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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


    [private]  made a deal with god
    #1
    fyre
    scratch on the moon
    like a familiar smile
    stained on my mind

    Here is where his scent led him.

    Beqanna.

    The only mark of the fire Litotes thinks killed him is a blackened and hairless scar that runs from the beginning of his neck down to his front left hoof. Fyre wears it like a badge of honor - a giant “fuck you” to the universe that wants him to die. The blood bay chuckles to himself, mismatched eyes hungrily searching for any sign of his son. Of course, he is not foolish enough to think it will be that easy, but he does expect a boy as meek as Litotes to cower somewhere his scent might lead.

    Amongst these flowers he sticks out like a sore thumb: Fyre’s aged and sculpted build far too dark and harsh against summertime’s prized plants. He snorts, arrogant smirk handsome on his maw.

    Litotes is here, somewhere - Fyre knows it. His scent is far too strong, and he has something he calls “fatherly senses” (something others may call “controlling” or “scary”).

    Eventually, he grows tired of standing among such pretty scenery alone: “Is there a fucking welcoming committee or something?”

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    #2

    It is not often anymore that she is caught being simply out. Her time is usually preoccupied in one way or another, and she doesn’t find herself starving for attention the way she often did. Or at least, it was only certain, specific cravings that she had, and she knew she wasn’t going to be able to satiate it with just anyone.

    But she is passing through the meadow today, a vibrant white that is almost vexatious, especially when beneath the already relentless rays of the summer sun. When she did so choose to linger, the meadow was always her choice. Maybe there was a part of her that clings to nostalgia; maybe it’s because here is where every ghost from her past has found her, and she wasn’t ready to not be haunted. She tells herself it is because the forest is too dark, and the river too loud, but she knows it’s because she is looking for a flash of storm gray (so many of them were gray, she mused to herself sometimes), of albino white, or of emerald green, and this is where they would be.

    Instead, it is a bright and bold auburn that catches her eye, and she stills to watch him. She is close enough to hear his irritated statement, and there is a brief flash of amusement in her almost-black eyes. “No, but there’s me,” she says as she approaches him, with a wisp of a smile on her porcelain lips and an almost naive tilt of her delicate head when she holds the mismatched colors of his eyes with her own. “I’m not an entire committee, though. Hopefully that’s alright with you.”

    Ryatah
    even angels have their wicked schemes


    @[fyre]
    Reply
    #3
    fyre
    scratch on the moon
    like a familiar smile
    stained on my mind

    Perhaps he is prowling. There are those he passes by that hardly strike his fancy. What memories do invade his mind are too much and too loud for him to take much of an interest. There are those that give him pause, but he hardly has enough handle on his power to partake in mischief; besides, he has no idea he can alter memories, not yet.

    Ryatah approaches confidently, hundreds of years of memories waiting to overflow Fyre’s mind. Initially, he whips his head around to stare at her defiantly, but his gaze softens when it finds the pretty sparkle of her eyes. He immediately knows her mind to be much older than his, but the tone of most of her memories does not offer him the wisdom one might expect. She is not stupid, but she certainly has her vices.

    “I think you will do just fine,” he returns, voice gravelly and roughened by years of neglect. The smile on his face is charming, perhaps even handsome, but both qualities can easily disappear if he lets on to how much he prowls after those that do not deserve it. Though, hell, maybe Ryatah will find something redeeming in that undeserving vengeance.

    Fyre steps closer and broadens that predator’s grin of his. “What is with this place?” he questions, offering no elaboration. He plucks a memory of a magician from her mind and chews on it, attempting to hold back the onslaught that wants to rush forward. “What kind of magic makes a place like this exist?”

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    #4

    If there was a time that she had once recognized warning signs, she cannot remember it.

    She sees the beacon of light flashing across the storm-ridden seas, warning her away from the rocks that she was sure to splinter and break against. She sees it – and she is drawn to it.

    “I think I’ve heard that before,” the words could have almost been flirtatious, and maybe spoken from anyone else they would have seemed brazen. But from her, even with that perceptive smile and flicker of her sable eyes, they are unusually innocuous. She doesn’t know the things that are said about her; she doesn’t know the reputation she has earned within the circles that knew her. There is something still so strikingly naive about her, and it’s difficult to discern if it’s just a mask she wears like some sort of flimsy defense mechanism begging to be stripped away, or if there is still a genuine innocence that survived the charred ruins of her soul.

