"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
06-27-2016, 10:05 AM (This post was last modified: 06-27-2016, 08:23 PM by Grumblesnakes.)
Life has not been kind to the one-time Fairy Godfather. After the Nerissa Incident a dozen years ago or so, he was unceremoniously fired, stripped in an instant of his Godfatherly status and his dream of helping sad little boys and girls find joy in the bleakness of their existence. No criminal charge were brought against him, but only because no one had died. Still, it broke something in him, turning in the shiny little gold crown he'd so proudly pinned to his lapel on the day he'd graduated Fairy Godparent University.
Things have only gone downhill since then. Oh, everyone loves a Fairy Godfather; they are among the celebrities of the fairy world. But one who has been stripped of his title and his tiny gold badge and ostracized by the institution that made him so beloved in the first place? No one has any use for a disgraced former Godfather. Grumblesnakes couldn't get past an interview at any respectable job; the instant his history came up, the interviewers' eyes always went cold and distant, and the meeting ended quickly thereafter with polite formality and assurances that they would be in touch if he got the job. But he never did.
He soon began spending most of his time and money at a local dive bar, drinking more and more absinthe to drown the hopelessness of his existence. Ah, and that green fairy was the only one who had any love left for poor Grumbles. Well, except for his old friend Stumbleduck, who was happy enough to join him in drinking himself into the ground on a regular basis. Still, with no source of income, his money eventually ran out. Once a golden boy of Fairyland, he found himself turning magic tricks on the corner, cheap street magic that left him feeling empty inside and earned him just enough to keep dancing with the green fairy.
Unsurprisingly, he was in another drunken stupor when Stumbleduck found him this afternoon. “What the hell are you doing here?” his old friend asked in a harsh whisper. Good old Duck grabbed his arm and trying to drag him off his bar stool, all the while frantically scanning the bar. Grumbles just waved his shiny green drink and hiccupped. “Yeah, well now's hardly the damn time, is it?” Duck asked, tugging Grumbles to his feet.
“Whutryu talk'nbout?” Grumbles slurred, wobbling as he left his nice, sturdy seat behind.
He lifted his glass to his lips, but Duck took it out of his hands. “Sorry, friend, I think you've had about enough of that for tonight—gods above, never thought I'd be the one saying that, huh? Focus, Duck, now's not the time. Ugh, here.” Muttering under his breath, Duck waggled his fingers at his friend's face, sighing with relief as Grumbles instantly sobered up.
“The hell?”
“You learn a trick or two about playing with blood alcohol levels when you drink as much as I do, friend. Now let's get ou of here.” Duck dragged him out the back door into the alley behind the bar before bothering to explain himself. “Grumbles, word's all over the street! How have you not heard yet?”
“Been in the bar since it opened.” Duck nodded and shrugged, acknowledging the obviousness of that answer. “Heard what?”
“Oh, Grumbly. Buddy. You remember—of course you remember, it's not exactly a thing you forget—okay. So. I've got to tell you something, and it's bad. Just. Take a deep breath, alright? So. Nerissa.”
Grumblesnakes's blood ran cold the instant he heard the name that had haunted his existence for well over a decade. “Why the fuck would you bring her up? What about her?”
Duck winced, took a deep breath of his own, and said, “Grumbles, she...I'm sorry, man, but you remember the girl who was living at her—stupid question. Lena. Of course you remember Lena.” Grumblesnakes just stared, dread slowly filling his stomach. “Right. Well. Buddy, I'm sorry, but uh. Nerissa...she found her. And you know how crazy that little bitch was, yeah? She—Grumbly, she...you know, blamed her for how everything went down, for losing you, for being blacklisted by the University and never getting another Godparent, for getting locked up in a psych ward after she set fire to the place Lena and her mom moved to and almost killed them both—right. You know. Of course you know. Well. She, uh. She was released a while back, yeah?” Grumblesnakes just nodded numbly, waiting for Duck to say the words he already knew were coming.
“She...she snapped, buddy. I didn't hear everything, I don't know what triggered it, but there were My Little Pony toys involved and anyhow what I do know is she found Lena. I don't know how, but she found her, and she...Grumbly, she killed her. They found the girl's body, ponies melted onto her skin like a casing, like a plastic shell, the words My Little Lena painted across her side and a creepy-ass grinning clown face as her...what's it called, the like, tramp stamp all those weird plastic things have...”
Duck kept talking, but Grumblesnakes didn't hear him anymore after that. No. No, the only reason he hadn't been thrown in prison over the Nerissa Incident was that nobody had died. They were going to come for him. They'd slap shackles on his wrists that devoured his magic as it generated, stealing away his very identity and leaving him utterly defenseless. They'd throw him in the dungeon beneath Fairy Godparent University and he'd never see the light of day again.
No.
He'd run. He'd hide. There had to be someplace safe he could go, somewhere they'd never find him, somewhere they'd never look. Somewhere anyone who knew anything about his past would swear he'd never go—oh. Ohhhh he could go back to—could he? And what, exactly, would he do in Beqanna? Make a damn army of scary-ass magic ponies and use them as cannon fodder against the FGU bastards who must already be gunning for him or why would Duck have sounded so frantic?
Yes. Oh hell yes, that was exactly what he would do. He grabbed onto Duck's shoulder, closed his eyes, and thought desperately of Elsewhere, and when he opened his eyes, he was in Beqanna once again. Ignoring Duck's flustered protestations, he looked around at the deserted corner of the world he'd brought them to. A huge lake, untouched for decades, and there was something about it that made Grumbles breathe easier, made him feel...serene, somehow.
Still, there was work to be done. He reached toward the lake and raised his hand, drawing an island up out of the center. Duck in tow, he flew out to the island, coaxing plants to grow on the newly-exposed bare earth. He built a fortification on the island, made of stone and magic, and laid a cloak around the whole thing to keep it invisible to anyone who didn't know it was there. Home. It needed to feel like home, because they were going to be here for a long goddamn while.
Stumbleduck caught his eye and nodded, getting on board as quickly as ever, and then flew off into the fort to make it a place of beauty. Leaving Duck in charge of decorating meant the place would be dripping luxury, rich colors and fabrics and squishy places to sit and to sleep. One never lacked the physical comforts while Duck was around. But that was hardly the only concern.
More important, at least to Grumblesnakes, was the question of defense. And this, my friends, is where you come in. Because once again our dear Grumbles took to the skies of Beqanna, stealing innocent ponies out of their everyday lives and dragging them home with him to his new digs. He took the traitless, the defenseless, those whose potential was the most malleable. Oh, though he would perhaps make an exception for a few old friends if he happened across them. And when he had rounded up as many as he could carry (and he could carry quite a few!), he flew them back to their new home in the middle of the Lake of Serenity to make them into his guardians.
