. Or, that is what he tells himself as he casts his fear upon small creatures and nips his sister too harshly. It’s not my fault. If mom and dad were not so distracted . . . But even those sentences betray him, whispering that he is self-aware and not coming to terms with his reality. Perhaps it is the acting out of a boy lost, one so desperate for attention that already volatile magic becomes wild and untameable in his grasp.

    I wish I could not read their minds.

    He thinks this over and over again. Every time that he leaves Sylva or Pangea, he thinks this. He is sure his mother sees the darkness that writhes in his mind, but he is hardly bothered to mask it. Let her feel her guilt - or whatever it is she feels. He thinks he might hate his parents, so he blocks their thoughts from his mind as much as possible.

    Against the truck of a tree, he focuses, red eyes glowing with that hellish light he knows so well. If one were to walk by he could turn on his fear in an instant, send them flying away with tears in their eyes; instead, only the small creatures of the woods flee, and he is left to listen to the rustle and sway of the canopy.
    play it cool then smart, don't take it to heart

    @[despoina]
    Reply
    #2
    DESPOINA
    I was a heavy heart to carry; my feet dragged across the ground
    and he took me to the river where he slowly let me drown

    Despoina does not know what it is like to have loving parents.

    Even after she had been found and then brought home, tucked into the rest of the pack, she knows that Wonder and Nightlock are not her true parents. She understands it like a thorn under her a skin. A reality that she can never quite shake—no matter how much she wants to take their love and make it her own. And how could she? They have never once made her feel other, made her feel different, but she knows that she is. She is not just a horse. Not just a wolf like the rest of them although she wishes she could be.

    Because when she shifts, her body becomes right, but in a way that terrifies her.

    Her teeth sharpen, her fur grows dark and thick, her eyes begin to take on that red glow.

    And worse—so much worse—is the hunger that comes unbidden: eternal.

    So today is not any different. She slips from their home, as she is want to do, and she makes her way to the forest. She is locked inside of her hellhound form as she moves, even though she knows just how much it so clearly defines her differences. She cannot help the feeling of right when she slips it on. She cannot help the way her body seemingly sings with pleasure as on as paws hit the forest floor.

    The pleasure is not enough to completely stave off the sorrow that is such a common companion, but it dulls the pain of it as she skirts around the crowds, wandering deeper and deeper through the trees.

    It is only when she sees him that she stops.

    She pauses, one leg lifted, her glowing eyes narrowing in him. She feels something like a tendril of fear wrap around her heart—although it is not such an unfamiliar sensation that it feels alien—and she takes a step back, a branch cracking loudly beneath her paw and her head shooting up in surprise.

    Reply
    #3
    draco
    Draco thinks he is cursed, spat upon by the gods and forgotten - at least, just by the gods. He walks amongst mere mortals, peasants (except for his sister that he begrudgingly loves . . . though, her kindness makes her weak). Kept by such small, regrettable company, he cannot say he is forgotten. The fear and confusion in their eyes gives him the only recognition he needs: those that experience his fear will never forget the magic that snapped their spines into place.

    A god’s magic, if you will.

    Against the tree he resides, head tilted lazily to shimmering jewel-tones of autumn leaves. From a distance he may look sweet, perhaps even tranquil, but upon further inspection one will find a gleam in his eye that begs to raze each crinkly leaf. That’s why I keep my distance, he thinks with snark, mouth turning into a smirk as he slowly drifts his attention back to the ground. A little shit, that is what the colt is, an honest and true entitled son of a king.

    Whatever.

    The snap of a twig drags him from his thoughts, and he straightens with a start. The demon boy cusses at himself when he spots the hellhound. A normal child might feel fear, but Draco numbed himself to the rush of endorphins a mere month into his existence; that, and he thinks she is goddamn beautiful. What a fucking sight to see.

    “Come here.” A demand, albeit one void of the typical fear-inducement in his eyes.
    play it cool then smart, don't take it to heart


    @[despoina]
    Reply
    #4
    DESPOINA
    I was a heavy heart to carry; my feet dragged across the ground
    and he took me to the river where he slowly let me drown

    She has never met anyone quite like him.

    She has met so few people but even in her limited experience, he is completely unique. She watches him. Studies the curves and angles of his youthful body and finds that there is something nearly familiar about him. Something that tugs at her belly and tells her that he could be family. He could be someone that she knows. She frowns and glances back over her shoulder—wonders at where her adopted family may be.

    They had to be somewhere near, she thinks.

    But, then again, she had been wandering for quite some time.

