nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble; any - Printable Version +- Beqanna (https://beqanna.com/forum) +-- Forum: Explore (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=1) +--- Forum: The Common Lands (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=72) +---- Forum: River (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=82) +---- Thread: nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble; any (/showthread.php?tid=25175) |
nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble; any - Epithet - 10-16-2019 Autumn draws a damp chill, the scent of decaying leaves filter through the last of the green leaves that clung to nearly naked branches. Bird song has ceased to fill the air as they have turned south with their lives for instinct drives them what has been their habits for hundreds of years. Mist rolls from the gurgling river in a thin veil as it creeps towards the shore soundlessly.
The shape of a horse dully forms and grows with each passing breath. It fills a once voided area with her form, elegant and refined, as Epithet steps from the dewy cloud with a solid thud as she breaches the place between element and equine. As she pulls landward, the well structure face solidifies and forms that is soon followed by the curl of a pale neck covered in perfect ringlets, draped heavily and decorated with wildflowers. A soft groan creases her dark lips as lashes fall momentarily to shield her eyes from the wink of a stray sun ray. Epithet fully manifests, her shifting jagged and uneven for a moment, as she has realized she had slept for too long. The river gives a cheerful gurgle of of approval as she swings her head back to admire the freedom to just float away. The porcelain dappled woman does not speak but allows the world to cave in around her with the crushing weight of decades to fall upon her slender shoulders. She is not a tall creature but stands more like a stub of a mare despite the careful carve of her nearly dainty form. A long tail braided by silver and iron lay dragging in the wet sand. Beqanna as it always will be...everlasting and eternal. Not much is certain in her life save the fact that Beqanna would always recall her to it's breast (that she would greedily and gleefully return to). Others seemed occupied in their conversations whilst some openly gawked at her manifestation. So many here now possess a magic that others in her younger days had killed for. Did they understand their gifts or the sacrifices that were made for them? A dark eye slides from one corner to the other slowly as a ripple of fresh ache tears through her spine. She would ground herself now..perhaps seek a loyalty to a land but for now there were too many new faces and too many unknown names to learn upon her foreign tongue. The tales of mythics and the untraited were stories of lore, written in blood and bound by flesh. Epithet could not forget the nightmares that had slaughtered innocent and corrupted alike. Were there still lands of segregation once more or was the social system still ajoined? Her cloudy thoughts turn to that of Magnus and if he still lived. He had been a beacon of hope once but she doubted if he could recall her short occupation of his time other than the run along the beach where he was horse and she but a hummingbird. E P I T H E T RE: nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble; any - Eight - 10-25-2019 no matter what they say, I am still the king RE: nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble; any - Epithet - 10-26-2019 When the world turns cold and heavy with sleep, blanketed beneath a pristine snow fall that lay unscarred, the slick wet rot of decaying leaves still line the bones of Beqanna.
The dark man has taken notice with eyes far too wide and watching of the perceived little lamb. He titters and minds her openly. The execution of breathing catches within her throat, throbbing her lungs, as he holds her. One long dark limbs draws the creature closer and then another follows. ’Epithet’-, her name in the mouth of another releases the hold and her burning lungs gasp desperately for air. He is out of place in this modern world, standing like an ancient god, crumbling and nearly forgotten...but there lay something much stronger that the looming storm of his earthly body. The dark eyed mare notices a tingling sensation begin to crawl up the long path of her spine till it prickles like fever sickness at her jowls, her mouth dry with a sandpaper tongue. ’Home again?’ The syllables fall away from the scarred lips as his black eyes never leave the curve of her face. Perhaps he is an ancient god...one of the ones who cracked the sky and split the earth to draw demons and the Reckoning. Epithet bristles slightly, taunt with anticipation, collected. ’What has brought you back?’ A conclusion to his approach, a punctuation in her atmosphere. The pale mist woman lifts her chin slightly to better observe him, breath him, taste the sickness on his skin. He is not of the new generation and it is proclaimed in each calculated moment of the stallion. Epithet can recall the days before her magic had mutated when she once walked the land as a powerful goddess but was too young and naive to wield it. ”I wanted to see what Beqanna has birthed in my absence.” Simple enough. Epi is still cautious but curious. His blood is old (possibly older than her own) and she wants to know why he has captured her flitting attention. ”You know my name, old man, how is this?” The question is directed despite already knowing the answer. One brow lifts with the tilt of her head, a hind hood lifting to crook as she shifts her weight from one hip to the other. She attempts to read his demeanor, peek behind the age worn cracks of his alluring features. Gods do not allow themselves to grow old nor do they ever truly fade away. They simply rest. All other sounds and souls cease to exist as her small ears flicker forward, listening, scrutinizing. She does not tremble in his presence for he is like her. They have a common bond that has yet to be exhumed from beneath the decay of their own souls. They are the rot beneath the snow, the sun bleached bones of the slaughtered. The stories of old weave between their ribs and infect their dreams. Epithet would know him once he gave his name...and only then will the last grain of sand fall in the hourglass that kept time frozen in this very moment. E P I T H E T |