"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
05-20-2017, 02:48 PM (This post was last modified: 05-20-2017, 02:56 PM by Epithet.)
Perhaps the madness had finally seeped through the cracks of broken fingers. Perhaps it is best to give in rather than fight. Perhaps she just doesn't have any more fucks to give.
Epithet emerges from the shadows as a silver lioness stalking the meadow. Each heavy paw flashes thick sharp think claws. a pink tongue flicks between stained teeth as she pants under the spring sun, hot and hazy as the morning dew burns away. Slit blue eyes flicker over the horses that roam before her. Ignorant stallions and their pregnant mare. She scoffs a bit before thinking of Gunvor, her youngest and by far most independent. Leola, her most gentle, was grow and gone and Epithet enjoys the pass of seasons with an empty womb. Epi thinks for a moment of where her little black and turquoise daughter could be. Perhaps united with her father Gunsynd? Epi feels the crank of cogs as she slowly lets the reality set in.
The woman would have been unable to stop the girl child from her destiny,
But now...now is her time. Akhil is gone. Gunsynd is gone. The children are gone. What does she have left? The feline woman grins slowly to herself as she moves under the glint of sun with a coat that rivals the sun himself.
06-01-2017, 02:41 PM (This post was last modified: 06-05-2017, 03:45 PM by Wyrm.)
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
It is a rather beautiful day. Plenty of sun to warm his green hide, soft grasses to muffle the sound of footsteps carefully placed. The meadow drinks in the fine weather and produces respite for the horses gathered, among them a silver lioness that gleams brilliantly for any nearby eyes. It’s her lack of fear to be mingled with the rest of the bunch that draws Wyrm’s attention before his nostrils filter her unique scent from far away, settling into his mind while bringing forth a name to match the smell. “Epithet.” He remembers while his lips toy with a smile. Who else would revel in such openness?
The stallion never pauses in his journey, only shifts mid-stride to assume the shape of a hefty, golden lion. Felt-like paws that rival the size of a ponies skull, connected to a thick, gleaming bronze body, leave a wide track in his wake. She’ll have seen him by now, the others already begin to sidestep away as Wyrm threads through them. When he does reach her the big male only offers a toothy sort of smirk, the flippant twitch of his tail, and “I haven’t seen you in some time.” as a way of greeting before slumping into the grass near her. They lounge together now, neither awkwardness nor trepidation passing over his feline features while Wyrm appraises her.
She seems healthy enough, no signs of a little thing nearby to drag her down. The golden cat allows his mouth to loll open, bright pink tongue flickering out over his bottom teeth as he pants softly in the torrid afternoon. “I like the color choice.”
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Had she expected to bask in the warm eye of the sun alone? No. The woman had expected a thrum of hooves, appalled squeals and glinting hooves as she lay among the thick grasses, tickling the most tender parts of her body. But a lovely surprise comes her way, splintering the lush green with his bronzed body and glittering eyes. Epithet does not fight the smirk that pulls across her own face to reflect the pleasure that ignites in the deep blue of her eyes.
"Wyrm." Epithet exhales his name with the roll of her coarse tongue. The heat blankets the gleam of her back, her own black lips parted as she pants lightly. "It had been some time hasn't it?" The question is already answered as she lazily casts her gaze across her handsome companion. They manage to compliment each other handsomely, the sun and early stars jealous of their beauty. "Where have you been sneaking off to?" This time her words were directed at him this time. Epi finds the words are thick and honey laden as she boldly allows herself to continue the trace of his body. The woman is pleased to see him again and should like to know him better under the flawless sky.
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
Oh, she’s a devilishly interesting character, Epithet. That keen hitch to her voice, hovering on a high note as the word you escapes her black-rimmed lips mid-phrase when she prys into his whereabouts, rouses an especially sedate, yet amused, smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He taunts, equally willing to match her wit with his own. It seems, ironically, that she brings it out in him. That reason alone sparks enough interest to keep the languid male rooted to his spot while he watches her own gaze follow the dips and curves of his form. “I made it to Pangea,” The shifter begins slowly, not as eager yet to pull back the blinds on the time in between their meetings. He huffs, rolls lazily onto his back so that his ribs might stretch, and wriggles ungracefully to scratch those hard-to-reach places. Satisfied, the big lion flops upright once again and pulls himself up with a start.
“A lot of good that did for me.” He rumbles, speaking of the recent area’s descent into the sea. A tragic end to such a promising land but useless to worry over now. What was done, was done. His head, hooded by a sleek, thick mane, turns about so that he might pin her with an unnaturally green stare. “What about you, hmm? What trouble have you been stirring up?” He asks, padding forward slowly to bump the crown of his forehead against her own. They make a rather foreign sort of scene, out here where horses normally roam, and it can’t be helped. They are creatures that know no boundaries, no sort of fear - and that leaves them reckless and bold.
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
06-22-2017, 01:39 AM (This post was last modified: 06-22-2017, 01:42 AM by Epithet.)
