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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


    is there a part I haven't found; any
    #11

    violence


    She has to hold back a cry of delight as he yields. It is sweet, this surrender, and rarely tasted. She mostly possessed the monsters, her sisters and her father, but they were stupid and simple-minded. He is definitely, he is smart enough to know better, yet here he is, buckling before her, letting her into the crevasses of his dark memories, and oh, she is thrilled!
    She moves into his mind slowly, fighting the urge to rush in. She acts casual, as if this is commonplace, a daily occurrence, and then she is nestled in his mind, and the memories unspool.
    She watches a creature approach, tastes the copper of his fear, hears the screams of the fighting. Brutality and blood, and then running, running, fear still coursing through his – their – veins.
    But there is more. Something hazy and lurking at the corner of this memory. A page waiting to be turned.
    Violence has always been a sucker for a grand reveal.
    Good, Clegane, she purrs in his mind, but there’s more, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling.

    She moves her own body slowly – hard to control, when she’s largely nestled in someone else’s mind – and lets it rest against his. Another show of intimacy, of comfort. Her bone-creature has collapsed, her powers diverted elsewhere, but she doesn’t fret. It is an easy thing to rebuild.
    She cannot say the same for Clegane.
    Show me the rest, she whispers, I want to see.

    these violent delights bring violent ends

    Reply
    #12
    He had run, that was true, but he hadn't gone far. The creature had made quick work of his mother; shoved her with a swipe that broke her and turned towards the more delectable morsel.  For each three of the colt's skittering strides the beast taken one, and for all his panting and terror, Clegane couldn't have hidden anyway.

    He doesn't remember how it caught him, but he does remember that suddenly he wasn't running anymore. Suddenly he was being pushed to the ground and smothered by something dark and foul.

    One step closer to the truth, he begins to shy, but cunning Violence is there in an instant. The press of her body against his own is both maternal and sensual, and he doesn't know which of these things is the one which coxes out what she wants.

    He cracks the memory open like a skull so she may drink her fill off the sweet filth that had been rotting his soul and souring his stomach for years. Memories he hasn't accessed since he sobbed into Solace's neck wash over him, hot and cold. Memories he had always known were there but was too weak to look in the face:

    The feeling of claws scraping across his skill, bumping along the dips and vales of his little face as it held him close.

    Canines sinking into the soft places of his muzzle as it tried to suffocate him in the case the damage already given was not enough.

    The overwhelming iron wetness everywhere, the air he couldn't get.

    The sound of his mother's prayer to the Dark God as she pulled it off him with the strength she should not have.

    His skin is slick with the fear which seeps from his pores; his eyes roll back below his closed lids. He had always been a creature of fight, not flight. But even as these memories shake his body and he wonders if she thinks him brave.
    If she thinks he is a brave little boy or a very pathetic man.

    @[violence]
    cleganetransparent
    Reply
    #13

    violence


    It is glorious.
    The memories spill forth, and he opens for her, a strange and filthy intimacy. And oh, how she plunders it, she sinks into what he saw, what he felt – the tear of claws, the feeling of teeth sinking into skin. The heart-wrenching panic – the surety! – of death coming, the taste of blood in his her mouth, her nose, suffocating and painful.
    She had experienced something like this once, when she possessed a foolish girl and had her run herself off a cliff (she had survived – immortality is a bitch). But this is different, perhaps because this is given to her, or perhaps because of the particular gruesomeness of these memories.
    And then it is over, the memory ends with him alive.

    Violence jolts back into her own body, breathless in her own way. She feels strange, jellied by this experience, and she imagines she can still taste blood in her mouth.
    Glorious.
    “Incredible,” she says, more to herself than to him, “to have survived such a thing.”
    She smiles at him. It is a genuine smile, albeit one fed by the terror she had tasted. He does not need to know that.
    Instead, she touches his scars. Feels their rough edges with curiosity.
    “Your mother,” she asks, “did she survive?”

    these violent delights bring violent ends



    @[Clegane]
    Reply
    #14
    It is over.

    She withdraws, leaving him empty.

    She touches his face and aftershock ripples across his shoulders. His skin twitches and muscles gently contract as they release the tension he had absorbed. But Clegane leans into the touch, ever so slightly. The intensity of what has left him leaves him wondering if he can stand.