~*~*~
Well. You heard the fairy. He'll come around all invisible-like and snatch you out of your normal everyday life. He'll take you home to his new fort, down to the dungeon for now. One stall for each of you, as it happens. For round one, give us a glimpse into your normal life before Grumblesnakes pretty much magically chloroforms you and steals you away. You'll wake in the dungeon-turned-stable, with hay and water and a bit of grain to keep your belly full 'til he gets to you. (And should you run out, they'll refill themselves. Isn't that nice?) Which will take a day or two, because forging guardians out of normal horses takes some doing, after all. There's no interacting with one another just now (and probably not for the whole quest, though I make no promises at this point), so feel free to invent neigh-bors for yourself or freak out/react to your kidnapping in solitude. We wouldn't want you getting bored, after all, now would we? There will be a healthy dose of tortured screams as background noise—being forged is painful and difficult work. And when Grumbles finally comes for you, he'll immobilize you—just a precaution, you know—so please do end your post with your pony frozen in place and the stall door opening. You have until 8 PM CST on Wednesday to reply.
Entry requirements:
All characters entering must be actually born already, sorry to the babies due in a few days. Aside from that, there are no age constraints.
Characters must be untraited or minimally traited – wings, horn, immortality are fine, but the more you have, the harder it'll be for Grumblesnakes to mold you into one of his army of pretties. He will, however, make an exception for anyone who was in his previous quest. Because he's generous and nostalgic like that. That said, if you played one of the entrants from that lot and want to throw in someone else, you are absolutely welcome to do so. This is just a clause keeping things open for the sake of fun story continuation. No advantage or disadvantage will be given to characters who were involved in the Fairy Godfather quest.
There are no activity requirements. It doesn't matter if your character has been posted.
There is no limit on the number of entries, aside from the fact that each player may enter only one character.
Other things you should know:
No editing – once your post is up, it's up.
There will be no extensions.
This will be quick and dirty, and there are absolutely possibilities for defects. If you miss a deadline or don't reply, expect one (and an automatic elimination). Heads up, not replying is worse. If you have to drop out, that is totally understandable; just post saying so and it won't count as a late/no response.
This is a writing quest, obviously. I'm sure you guessed that part already. It will therefore be judged based on writing, on the story you tell, on your creativity, on how you respond to the prompt. It will not be judged based on how fast you respond. Speed is irrelevant as long as you reply by the deadline. Which will typically be in the 48 hour range, with a similar turn-around time on my end. I'll give you a heads up if it's going to take me an extra day or whatever, and I might occasionally give you an extra day. When the round is posted, that is. I won't change deadlines once they're posted.
If you have any questions, contact me via PM, in the cbox, or on the OOC board. You guys always come up with excellent questions, so if any come up I'll add a Q&A here.
Quest rewards will be genetic.
Questions!
Are shapeshifting wings okay?
Yes. Still wings, as lovely as they may be. By all means.
What about kingdom-granted traits?
Excellent question. Those don't count, I suppose. But consider them deactivated during the quest.
Can we enter ponies with defects?
Absolutely. They may lose the defect for the duration of the quest, however, depending on how it impacts their ability to be an effective guardian. We'll see.
Um, so defects. How likely are we talking, exactly?
If you miss a deadline or don't reply, expect a defect. Otherwise it's pretty unlikely. Well, maybe some scarring, I can't swear to that part. But actual defects? Not so likely outside of missed deadlines.
Can my pony and someone else's notice each other across the way? Not like, interact or anything, but for angst later.
Ohhhh. Yes. Absolutely, I am all for that idea. Just no interacting, at least not right now. There may or may not be opportunities for that later, we'll see.
Ummm...so there's a holiday weekend coming up. How's the timing working for that?
Well hell. I didn't think of that. Normally I wouldn't give this much advance notice, but since I failed to catch that, here's the plan for the weekend. Realistically speaking, if this round ends Wednesday night, the next one will be posted on Friday and due either Sunday or Monday. That's as far ahead as I'm going at this point, but keep that in mind when deciding whether to enter or not, I guess.
When a sinister person means to be your enemy, they always start by trying to become your friend
A glimpse. A small tiny piece of his world.
Chaol was almost a two year old. His legs were in a much better proportion to his body than they had been months ago. His muscles were toned and actually rather well defined. Most of it probably came from the fact that he was so young still and he used them every day. Whether it was flying or running or simply just trotting along the beach, the young purple and magenta boy was constantly on the go.
Well, okay, not quite flying. But he would one of these days. His mother said he wasn't quite ready to propel himself up into the clouds. That gliding was all he needed to work on now. Wasn't that some crap? He was ready to feel the sun on his face and the wind in his feathers for longer than the few seconds it seemed like it was when he gliding.
The urge to fly was practically an itch below his skin.
It was hard for him to shake.
But he continued to, because he would like to think that his mother would one day tell him that he was okay to fly...even if he felt like it was forever from now.
So this particular day he was trotting lazily along the beach. And by trotting, he means walking really fast. His head bobs with his stride and he is fantasizing about (surprise) the day when he finally gets to fly. He stretches his wings out and pretends like the wind under his feathers is the cold wind high above the ground. His hooves leave little indents in the sand, the only marking of his passing.
His eyes close briefly.
---
When I awake, I am only subconsciously aware of the cold stone against my belly. I think I must have fallen asleep outside again on that favorite rock of mine, although I don't really remember going to it. Sleepily my eyes open, groggily even and it takes a couple blinks for my eyes to clear and focus. I was in a box. A big box. With an opening not big enough for me to jump through or out of. Panic takes like copper in my mouth and I get to my feet. I stumble, I almost fall, banging one knee roughly against the stone before I manage to get to my hooves. I press my side against that cold stone, out of it all, it's the one thing that comforts me.
Even when it shouldn't, but it reminds me home.
I want to run, to fly away and get out of this place and back to my home, back to my mom and the rest of the Covelings. I want to be there, not here in this place...where ever it was.
My body trembles not only from fear but from the damp. I was used to the sun, to the humidity of the ocean and the cold breezes that someones caught me off guard. There was no sun here, nothing to warm me even when it was cool out. I shiver a little even as my wide eyes continue to take in this place. Near the front, by that little window I could smell water and something else. The salty grass of the Cove was often enough for me, but this smelled the same...yet different.
Sight.
Smell.
I could smell a coppery smell, something that made me think of blood and pain. Fear? Was that smell fear? And underneath it....was that other horses? This sends my heart racing harder, thumping against my chest until I think it is going to burst out and send my blood and bones every where. Mother. Was Mother here? Only this makes me go to the front of this box, this place I was being held captured. I force myself to calm enough so that I can walk normally and not dance up to the door. I take my time even though I want to rush and bang against the wall and do SOMETHING. I stretch my nose out the opening and then pull it back in.
There was a wealth of information out there in the smells but I was afraid. I was afraid that something out there was going to hurt me. So I am careful, very careful. I didn't smell mom, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. I needed to peer out that window to see if I could see her. Odds were if nothing snatched my nose when it had been out there I was okay to poke an eye out to do a quick glance around.