    She almost turns back, almost cuts back to the land where they all sleep together, pups and horses alike before he catches her eye. He orders her forward, and she has never been one to disobey. She has no true bite to her, despite the hellish looks that halo around her. Despite the teeth and the glowing eyes.

    So Despoina does the only thing that she knows how to do.

    She steps forward. She is timid and slow, her tail nearly between her legs, and it is only when she is a few steps away from him that she shifts. She turns iridescent, shimmering blue save the black points of her nose and legs, the mane and tail that fall like obsidian against the ocean of her body.

    If she knew how to hate, she would hate how bold she is in this body.

    She wants to say something to him—wants to introduce herself or ask him a question or do anything at all—but the words die on her tongue and she just dips her delicate head down and waits.

    Reply
    #5
    draco
    They are creatures of the below, and they meet just as they are. Draco, head spinning with excitement and confusion, peers at the hellhound with excruciating detail. Not a single piece of her goes unnoticed: from the gleam of her puppy’s teeth to the curve of her back claws. Despoina is sublime, the punkish counterpart to Draco’s studded leather jacket and yellowed cigarette-smoking teeth. He grins.

    The demon boy decides he does not like the filly’s silence, so he stares her down with a demanding ferocity he only now knows he possesses. There has always been a monster sitting idly in his chest, plucking here and there at his harp’s strings, but it drags its claws across wires. They snap with a violence the colt relishes, and he leans into it with a beauty such cruelty should not possess. I am the devil himself: this he has decided, as he stares down the girl he now knows is his.

    Hades mustn’t be without his Persephone.

    Perhaps she’ll like Draco, but for now, that idea is beyond him (and does it really matter to a violent creature such as he?).

    “Why aren’t you speaking?” he whispers, reaching forward to touch the iridescent shimmer of her filly’s fur. It takes hardly a moment for him to decide he likes her like this, too -- pretty equine lineage and all; but most of all, he likes her silent, timid, and he begins to wonder if he will like her when she speaks. This guise of submission fuels the little hellion.

    “My name is Draco. Tell me yours.”
    don't take it to heart


    @[despoina]
    hitch a ride on my violence
    Reply
    #6
    DESPOINA
    I was a heavy heart to carry; my feet dragged across the ground
    and he took me to the river where he slowly let me drown

    She has never met anyone else quite like herself.

    She has certainly never made anyone else like him.

    He doesn’t know how to soften. He certainly doesn’t know how to meet her where she is and there is something like fear that grips at her chest if she was able to fully understand it. Instead it threads through her heart until she can barely breathe; her lungs clench in her chest and her pulse stutters in her throat.

    His question catches her off-guard though and her surprise is visible.

    Her delicate features warp a little and her black eyes widen but she doesn’t step back or run away like she probably should. Instead she remains close to him, even when he closes the distance and touches her. Even when her heart stammers and tells her that she should put some space between them.

    “I don’t have anything to say,” she lies, because she has entire worlds spinning in her chest. She has entire galaxies that spit under her tongue and that she dreams of every night, but she knows that they are small and silly things—certainly too silly to ever cough up and admit to the hellish boy before her.

    She just frowns and looks down at the ground beneath her.

    Wishing that she could be anywhere but where she is.

    “Despoina,” she whispers, hoping that if maybe she says it quietly enough he won’t hear her sad, strange name and she won’t have to repeat it and she certainly won’t have to hear him say it back to her.

    Reply
    #7
    draco
    It seems as if Draco cannot decide if the two are divine are hellish. Surely Despoina is of the fires below, with her supernatural wolf’s form, but all the demon-boy can see is the sparkle of the light as it glows on her coat. He smiles a quiet, small way, brilliant eyes drinking in the chance encounter that has blessed him.

    “Yes, you do,” he counters, when she admits she has nothing to say. It is impossible that she has nothing to say to him, not when a million ideas are orbiting around just Despoina’s existence. Draco cannot fathom that another may not feel exactly as he does, not when he feels this strongly, not when he feels this possessively. Some small part of him knows he is crossing an unspoken boundary; still, he is too young to know what that boundary is, and he may even grow up to never fully understand the feelings he wants to birth inside of the hellhound girl.

    The universe falls into place when she whispers her name. “Despoina,” Draco parrots, eyes glimmering with prophecies and fantasies and everything in between. The line between reality and his endless and mesmerizing thoughts begins to blur. He likes the way her name sounds so different coming out of his mouth, so much more confident and possessive than her.

    Like her name is his to give. Like she does not know she belongs without another placing her.

    “I know you have plenty to say, Despoina, wolf-girl. I can see it in your mind. Tell me what I can’t see.”
    don't take it to heart


    @[despoina]
    hitch a ride on my violence
    Reply




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