    He hums with that familiar electricity she has grown accustomed to, that she has learned to look for, but she doesn’t know what to do with it. He is a stranger – a mystery. She has learned and become familiar with her own particular brands of chaos, has learned what to expect from them, but he is all new territory.

    She almost regrets the way that thought makes her blood start to turn hot, the way her subconscious stirs a strange flutter in her chest.

    “Beqanna,” she answers him with her eyes locked on his face, unknowing of the way her memories flock to him. She says the name, and with it comes a flood of memories – kingdoms that no longer exist, lovers that have disappeared, lovers that still haunt her. They are fleeting but vibrant, until they are gone. He says the word magic, and there is a curious tip of her head. “All kinds of magic. Some good, some...less good,” there is a lilt of amusement, but she does not offer to elaborate. She was no stranger to magic; not just the kind that lit stars under her skin, but the kind that bled from the ground of this land and wouldn’t seem to let her die, magic that has turned her to stone only to let her breathe again, magic that gave her sight when she had no eyes. “I’m Ryatah.”

    Ryatah
    even angels have their wicked schemes


    @[fyre]
    Reply
    #5
    fyre
    scratch on the moon
    like a familiar smile
    stained on my mind

    While Fyre does not have the wherewithal to hold back supernatural pain that his son does, the stallion does manage to keep the furious screams he wants to expel tight in his lungs. There are countless pieces of magic running cold, unforgiving nails across his brain, but he will be damned before he loses his wit in front of a pretty woman—even if that woman’s entire life wants to rip his own to shreds.

    He manages a half-assed smile when she responds, mismatched eyes glittering with the vitriol he wishes to spit. For a moment, he thinks that this perfectly white mare must know what look in his eye means, and he feels the cutting edge of embarrassment—which only serves to strengthen the poison that building in the back of his throat. These memories and impulses he cannot control are weighing heavily on his arrogance.

    Clearly, he is not a man of patience—or fortitude, for that matter.

    “Ryatah . . . at least the names are of the same vein as my old home. Pretty name. Suits you.” This he punctuates with a disingenuous grin that all too quickly turns into a hardened line. “Whatever the hell kind of magic—” he stops then rolls his eyes to the sky, thinking for only a second. “It’s infected me. I can see things from the past.” He laughs, then spits, “I sound fuckin’ crazy. Say that to someone in the nation I belonged to before, and they’d probably just put you out of your misery.”

    He is rambling, but mostly he does not notice.

    “I’m Fyre, by the way.” At least he is able to preserve that sane response.



    @[Ryatah]
    Reply
    #6

    If she notices the way he is fighting with himself internally, there is nothing that she displays outwardly to show it. She is perceptive enough, however, to pick up all the seemingly miniscule changes in his body. The way his muscles seem to pull so tight beneath the bright bay of his skin, or the way his jaw tightens and his eyes flicker as though he is trying to ward something off. She is no stranger to that look, though she doesn’t realize why it manifested in him. She can only assume that it’s the same reason she always gets it; because she is something that appears fragile and pristine, she is something that they want to take, even if it’s only once.

    No one ever really wants to keep her, and she wouldn’t know what to do with herself anyway if she ever found herself not having to fight for attention.

    Her lips twitch when he compliments her name, and she isn’t sure if anyone has ever told her that before. “Thank you,” she says softly, still watching him carefully. She is quiet when he speaks, even though she can feel the heat and the anger edging across every syllable. She begins to understand, she thinks, why he seems so agitated. “The magic here can be overwhelming, especially if it decides to take root inside of you,” her own tone remains placid in comparison to his, her dark eyes eerily calm as she watches him. “And if it’s my past that is bombarding you…” she laughs and shakes her head, a long curtain of startling white locks cascading along the edges of her face as she continues coyly, “Well, all I can say is I’m sorry.”

    “But for what it’s worth, you don’t sound crazy. Not in comparison to most things.”

    Ryatah
    even angels have their wicked schemes
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