So I did and then I forced myself to do it a minute longer than I would have liked. I seemed to take my time, even if my stomach was a tight mess of emotions and my muscles were trembling still. No, not trembling, I was shaking. My wings were tight against my sides, the same purple that I was born with magenta tips.
Sound.
That's pretty much when the sound all comes bellowing to the surface. I had managed to limit my sense for the few first minutes of being here, thinking of only one or the other and adding them slowly. But now, the screams of pain and anguish and fear had me cowering against the back wall again. There were other sounds, the rustle of their movement, the sound of their hooves on the stone, even some heavy breathing....
Oh no, that was me. I force myself to calm back down, to settle back into the now. Sure I was trapped and it was very well going to suck and bad things were going to happen....
"I don't want to die here." I say, very softly, to myself.
Taste.
It is after hours of being still against that cold stone wall that my stomach finally growls. I haven't completely conquered my fears and every now and again a terrified scream rips through the quiet and makes my heart thump wildly and a band tighten itself around my middle. When it grumbles it's lack of food I eye the green stuff near the water. It's got to be food, it smells like it and almost looks like it. I felt brave stepping closer to it, until I sniff it. It smells good and when I chomp down on a large bite I almost groan to myself. It was excellent and it was all right here. I could eat all day on this stuff and not have to forage around for it. A drink of the water and then I am going back to the back of the wall.
Touch
I slide down to the ground, curling my legs against me and hope that when I wake this will be nothing more than a dream. It is still cool to the touch and I still shiver now and again....
Somehow, I had fallen asleep last night. Unfortunately I was in some horrible nightmare still. My legs were stiff when I got to them. I walked my small box, loosening my limbs and my stiff knee. Even stretching out my wings a little. Not the whole way, as this small place wouldn't let me but it did alleviate some of the tightness in my muscles. I made my way back over to the refilled hay and almost smile in surprise. I take my fill, eating a little quickly as I still don't know what it going on and what might happen, but I want to be strong and have my energy. So I take another drink from the water bucket and my ears flicker when I hear the opening of a door.
I stick my head out the window briefly, only to see some shadow heading down the aisle way towards the stalls. My heart is thundering in my chest against and I go back to the back of the stall. Here was my chance, I knew it. To attack blindly with my hindquarters or too attack and be able to see? That was the question. Quickly I backed my haunches up to the place I had been laying and I faced my fears. Grandfather would disown me if I were to close my eyes and just attack blindly. He would want me to face my fears.
So I did and my ears were pinned back against my skull and my body tense and ready for the fight. And then I couldn't move at all.
Okay. Litte Miss Helleborn is a bitch. A bona-fide pain in the ass. She truly does not know anything else. One day she may grow out of it but chances are slim.
Well she is meandering along the Volcanic Village one day, the striped little fox, before she is poofed, stolen, vaporized!. The pretty little lavender tipped lass is moving along on slender limbs before a grumpy Grumplesnakes appears before her and (with a wink of his ghoulish eye) she is gone.
The purple striped mare-child finds herself now STUCK in a God-blessed stable. NEVER had she been placed in such confinements and further more how DARE someone put her in such a small space? Helle makes a point to call (rather loudly and rudely) for whomever is the gatekeeper. Her tones are low and angry as she demands the attention of who has whisked her away.
Her brow is furrowed quite deeply as she hears the clop-clop of feet along the solid stone ground. Lavender tipped lobes are trained to the doorway. His heavy scent and breathing is saturating the atmosphere and she can feel a creeping paralysis touching her hooves, legs, heart. A short call is given in her moment of distress before suddenly the youth is froze and solid, the whites of her pale purple eyes rimming as the sound of feet stop before her stall, the hollow echoes passing onward against the walls of her prison.
The slow creaaaak of the door is opening and she can only stand in a sheer frozen horror. A savage and terrifying smile begins to spread over her lips...a little too big and a little too wide. It is horrifying and glorious to look upon. Much too like the bloody red harvest moon on a clear October night.
His life has been quiet since the last time. He had found himself with too much anger and pain to settle himself in any one place for long, so he had wandered. He had lingered at the edges and corners of Beqanna, training, working himself into bleak exhaustion each day so that he might sleep at night. And it had worked. He had settled into a mundane routine, one that forged his body into weapon, honing his mind and soul into that of warrior.
He would never be caught so unaware again. Never would he play the victim, not if he could help.
Certainly there are those stronger than him. More gifted, with great and terrible talents that might render all of his training inconsequential in a minute, but he would give them a good fight at least. He would not go down so quietly as he had last time.
The scars are there to remind him. Every day he must look upon them, the bright teal and shining silver. His coat had faded into a pale gray marked by dapples, but still the silver scars gleam, the teal standing out starkly against his pale skin, a terrible reminder of all he had endured.
In the end, none of that seems to matter anyway.
--
He doesn’t see him coming, doesn’t even know he has been taken until he wakes up in the stall. He had fallen asleep, a fitful, restless kind of sleep (he has not slept deeply since he was six months old). Until now, that is. He unknowingly, unwittingly, relaxes into a deep, peaceful slumber the likes of which he had experienced only once before in his life.
At least until he awakens in this new prison.
Even as the horror and realization hit, he is scrambling to his feet. His breath comes raggedly as he glances around wildly, trying to figure out just where he is. He forces himself still, forces himself to remember his training, his body, his tense muscles ready to fight, to flee, to do something. But he cannot seem to stop the soft ”No,” that escapes his lips on a sharp exhalation.
Turning, he glances around him, taking in the wooden walls of the stall surrounding him, the crisp scent of pine shavings, the blue buckets hanging in one corner containing water and grain, the metal rack full of fresh, sweet hay. He makes a full circle, realizing in a moment he is entirely boxed in with no obvious ways of escape.
”What… the… hell,” he utters disbelievingly, slowing his breathing until it is as controlled as his tense frame and steely muscles.
”HEY!” he shouts, wondering (hoping) there is someone around and that this is all a big mistake. ”Is someone there? Anyone?”
”We’re trapped!!” a voice wails faintly, muffled by the thick wood of the stall. ”Help! Please!” cries another. ”Who is that?” demands a third.
As realization begins to dawn, Shan glances swiftly around at the box surrounding him. He needs to help, needs to escape, needs to get these other defenseless souls out of here. And this is only wood, right? Surely he could get out of a wooden box.
Turning, he aims his hindquarters towards what appears to be the door (albeit one he has no way of opening in the traditional sense). And, with a grunt, he kicks with all of his considerable strength. The teal and silver scars flash in the dim light as his hooves fly backwards with astonishing speed before thudding heavily against the wooden door. The walls shake as dust rains down, but it holds firm. And so he kicks again. And again and again and again. He kicks until exhaustion sets in, until his muscles are weak and trembling, until his entire body shakes with the effort. He can feel the wood giving way, hear the splinter and crack, but every time he looks back, the walls are miraculously solid. The wood seems to be alive, healing and regenerating into a solid, impenetrable barrier once more.