    He tries and fails to meet her gaze, too weary to fully lift his eyes to her smile or fight the comfort of her muzzle.

    "No," he replies, soft and subdued. That part of it didn't bother him as much as it should. The few memories he had of his mother were of sickness and survival - hardly the sort of thing that inspired nostalgia. He hadn't seen her dead, but he had seen enough. He had seen the gaping wound in such a vital place on the body already broken by the plague.

    "I only survived because she passed me to my grandmother with some kind of magic." He had been content with Solace after his wounds had healed and the fear had passed. She had kept him warm, fed and safe, and that had been the first time he had experienced those things. He hadn't remembered to grieve for the mother he barley knew.

     A strange idea occurs to him, his loneliness and wistfulness mixing dangerously, and he finds the energy to meet her gaze.

    "I wish I could remember where it happened."

    @[violence]
    cleganetransparent
    Reply
    #15

    violence


    She is curious at straightforwardness of his tone. Most, she thinks, might mourn a dead parent, especially given the circumstances of her death, her sacrifice. Violence thinks, for a moment, of her own mother, all sharp-features and shadows. Cthylla would have done no such thing for her, she knows. If Cthylla had ever loved Violence, she certainly had not shown it. It had not been the way, in their strange family, aliens and magicians. A pack, operating for survival.
    Not that this bothered her. She had not wanted her mother’s love, had not known it was a thing some wanted. She had wanted her magic – had begged her mother to transform her, to make her more powerful – but Cthylla had refused, and Violence had resented her for the refusal.
    Of course, she was born plenty powerful, but she’d always wanted more.

    She listens to his next query, nods. Some might ask why, look for reasons in why the man would want to return to a wretched, haunted place, but Violence does not. She understands, and wonders too, albeit for different reasons. She wonders what she could pull from such a place, the souls and bones left there.
    “What would you do,” she asks, “if you could? Would you go back?”
    Would you face your monster, your demons?
    She wonders if the creature is still there, haunting the place. Feasting. She wonders if she could possess such a thing.

    these violent delights bring violent ends



    @[Clegane]
    Reply
    #16
    “What would you do,” she asks, “if you could? Would you go back?”  and he can almost hear the unspoken words. 

    Would you face your monster, your demons?

    His brow furrows at the question, although he had already made up his mind. He notices, in the short silence, that his usual covering of frost had melted during the heat of their interaction. But from his sweat and the particles of magic around them, it begins to reform - filling the air with the delicate sound of ice interlocking before he breaks the silence.  

    "I would," he replies. His is voice stronger now, more sure than it has been for the length of their encounter. But it is not bravery that makes him say such a thing. 

    This place and what happened there, it is a missing piece from his life. Later, he will ask himself why. Why would he want to visit a place where he had suffered?  He does not think he will find enjoyment, but it calls to him regardless. There is a darker curiosity that draws him back to what he has run from his entire adolescence. Violence had forced him to look the terrible thing in the face and now he finds he wants to see more - and in the shadow of this woman, with small tremors still ricocheting across his body, it feels right to explore such things.
    cleganetransparent
    Reply
    #17

    violence


    She dreams, someday, of being someone’s monster. She hopes to have tales told, of the vicious thing who took them, of her bone-thing. And perhaps there are stories – she had ruined before – but they are not widespread. Violence is, largely, an unknown in Beqanna. She is powerful, but not outrageously so, and she had no allegiance to kingdoms. She had helped, briefly, in Pangea’s founding, but she had tired quickly of the land and left soon thereafter. And ever since, she has wandered.
    She wonders what he will tell of this story, after. If she will be a monster, or a savior.
    She wants, somehow, to be both.

    She listens to his answer. His affirmation that yes, he would return. She smiles, and listens to the sound of frost crackling over his skin. She wishes, for the thousandth time, that she had her mother’s magic – she would simply recreate the scene from nothing, plunge him back into that dark place, just to see what he would do.
    Alas, alas.
    “I would make it for you, if I could,” she says. She isn’t sure how this should make him feel, but from her, this is almost a kindness.
    “Someday,” she continues, “you should take me to where your mother died. Or the beast. I could bring them back for you, for a little while.”
    She is less practiced in bringing back flesh, but she would try. To see what would happen.

    these violent delights bring violent ends

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