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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'm a mouth that doesn't smile -- Zuclopenthixol
    #1
    Zuclopenthixol


    The ruckus of war was burning faster than the hottest flames of hell - which is ironic to say, because it seemed to be a lot of fighting fire with fire lately. Fire wasn’t Eight’s thing - no, it was too dirty, too much left to be manipulated and quelled. It was malleable - belonging to no one. You started the fire, and why there were a dozen more horses in Beqanna that could bend it, silence it, and even use it against you. Eight - well, he preferred something a little more solid. A little bit more… controlled.


    The war started abruptly - and Eight immediately did his duty as ‘guardian’. (Almost silly, isn’t it? Letting a man like him guard a place like the Valley. He was too reckless, too languid to truly be counted on, right?). He, however, was no Prague. And in truth, the benefit of only having a pair of kingdoms on their side, was that he didn’t quite have to stretch his magic nearly as far as Prague. Flashes of Prague’s wild work reached Eight’s mind - I mean, it was always nice to be able to keep tabs on the goings on of the war. And boy, was she working herself hard.

    Eight, on the other hand, well he was a little bit more lax about it all.


    Eight was certain that the Chamber could hold its own for now. He had a small errand to run.


    He cloaked himself in invisibility, and created an impermeable wall around himself- no magician or horse would be able to crack the wall around him to see his thoughts or actions. No, this was perhaps a great secret weapon waiting.


    He appeared in the Afterlife, slipping from the sands into the portal of the netherworld. He stood for a moment - quietly and pensively. There were so many options to choose from- the powerful dead of Beqanna were numerous. But who to choose? Someone not so suspecting, some gentle and kind- but someone who had ruled, who wasn’t just a nameless face.


    He spoke just one word. “Zuclopenthixol.”


    And from the ground, tendrils of magic began to weave and twine, twisting ties of life into a lost soul. Yes, this was something more of Eight’s style - something that he had complete control of.
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    #2
    YOU WANT TO SUCCEED YOU HAVE TO TRY. OR ONE DAY YOU'LL GET OLDER AND REGRET IT ALL CAUSE YOU CAN'T PROVIDE.
    YOUR FRIENDS ARE LOW-LIVES DON'T ACT SURPRISED. LOOK, JUST CUT THE BAD FRUIT OFF OF THE TREE, MAKE THE SACRIFICE.

    Generations had passed.

    Life in the afterlife had been calm and peaceful, but without a doubt... Oh let's just get out and say it. Life down here was fucking boring. All anyone did was stand around and talk.

    Wake up. yap yap yap. Sleep.
    Wake up. Yap yap yap. Sleep.
    Wake up. Yap yap yap. Sleep.

    There was only so much talking a man could take before he went crazy.

    The afterlife was a joke almost. There was nothing to do but watch the world of the living as though it were some sort of reality tv show. And like binge-watching some show like the kardashians, shit became boring as hell pretty damn fast. I mean come on. Ya'll need to spice some things up for those of us down here in the afterlife. Come up with a new show. Add a ton of drama. We need it, okay?

    Oh, well, then again. Looks like you're all doing just that.

    His name broke through the silence and the once Gate's king was pulled out of the dreamlike state he had been in the last fifty or so years. Soon after he feels his soul being tugged towards the surface, the tendrils of eight's magic slipping him back into the body he once knew all too well. Muscles and tendons flow together, layers of skin and hair moving into place, the wings of bone following soon after. Suddenly the old king gasps, eyes flying open and catching sight of the magician that had quite literally called him from the grave.

    "Eight."

    He's not sure how he knows his name, but he does and he chooses not to question it.

    "Does your calling me have anything to do with the chaos up above?"

    He knows it is. But he asks anyway as old habits die hard. The spirits of the afterlife had been excitedly chattering about the start of a new war since morning and Zuclopenthixol had heard enough about what was going on up above to know there had to be a good enough reason for the magician everyone knew so well to be calling him.
    ZUCLOPENTHIXOL.
    Reply
    #3
    Life is slow when you live forever - as Eight knows. Yet, he has the pleasure of creating turmoil - moving around, wrecking havoc, loving, hating, fighting, fucking. Eight, well he can do whatever he pleases. What the hell could it be like living in the afterworld? Where you are bound to the ghosts of your past. Where you can only communicate with those who have come on into the afterlife. Fuck, Eight would never be able to handle that.


    This was his first trek to the basement down below - and he could immediately tell that it was definitely not for him. Looking behind him, he could see the blurred haze above him - the mix of events and chaos above. Muted voices and the very slight hint of ash and smoke. It was like viewing everything behind a mirror. Eight, luckily, already had the ability to see the world’s activities. But here, it was like a movie reel - flicker after flicker of events, and the ones that piqued your interest slowed down, allowing you a closer look.


    No, Eight could never handle that. And luckily, he would never have to. He was almost, perhaps, doing you a favor- rescuing you from the bland taste of down below. A favor, I mean, until you realized that it wasn’t quite a choice. But maybe loss of control was better than crazy, right?


    You form before him, a jigsaw puzzle of broken bones and pieces - a movie in reverse, your skin healing together, the hair gluing back into follicles, your jaw bone sliding in tightly to your skull. You are whole once again - and you seem none too phased (a sudden intake of air, your eyes flying open - but who could blame you after not breathing for decades). And bless your soul, you know the name of your maker.


    Eight lets a small peel of a chuckle leave his lips, before his features set stoically once again. “Why yes, it does. It seems you have a job to do.” And with that, he steps through the portal to the world above. Before they completely enter the portal, to the chaos above, he turns back to look at you. “Just remember, Zuclo- should you try to do anything I may not like, you’ll find no will power within you.” And it was true, there was no escaping the power of Eight running through your veins - your very body consisted of his magic. If he thought ‘lie’ - the perfect stream of words would fall through your lips. If he thought ‘fight’, your body would tremble with the need for blood.

    So you have escaped your hellish underworld - but you have just begun to live in a new one.

    “And one more thing.” He flicks his head ever so slightly, and a glowing infinity sign carves into the thick skin of your chest - I’m sure, of course, the pain is nothing compared to death - but it is a declaration of ownership - hidden, for now, to the outside world (save for you and Eight) - until the time was ripe. With the arcing of his signature, came the barrier around you - a protection from any magician, mindreading, or trait that may try to penetrate Eight’s controlling cause.

    To the world, you were Zuclo, long lost king, called from the heart of the Gate’s to protect the land you once reigned. But you knew the truth- you were called to be a war creation of Eight’s.
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