God, he hates magic. Hates it with every fiber of his being.
As he stands there, legs splayed, wearied muscles quivering, breath coming in sharp, quick pants, he glares at the offending wall, wishing (as he has so often wished) that her were bigger, stronger. Better.
”Did you get through?” a soft voice asks tremulously.
”No!” The response is uttered in a low, guttural growl filled with frustration. He hadn’t, but he would. He would.
”Oh,” the voice responds softly, filled with disappointment. ”I’m sorry.” Shan merely shakes his head, doing his best to keep from falling to his knees.
That is when the screams start. Terrible, shuddering screams of pain. Of torment. His head jerks up as one of his companions wails in fear.
No. No no no no no.
For a long time, he can only stare at the wall in horror as those screams echo in his ears.
--
The next day continues in much the same fashion. He eats and drinks. He sleeps (or tries to). He does these things because he knows he must keep up his strength. They might capture him, cage him, torture him even, but they would never kill his spirit, his will to fight. He wouldn’t let them.
He spends the morning (or what he assumes is the morning) kicking at his stall door. The walls shudder and shake around him, the sound almost enough to drown out the endless screams, but never do they give in to his relentless beatings. He has the strength and stamina of a warrior. His months, years, of training had given him that much. But even he tires eventually. Even his body has a limit to how much it can give, how much it can take.
One by one, his companions disappear. He can hear their exclamations, their fear and horror, as their doors are opened. And then there is silence as they are spirited away to that nightmarish place where screams begin.
And then, finally, they come for him. He is resting, body still recovering from his most recent round with the door, when he freezes unexpectedly in place. He is stilled not through any will of his own, but through an unnatural, powerful force. He fights it, teeth gritted and muscles straining, but to no avail. He is well and truly stuck.
And then the door opens, a swift, seamless glide that belies all the hours he had fought with the damn thing. Clamping is lips together, he waits stiffly, unyielding. He would endure whatever they might throw at him. He always has.
I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife
There was a boy.
A boy born ill-fated from queer magic, product of a love story between a magician and a monster that was already failing; but ultimately he was a plain boy who was not very important and did not do much at all. The boy was raised to be devout by a father who did not entirely know the meaning of the word, but still – this boy knelt in prayer until his knees were worn bare. And sometimes while he prayed his father (the one who stayed), would sometimes lay his cheek across the boy’s back and the boy would think this is love, this is love.
This boy was not particularly smart – he was not particularly anything, really.
He watched his father go away, in time, not sure why he had to watch him retreat, not sure what he’d done (nothing, he’d done nothing, it was his father’s nature to find the most disastrous of love stories, but our boy did not know that). He was alone. So he did all he knew to do – he prayed, half-garbled things taught to him by his father, to gods who did not listen, if indeed they existed at all.
Eventually the boy came to Beqanna, where he met few and impacted none, lived loveless and childless.
Just a boy. A boring, stupid boy.
There was a summons.
Magic wrapped like shackles around his ankles, a body twisted from flesh to plastic, black to a dark purple, and the boy was changed. Then: a clown with a Glasgow smile and a handful of bright balloons, laughing – always laughing – and saying we all float here. A wolf with a head thrown back in a howl, a tiger with no face, an escape. Then: another name (Velvet), a feeling like drowning, an eye scratched off. A name carved in his stomach - her name - and every letter was a vivisection.
There was a girl.
A girl with pale skin and wet blue eyes whom he watched destroy legions, who carved her name – Nerissa - in his stomach. Who scratched and threw and screamed.
(Who slept, restless, while the clown crept out and sat at her bedside, whispering.)
It hurt, at first. The play. He drowned and ached and bruised. Then: there was a mantra. She loves us.
(This is how the world works – the toys become hers, she is their god, and nothing hurts. She loves us. She loves us. She loves us.)
This is where we lose him. This is where Sleaze dies, and Velvet becomes.
Then: his head rolls, twisted off by the girl.
(And had it been her idea, or someone else’s? Someone with a grinning smile, and fangs under its red-painted mouth.) Then: he is garbage, discarded. (She loves us.)
But for the devout, there are always new gods.
A woman remakes him, head refastened, clouds painted over the scars of his old god. Tangled mane combed smooth again. A creature made whole by tender, artful hands.
There was a girl (again).
But this girl is not like the other girl; she is not wicked, she is kind. He is quick to love her. Quick to worship her.
This is where we lose him. This is where Velvet dies, and Cloud becomes. She loves us.
But nothing lasts forever and the two girls meet – Nerissa a looming shadow over a pasture of moss Lena had built, words - mine - hissed through gritted teeth.
(She hadn’t been sleeping. No matter how deep in the toybox she buried the clown, he was always back, watching. Waiting.)
And so he was taken back, gripped in her arms. There was a bath of bleach, her chapped hands scrubbing and trying to remove the clouds that had been so lovingly painted on him.
A chemical baptism, and Cloud was gone, reborn – reborn to nothing.
There was a fire.
That was the last thing he recalls. Flames, and someone screaming, someone – something - laughing.
There was a prayer. (yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil)
It was his last.
There was a boy.
A boy who woke up in the meadow with flesh on his bones and a distant ache in his belly, like something had once been carved there. A boy with a new ability – a mind that no longer stayed caged in his skull, a mind that jumped into objects, rocks and trees and others. This frantic mind lets him taste every spectrum of emotion but he doesn’t mean to, he doesn’t want it.
This boy does not pray. This boy’s mind is clouded purple, because he thinks things – things like there was a girl and my name is velvet and my name is cloud and she loves us - and they are things that don’t make sense, that can’t make sense because if they made sense it would mean one of two things: either they actually happened, or he is really and truly mad.
(He doesn’t know which is worse.)
This boy – whose name is Sleaze, again, but the name’s never felt wholly right since the purple – is wandering in the meadow. He avoids most horses because his mind will slip into them unwittingly and their fear will be on his tongue, rancid and bitter.
He feels a weight on his ankles, like shackles.
He has time to think not again, oh god, not again, please no --
(funny, how fear will make you a praying man again)
-- and then he is pulled down, down, and then there is blackness.
He wakes. He’s still flesh, even if it’s dark purple (so dark the light has to hit him right for you to realize it’s not black). He breathes a sigh that still comes out as a half-choked sob.
Not again. He can’t.
Not again. (yea, though I walk through the valley)
He thinks he hears voices – or maybe screams – but he can’t make out any actual words. There is a scream and it sounds close enough that he cringes, steps back from the wall. (of the shadow of death)
He hears laughter, too, familiar laughter - the kind of laughter bred in the dark corridors of insanity, the kind that leaks from the corners of the mouth like drool.
He is no longer entirely sure what noises are real, and what noises he is imagining.
“Please,” he says – begs – to no one.
As if in response, a door creaks open and he feels every muscle in his body freezes – even his eyes are frozen open, although the wept tears continue to falls from his face. A shadow appears in the doorframe. (I shall fear no evil.)
