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I’m a winged insect, you’re a funeral pyre; anyone. - 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: Forest (https://beqanna.com/forum/forumdisplay.php?fid=73) +---- Thread: I’m a winged insect, you’re a funeral pyre; anyone. (/showthread.php?tid=31901) |
I’m a winged insect, you’re a funeral pyre; anyone. - Nikolas - 08-19-2025 There is a stillness tonight, it sweeps across the Forest like mist over hallowed ground; slow, deliberate, but ethereal. The animals grow silent with purpose—it is an ancient tactic, one that has worked for them generation after generation. When a predator is in their midst, they simply keep quiet to better detect the beast among them. Nikolas prowls between the rough, white-barked trees and slides his body low to the ground—practically slithering, his form stretching and elongating—to pass under a tree that has half-fallen but caught itself between the branches of another tree. He does not dare look up, not even as he passes through a dappled patch of silvery moonlight. Because, he believes, if he never looks at the stars, they will forget him. Forget that he escaped and made his way to Beqanna. Forget that he is meant to be among them and not down in the dirt with the sticks and the bugs. “Love me,” they demand. And he simply moves on. What follows in the black, white-marked stallion’s wake is sound. Glorious sound. A signal that danger has came and went; the crickets chirp slow, the owl ruffles its feathers, and the mice skitter around until they find their holes to hide from the owl. In another part of the Forest, it grows quiet again. RE: I’m a winged insect, you’re a funeral pyre; anyone. - Shadowmere - 09-05-2025 ![]() I’ve bled for less, for sure, then best… [@Nikolas] RE: I’m a winged insect, you’re a funeral pyre; anyone. - Nikolas - 09-06-2026 My, my—those eyes, like fire.
Nikolas pauses mid-stride, his ears swiveling atop his head as he lifts it and turns toward the strange sound. He considers the horned creature—she is thin, carved out in shadow at sharp angles under the moonlight. The shapeshifter sniffs at the air between them. Filing away her scent like a curious but dutiful hound. “No one important,” he answers, smiling. Though even his smile is wrong. It stretches too far along his face—revealing long rows of sharp, crocodile-like teeth that stop just short of his jaw.I'm a winged insect, you're a funeral pyre. Eyeing the horns that curve upwards from her skull, he chuckles, and a matching pair split the skin of his head to slither up between his ears. “I quite like the look of these,” he says, motioning with his new black horns towards the ones atop her head. “Don’t think they’re my style, however.” They sink back into his skull with a quick crunch and he roughly shakes his head before focusing his attention back on the mare. “Who might you be?” The stallion wonders, slowly slinking toward her if for no other reason than to see how she would react. “And where have you come from?” Nikolas [@ |