What has Fart been doing in his day to day? Existing, merely that. He isn’t exactly the life of the party, nor the attendee of any parties if we are to be perfectly honest. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to attend them, just that he is not often in the possession of such an invitation. Most days, Fart wanders. Through the Field, across the Meadow, lurking in the general common areas, and only sometimes does he have an itch to pass through the Forest. He is quite unremarkable in his travels, blending with the backdrop most seasons and otherwise being definitively ignored when he does not. Lime green roan is nothing special when it comes to the vast array of colored pelts in Beqanna. I mean, it is nice enough if you like green but aside from that it is as far as Fart’s beauty goes.
While he was lucky really, to be green, it was the only speck of mercy Fart had received from birth. The little hybrid babe had been born with no mane whatsoever. Not a bit of fluff or a stray hair to cover his bare neck, which come to find out, looks extremely odd when everyone around you has flowing, luscious locks. Now Fart had a tail of course, just the tail, and a nice one too if he might say so. Of course, you’re bound to be partial to the only shock of lime green hair you have, no matter where it might have sprouted on your body. In addition to the unfortunate no-mane incident, Fart has what some refer to as ‘hare-lip’, a rather off-putting physical mouth deformity.
It could be worse really, luckily his palette was mostly fused together on the inside, the smallest of gaps that made it difficult to eat as well as made one prone to choking if not careful. His lip though, no such luck, it was obviously parted just off-center. As though someone had taken a sharp knife to the soft flesh and sliced it right up to his nostril.
Needless to say the boy Fart grew into the man Fart with not so much as a friend to call his own. Life was lonely, quite sad too, surely if anyone had given him a bit of a chance they could see he would be a good a friend. Maybe they didn’t like his lip, or his hairless head and neck. Maybe it was because Fart had always been a bit thin due to his condition, more often than not he could use a bit of weight, especially in the winter months. Poor nutrition mean that his coat wasn’t as grand and shiny as some, that it was not as pristine as it could be if he could properly eat without fear of death. Then again it could be that, well, he was a bit smelly. No one knows why really, he had always been that way. As if something inside him had gone a bit sour, been left out too long or forgotten.
Recently, probably by accident on all accounts, Fart had somehow managed to get a mare pregnant with child. His child. He himself isn’t really sure how he managed it. Likely the poor dear had been drunk, one too many fermented crab apples. Maybe she just flat out had poor judgement, or eyesight, her nose was stuffy. It could have been any one of those things, likely it had to be a combination of them all, else we can suspect she was flat out desperate. However it happened, it did happen, much to Fart’s own surprise and elation. It had to be the longest interaction with another animal he had had in years, by far it was a record time for being in the presence of a woman.
Today Fart is, as you have perhaps guessed, alone. He strolls the edges of the Meadow, careful not to get too close to anyone else, especially other males. The green male had been run off, beat up and verbally abused enough by now to know better than to creep too close to another stallion. Dirty looks didn’t bother him at this point, often he kept his eyes on the ground anyway, lifting them only to make sure he was not on course to run into anything. We can be sure he receives several glares as he passes, flicking his tail at the random flies that more often than not badger him. He has no plans, no tasks for the day besides continuing to be invisible and it is in this aimless wandering that he suddenly blacks out. No warning, no sign of a fight or danger, just blackness.
When he wakes, and you can be sure that he does, everything is still dark- still blackness. It’s a bit of time before his eyes adjust to the dim light, slowly making shapes out of objects and hard lines form as walls. Walls. Stalls. Of course stalls, but how he even knows what that is, is news to him. It seems our good Fart has woken in a dungeon, a basement even. A dungeon or a basement with horse stalls, one in which he comfortably fits. In this stall there is fresh, sweet-smelling hay to eat, there is grain or mash, something he has never had the pleasure of tasting. Not only is there food to fill his sickly-thin belly but there is a trough of cool, clear water for him to drink.
Deciding that he is feeling rather thirsty, he first chooses to have a long sip of the drink provided- once he stands up of course. His hairless head is pounding, aching and he isn’t sure how exactly he got here. One moment he was walking the Meadow, this he knows, the next...well, can’t say what happened next. A long blank stretched into darkness and then, bam, here. Where is here? Couldn’t say that either but now that he finds his legs, he can hear and smell others around him. Nervousness greets him first, he’s never been so close for so long, even separated by walls he isn’t sure that it is entirely safe for him to even breathe too much in their direction. His lime hued ears flutter about on his head, turning this way and that at the shuffle of hooves, the low whicker from far off- a scream, a shout.
Blasting the room with sound is a cry, a shrill noise of agony and fear. Pain. The idea registers quickly, so quick that Fart jerks at the next sound, a low whisper from someone else locked away in this room. “What was that?” it asks, full of concern, full of worry. “Dunno,” another says but Fart can not see to whom the voices belong, he can smell distinctly that there are other horses, but which ones? No idea. “I can’t get out,” another calls, frightened, followed by the thuds and scrapes of hooves on wood. Another scream fills the air, covering any more of the current conversation, and Fart too wishes he could cover something- his ears.
Decidedly, this was not the place to be. This was most certainly the place to not be, how could it be anything but?
This continues long, long into what he imagines is the night. A lone cricket chirps from somewhere in the dark hole they have been brought, and certainly this reminds him of night, of the stars and the moon- but none of those things are present now. There is only more dark when he looks up, only the hazy silhouettes of the other horses when he dares peak out from his stall. He doesn’t try this often, insisting that they can see him even in the shallow light, somehow that they can make out the missing hair, the notch in his lip. He would say they could smell him too but even here there are too many horses to determine what stench comes from where- and in their fear it wasn’t the most pleasant smelling place at times. When Fart can not manage to sleep against the sound of cries, the squeal of screams that emerge from an unknown place, he tries to eat. He tries to savor the delicious food, the hearty grain he has been given and if he must die, he is glad to have it.
Surely he will die, that is why they are here. Why else would they be locked away? Why else would they be subject to the tortured screams from other horses, undoubtedly other horses from this very same room? Maybe he has been given more than he deserves, allotted the small span of time for life and used it unwisely. Either way, he sleeps, deep and heavy with a belly unusually full for the slender, lime green roan. How long he sleeps, I can’t say, the hours are meaningless without the guidance of the sun and the moon. When he does finally wake it is because he is woken, the latch of his stall lifting and a funny looking man standing before him. A smile, a ”You’re next” and before Fart can pretest or attempt to flee he is frozen- eyes and nostrils wide with fear and uncertainty.
The sky was a pale purple color, willowy wisps of clouds painted slightly pink underneath from the soft rays of the sun, still hiding under the horizon. Stars still dappled the vast expanse, the full moon still in view. A cold winter wind blew over a thick golden bay coat. A stallion, old and scraggly, pinned his ears at the sharp nip of the air. The stallion was none other than Fascade, the once great and handsome young bachelor, now a raggedy old grump. His white stockings covered in a layer of snow, his long haired hocks knotted with clumps of ice. Long whiskers poked out from his muzzle, his forelock so thick and long it cascaded over his dark sad eyes. He trudged along an icy trail, his dished head low.
He was no longer suave and handsome, though some ladies might find his look ruggedly handsome now, this was not his ideal look. Though looks were the least of his problems.
Fascade had been living life with no purpose, for years, since Use died and his herd was stolen from him. Even after they were taken to Silver Cove by Julius, he stayed as long as he could in his beloved Paradise Beach. Though too soon he was driven out when Aero and his herd took over. He wished he could start again, go back to the Lake of Serenity, the land he first claimed when he came to Beqanna and met Use. But, he knew he couldn’t, be cause that was a time when traitless horses were not allowed to lead the mythic herdlands. And, of course, he was driven from the lake when he tried to claim it the first time. He had nowhere to go after that. He was lost, without a drive in life. The long years of leading his large herd were over. No more herd games, no more children running about at his feet. No more family…
It broke him.
Even his right hand man, Incubi, left him to be with his mate Ceneri and their two twins. Though by now the twins were probably out on their own, and he had no idea where Incubi was. Fascade had no one to turn to. Now he was just wandering the land, wondering what he could do to make his life better. What could he do that could make him whole again. Maybe he could take a chance, try starting a new herd again? Maybe give up his alpha male mentality and join a kingdom...he didn’t know what to do, just that he had to do something.
He walked slowly, wandering toward the field, either he was going to join someone, or someone would join him, he didn’t really care at this point. He even wondered if he still had it in him to claim a mare. It had been so long since he had tried, years and years he had gone without even attempting to look in the direction of the field. He knew no mare could take the place of his beloved Use. He was still so broken up about her passing, it was killing him slowly. But, he needed something to happen, something to wake him up from this somber stupor.
And that’s when it hit him.
A warm breath of air, thick and sweet, like maple syrup, took over his senses. The sensation that took over his body was warm and heavy. His eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness, he tried to fight it, but this mysterious magic was too strong. Something was happening...something strange.
Sounds...banging, screaming, the continuous dripping from the dungeon ceiling, squeals of horses in the distance…
His ear twitched, eyes blinking sleepily, trying to clear his senses from the heavy dose of magic. His body still felt heavy, but he managed to bring himself into an upright laying position. He looked around, noticing he was laying on a thick bed of sweet smelling straw.
"Whaa....what happened...? Wh..where am I?"
His voice was drowsy and drunk sounding.
It took him a while to get to his ragged feet, his joints no longer as supple as they used to be. He looked around, still a bit groggy from the magic. There was food surrounding him, hay and a strange container filled with a sweet smelling mixture...he snorted at it, and took a small mouth full. It was probably the best thing he had ever tasted. He then proceeded to eat the rest, realizing how hungry he was. It was so good, and it seemed to make him feel full of energy. He had not felt like this since he was in his prime. His mind was blown after he finished his last bite, when it magically reappeared. There was also a container of water next to the bountiful magic food. He was confused though...where was he. This couldn’t be Beqanna, could it? The old man noticed the walls….tall and made of dark stone, no windows except for in the middle of the bolted, wooden stall door. Though it was blocked by thick black iron bars. No...it couldn’t be...Beqanna didn’t have places like this. There were no structures in Beqanna.
It was then he started to sober up. He started to realize he was taken...he was drugged with magic and taken. His heart started to pound, the extra energy boost from the grain making him even more anxious. His ears were perked, alert, and swiveling about. Confused and trying to pick out the sounds in this strange place. He snorted and roared loudly, his eyes wide with nervousness. He paced the stall, the clamouring from the stalls beside his made him even more fearful. What was this place!? Why was he taken here!? Was he going to die here? He wanted a change, but this certainly was not what he wanted when he asked for a change in his ever so dull life. He even thought he could hear a loud “Help! Help me!! I gotta get out of here!” coming from somewhere outside his dungeon cell.
He began to lose it.
His neigh roared loudly throughout the stall, the walls making it bounce back to his ears, making him sound even louder. He struck out as hard as he could at the heavy door, but it didn’t budge, and it sure as hell hurt his already cracked and overgrown hooves. He sneered at the pain, but he had to try to get out of here. He didn’t want to die, he wasn’t ready yet. He may be getting old, seventeen to be exact, but he was not ready to die. He was just starting to realize that there was more he could do in life, it couldn’t end like this! He let out another frantic wail. He was sure it was the end for him.
He struggled and paced, neighed and pranced.
Though right as he turned to attempt to barge down the door again, his body froze. His entire body was frozen in place. His eyes were wide, feet square, ears up. His breathing was heavy and full of fear, if he weren’t frozen, he would even be shaking.
A mysterious shadow lurked outside the stall door. He could hear the clanking of what must have been keys and soon made a loud clicking sound, like the unlocking of a latch. The large bolted wood door then creaked loudly as it began to open ever so slowly.
Suspense began to eat at his nerves.He couldn’t close his eyes, he couldn’t turn and run, hell, he couldn't even turn his neck to look the other way….whatever it was coming through that door, he had to face it head on. The magic hold on him was too strong for him to break free and fight for his life…
06-28-2016, 09:22 PM (This post was last modified: 06-01-2017, 04:52 AM by The Hero Rebel Fairy.)
Merry Christmas, you filthy animal
Look, dude, it really isn’t that difficult, it’s actually quite simple: She. is. Pissed. Pissed, furious, enraged, livid, the list could go on but I bet by now you get it. She has every right. The world had dared to disrupt her routine, had pulled her out of her solitude and thrown her head first into the chaos that was “Beqanna.” Her lone mountain outside of the Valley had been perfect cold, secluded, quiet. She had loved it, but that changed with the war, with the killing...with the blood. What you thought blood wasn’t fascinating? You thought it was, what, gross? It’s the opposite, she knew the truth, blood was magnificent. It glittered as it caught the light. When it danced through the air as the heart pumped it out of its cage into the open space. Those small orbs were delightful, intrinsic in nature. She knew the truth is was her alter and her prison. The war had taken her from her mountain down to the fray where she killed for the first time. Where she released her inner psychopath, where the green and red Christmas gift gone wrong made herself known to the world. She was Slaybell, and she had been reborn in blood.
So you know what led Slaybell to be mad, but yeah, yeah,yeah, I know I haven’t told you why. See after the war, Demian took an interest in the Christmas Bitch, he wanted her as his secret weapon hidden within his peace cast. He promised her training to control her urges to kill, training to help her fit in with the others. He lied. He left. So she left too. The mountain wasn’t the same though it no longer was perfect, and her anger with being made a fool by Demian grew and festered until she could take it no more. Slaybell made haste back to Valley, back to make whoever was in charge answer for the anger they bestowed on her. It is very surprising that anyone could miss the girl, she was emerald green after all and if that wasn’t enough her mane and tail were red. Seriously, how could you miss that! But it seemed to happen as she was stuck waiting….again. Understand now? Why she is pissed, furious, enraged, livid, etc? I mean it seriously shouldn’t be that difficult to understand but some people are just dim-witted, or whatever.
Well anyway, Slaybell was just waiting, angrily waiting, but waiting when some thing came and scooped her up into the sky. How rude, and if she was angry before pure rage was seething from her eyes, her dull teeth gnashed at the air, if she could had she would have torn the little thing apart. There were others around her, some cried, others looked happy, others tried to fight like she had… but they were all stuck. The green mare soared through the sky admitting defeat for the time she was airborne. After a short time she saw a lake, and they descended toward the center of the lake, they landed on an island and a fort like castle suddenly appeared, but her journey was not over yet. As soon as they were within the fort they were whisked off to some dank confinement area. It wasn’t until alone in her cage-stall did she regain full control of herself. ” What the fucking hell kind of game is this?” Slaybell growled at really no one, as no one was there… I mean there were others, but she was unable to talk to them. She looked around and whoever swooped her up had at least given her food, and water, that was nice. That was when the screams started…. and continued. At first, Slaybell was annoyed by the presumed unnecessary noise. The screams made others cry, but for Slaybell she was annoyed, and she was plotting When whatever made the others scream came for her, she would be prepared.
Some time went by, maybe a day or so, the screams and whimpers grew closer and soon it was her turn. Her red mane flicked as she tossed her head in an attempt to jolt her body into the ready. But the stall door opened and she was frozen. Stance wide, braced, mouth in a snarl and eyes locked on the fairy. He mind was alert and eager to watch its blood flick through the air, get some relief from the anger that had taken away her tranquility but her body would have none of it. So she stood, locked in place as she waited for her fate. I wouldn’t want to be that fairy man, Slaybell gonna slay, and the blood will be glorious.
It was something he had taken for granted for much of his lifetime. Having been cursed with an infinite meter and a too-still clock that had long since ceased to tick, he had little reason to cherish his own time on Earth. There had been many times over the years that his heart and mind had been stolen away by heartbreak, loneliness and sorrow. It left a lingering ache, one that filled up the proverbial gaping wound within his chest any and every time he took a moment to wallow in it. Even now, with the adoration and affection of his sons, daughters and beloved Isle, it remained - a constant reminder of what would persist long after all of their bodies had perished and their souls had moved on. It is only a matter of time until what he clung so tightly to his pounding, yearning heart faded away, as it all had before and eventually would again.
He breathes heavily, the icy chill of evening penetrating his lungs as he inhales sharply once more. He has parted from his beloved's side, sated by the knowledge that she has fallen into a lulling sleep. Their children, full of youth and vigor beneath the warmth of day all lay near one another now, solemn and quiet, cradled by the light of the moon. He puts a hefty distance between his own massive, towering body and their own petite figures; it takes careful precision and bated breath to leave without disturbing them but he has mastered the craft after many nights of doing so. Tonight is no exception.
His deeply set crimson eyes hide behind thick eyelashes as he allows the frigid breeze to wash over his heavily muscled, scarred physique - his sinewy muscles tense as he flexes them, and his various puckered, pink scars shimmer in the bright moonlight. He inhales slowly and deliberately, willing his anxiety away from him - he is a serious, stoic King - a stallion of many burdens and looming troubles, though he rarely allows prying eyes to see the way that it ages his soul and the way that it weighs so heavily on his mind. His heart still aches from the bitter, terse words shared by he and his lover, and he knows that hers does as well. Their wounds had been mended on the very surface, settled with hot, urgent touches and midnight trysts (she was swollen again - rounded with the curve of his unborn child, but still their seeping wounds of distrust remain).
An unusual shift in the wind causes him to rouse from his deep thoughts, and his tangled tresses fall in the way of his searing red eyes as he gazes towards the sky - when he is abruptly struck by the nauseating, overwhelming aroma of molasses. It suffocates him, drowns him, and within mere moments, the ice King is rendered useless - helpless. His tight muscles go lax and his bones refuse to co-operate with the fierce demands of his mind, and suddenly .. everything fades to black.
--
He awakes, his mind and cranium both heavy with a drowsiness he had not experienced in many years. It causes him to lapse not once, but twice into unconsciousness, probed only by the shrill, pained shrieks of another. He is unsure how long he has been unconscious, but he is certain it has been far too long. Hours? Days? His heart begins to pound and rattle against his rib cage, and his blood begins to surge within his veins, but still he struggles to lift anything but his own eyes from the ground.
His massive physique lingers on the hard, stone floor (which, though it is covered in a thin layer of prickling hay, only causes him more discomfort) for several minutes before he finally regains control over his muscles, which spasm sporadically. Wearily, he raises his massive skull up, peering around him. His burning red eyes struggle to focus for a long moment, but when he can finally see the scope of his imprisonment, his heart leaps and swells within his throat.
Tiredly, Offspring rises, though his legs are uneven for a time until he manages to shake the remnants of his somnolence away. Wary now, he examines the thick, metallic bars that surround him on each side, anchored into heavy planks of wood that box him into a prison cell far too small for his height and bulking weight. Furiously, he moves forward, pressing the crest of his forehead with force against the bars in rapid succession, testing each of their strength - biting with his blunt teeth, only to find that they are fortified beyond what his brute force can take on.
A surge of terror and rage alike fill his heart, which now threatens to pound out of his chest - he can hear the way it echoes in his ears, drowning out the pained shrieks of someone else, someone who has no name, trapped beyond a door in the distance. He turns away from the stall door, lashing out with staunch, powerful kicks, to no avail. He paces now, thick, muscled legs pounding against the hard pavement as he circles closely within his confinement. He pauses for a moment to take in the scent of dirt and sweat that lingers on the hay offered and the too-tempting water offered, and he scoffs irritably at both. But then, a thought occurs to him - water. Ice!
With a sharp glimmer looming in his burning eyes, he focuses and attempts to draw out the depths of his power - willing himself to surge with thick shards of ice from every pore, urging frost to encase every square inch of his body - but nothing comes of it. Nothing. He is left a shell of his former self, warm to the core, flesh hot and burning to the touch from the mere intensity of his movements. The ice. It .. it's gone? he laments within his own mind, the energy behind his surge of adrenaline beginning to fade away. He searches around him, to the barred walls that surrounds him, to the panicked creatures lingering behind caged walls of their own. My immortality .. is it gone too? Am I destined to die here?
Another cry of tortured pain erupts from behind the walls again, echoing within his mind. Over and over. Louder and louder. He looks around, dizzy once more with the realization that something bigger, more powerful than himself is looming - and then, he sees her. Painted indigo and obsidian, a four-horned female remains too still in the stall beside his own. She exudes an uneasiness of her own, and yet she lacks the same urgency he has loitering in every fiber of his being. He cannot help but to focus his darkened eyes upon her, staring with an intensity he cannot explain, when she must feel his crimson stare searing into her. She turns her cheek, emerald eyes (banded by black, intensifying her gaze) peering into his own, and he cannot tear himself away.
She is too quiet, too wary. She knows something.
At last, his eyes tear away from hers and his heart seizes within his chest - with a loud bang, a heavy wooden door clashes against cobblestone and heavy footsteps (two-step - was it two-legged?) settle against the floor in a rhythmic pattern. He lurches away from the door of his stall, muscles tensed again as he braces himself, but eventually the sound fades away and the cries begin once more.
The minutes fade into hours, and weariness once more begins to set into him. His resolve settles finally, and reluctantly, he tastes the sweetness of the hay and the icy chill of the water. With a full and aching belly, he struggles to rest but he cannot. He cannot ward away the shrill screams, or the pleading sobs that echo in his brain. When he peers into the stall beside him for any semblance of reassurance, he sees nothing. She's gone. But when - how? The indigo-painted female is gone, stolen away.
He begins to think of his beautiful Isle - of her sweet doe eyes, her gentle kisses and caresses. He lingers on Neverwas and Argo, his precious sons and their fragile innocence. Their wholesome hearts. He drifts to his precious daughters, Lieschel, Maribel and Australis, each a beautiful and precious piece of his heart and soul. His heart becomes heavy and jaded, burdened by sorrow and anger.
He laments again, pressing his obsidian pelt roughly against the scratching wood of his stall as he collapses into his own woe, when all at once, he is uncomfortably still. Every piece of him is frozen into place, seized by something so much more foreboding than his mind had feared. His life begins to flash before him as his crimson eyes peer into the darkness, unnerved by the slow, low rattling of an opening door. Fear, fury and dread fill him to the very brim, washing over him like the unforgiving tide.
Peace is a lie we tell ourselves when the dark is too heavy and the world too tight. It is something we long for, something we promise ourselves that we can earn if we just wait, if we just hold out a little longer. But it isn’t real. Malis knew this once, and she knew it intimately. A world upturned once, twice, until she no longer recognized it when the dust settled and all the things fell back into their places. She had been broken so many times, so many different ways, and this Malis would never be able to fit into that same space she had been torn from. She was a ruined version of herself, a broken version, and she belonged nowhere. But somewhere along the way she had allowed herself to forget this, to ignore the illusion of peace and believe in things like happiness and safety. She found what felt like home, what felt like love. She found Killdare, and a family in their children, comfort in a Kingdom that would only ever betray her.
It wasn’t that she had forgotten the past- that would be impossible. A girl and another, hands and horror and a body turned plastic to trap her inside. A girl and another, hands and horror and a mind blown to dust until all her pieces scattered in the wind. Things that were impossible, nightmares made so real that they replaced brown with blue, mortal with immortal. Dreams that weren’t dreams at all, but she would pretend they were because it hurt too much to let them be real. Pollock had been real, his weight against her back, his horns and hooves buried in the brokenness of a body he meant to ruin. A body that could no longer be ruined. He was real, but it didn’t make the rest of it seem any less so. But it had to be. Impossible things.
It was easiest to pretend to forget, to hide the memories of how it felt to have hands crushed around her body, of how it felt when they found her again so many years later and she killed them both. Of how she loved the warmth of the blood in her mouth when she drank her betrayer dry. It was easiest to call it a dream and claim the choices weren’t hers, that the feelings belonged to someone else.
But this lie unraveled as all lies do.
She opens her eyes and the world is dim at first. It feels like blinking but she knows it’s impossible by the wood box she finds herself in when only a heartbeat ago she had been nestled alone in the trees near the base of the Chamber mountains. There is some part of her that understands immediately, that remembers even though she’s tried so hard to forget, and this part turns as cold as ice, as death. This wrongness is familiar, these things she’s never seen but somehow has names for. She’s been in a box before, different than this but still dark and wrong and strange. There are others here though, when there hadn’t been before, and they are loud when they scream, louder still when they throw themselves against the walls of their magical confines. Malis does neither. She might have once, might have seen these walls and tried to pry the boards apart with the points of her dark, obsidian horns. The difference is that she knows something that most of them will not, a secret they’ll unravel soon enough, but not soon enough to help them. This part, being trapped and alone, it isn’t the worst part. This is the best part. It is was comes next that they should dread, she is certain of this, and yet they scream and they fuss and they draw attention to themselves when all they should want to do is hide away in the backs of their stalls and pray that they are forgotten.
But time passes and the noise does not fade. Some of the screams come from elsewhere, from a place she cannot discern in the dark. But someone comes for them every once in a while, the thump thump of feet against the stone aisle tell her this, and then the screams redouble with a horrifying newness she thinks will be branded against her thoughts for all eternity. There is food for her in the corner, it smells sweet and fresh but it turns her stomach and she can’t even look at it. She doesn’t want it, she doesn’t trust this food. The water smells even better, cold and clean, but she refuses to take anything from them. She’ll starve eventually despite her ability to heal, but it will take a long while and she doubts that it would kill her anyway. Nothing has so far. The only indication of the passing time is the fuzziness of her thoughts as she listens to the hum and whirr of worried voices, and the tightening in her belly as it groans and begs her to eat. But still, she refuses.
There is a thought that settles in dark behind her eyes, a worry and it feels just like when Pollock had played among the organs in her belly. Without a sound, because the heart makes no sound when it caves in on itself, she moves to the front of her stall so that she can see more easily down the length of the cold stone aisle. Some faces peer back at her, and she knows the horror she finds in their eyes, knows the fury and fear that bellows in their minds as they try to discern real from dream. You’ll never know, she would tell him if she could, if she could find the strength to speak beneath the weight of knowing that crushes her. Instead she shifts to the side to view her neighbor, but they are quiet like she is, buried and dark in the corner of their stall and she wonders if they know like she knows. She shifts to the other side, turning her dark, horned head to find a pair of strange red eyes glowing back at her through the dimness. For a long moment they remain that way, locked together in their unease, but then he looks away and she does too, because he isn’t hers. None of the faces had been hers, and this is the only thing that brings her any comfort.
Maybe they hadn’t taken anyone she loved.
She is quiet when she disappears back into the dark at the rear of her stall, quiet, though she could feel the slow burn of fury filling her veins the longer she stood there. She was a fool to think she would ever escape this life, a fool to think she would ever deserve happiness. This was the only life such a broken beast could have, the only space she would ever fit into again.
The sound comes again, the one that turns her numb and cold, the thump thump of feet against stone. She waits for them to pass, but this time they don’t. There is a rattling sound that fills her ears, a whine of metal against metal as the bolt of her door comes undone. It slides open and she finds that she cannot move. This immobility is familiar in a painful way, in a way that threatens to unravel her now as it had so many years ago. In an instant she is wild, she is pain and fury and years of coming quietly undone, and she is trapped again inside a prison of her own body. You fucking coward, she seethes within her own mind as she thrashes like a wild animal trapped inside the shell of a body that no longer listened.