"Me? Trouble?" She inquires with large blue eyes, the length of her lashes rising and falling in a flutter as her grin betrays her features. She watches as his bulk rolls in the brittle grasses, his green eyes penetrating her depths rather rudely with their enchanting color, though she finds herself budding beneath his gaze.
The press of his golden head against her cool silver makes her shiver and purr. Epi likes the way he tucks close, the heavily masculine scent, but she merely smiles when their whiskers tangle. The thick blanket of autumn heat was making her heady, giddy. "I would sympathize but it seems as though the sudden departure of Pangea has returned you to me." The woman muses with a fanged smirk, rolling out the length of her smaller feline form beneath him as she playfully swipes the black nails at his mouth, batting with a chuckle. "I've been here and there. Some days I feel there are no parts of Beqanna left to explore." Her voice flattens slightly, matter-of-factually. "How do you pass your days?" The question is honest and open as she rolls herself on to her own legs so she may stand at the jungle king's side, enjoying his company and the way his scent mingles with the crisp snap of autumn air. The sun was beginning to glow as it grew fat in the west of the meadow, the first glitter of evening stars emerging from their bedding of clouds.
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
He understands her meaning when she mentions that Pangea’s fall had pulled the green stallion back into her orbit once more, but Wyrm hadn’t come back to or for her specifically. It was happenstance - always had been between them and he preferred it that way. He was too many things all at once to be just in one place at one time, or around for simply one person. In their world they get to change masks often and the ones he wears well tend to spill over into their own personalities. Wyrm has never forgotten who he was, though inwardly he feels that he is many horses in one. Epithet’s character is before her now, draped in the skin of a savannah King and peering out to the horizon where the sun has begun to slip across their hemisphere and into another.
“When I get bored I come and look for you.” He prompts, shrouded head turning on it’s axis to offer her a sideways grin. His tongue, wide and healthy pink, runs slowly across his upper lips to feel the phantom touch of her nails where they had snagged his skin. “Everything left that’s worth discovering is around us.” The big cat tells her, turning his gaze back to the throng of horses as they peacefully lounge some distance away. Nature and her workings were a part of him, sustained and empowered him. The others? Infinitely curious and always plotting against each other. Made for wonderful drama.
“So, Epithet, can you entertain me for a bit?” He purrs, crossing one forepaw over the other in order to turn himself about so that he might take in the sight of the silver lioness as a whole. He sits, easily, tail gliding over the bent stalks of forage while he weighs her against his spotted lover. The two are not comparable. “Or have you grown dull in my absence?”
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
07-04-2017, 09:32 PM (This post was last modified: 07-04-2017, 09:35 PM by Epithet.)
She does not fight the upward turn of her lips when he asks about potential dullness. Nothing had ever been dull for Epithet. Not her family, not her lovers, not her children. Beqanna was an ever changing atmosphere, an enigma that constantly toyed with her occupants.
Silver eyes slip back to the gilded male with a bit of scoff. "Dull? Perhaps by your definition." Epithet has heard of the emerald stallion and his mare. She is not surprised nor disturbed but the woman does note the closeness of Wyrm and the swirl of darkness that surfaces just behind the color of his enticing eyes. Epi could be anything, anyone that another could desire but she does not play those games. Instead she lazes about as a moonsilk lioness that happens to be found by a blazing king.
"Entertain you?" She yawns the words nonchalantly, eyes slitting a bit as she looks to face him, plucking at his words. "I wouldn't exactly classify myself as a toy or a mistress." The words purr in the heat of the day, a smirk lifting the black lips again. She finds herself enjoying his company but would not belittle herself before him as anything less than a goddess among mortals.
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
If he had a healthier sense of humor, he might have laughed. Instead, he narrows his eyes and every trace of easiness in his features disappears along with the action. What soft angles had given him the look of a healthy sort of creature now take sharp edges- a cutting, fierce sort of danger to reflect his mood. He stitches new muscles, molds new skin, and bleeds that golden color until he’s nothing but a melanistic lion with a hard, hungry look. Epithet’s sudden turn of attitude is very unbecoming. In a single, fluid motion he rises and jerks forward with a leap, encasing her between his four legs and pinning her down through probing red eyes.
“What a shame.” He hisses, cord-like tail snapping through the air in irritation. Those feral, sallow teeth of his clicking keenly together while his lips draw back to expose pink gums. “I always took you as one to rise to the occasion, rather than swat it aside.” The dark male growls. Wyrm’s chest is heaving with the exertion of containing himself astride her, a mixture of longing and utter hate broiling deep in his gut. Exasperated, he snarls and pins black, rounded ears to his nape before shoving off her to pace some feet away.
Mistress, the very word makes him scoff as he rounds into a comfortable sitting position once more. He won’t deign to look at Epithet, not until he’s ready. “You test me,” He speaks cooly, “don’t do it again.”
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Wyrm is unpredictable. he moves and shifts with an ease that Epithet knows well and she would admit only to herself of his impressiveness. But when he becomes black like the gape of a dragon's mouth before the flame, lurching and pinning her, well...she is certainly displeased and does not shy from it.
The blue of her eyes melt to a deep red, her own body thickens beneath his heated breath, her own form growing to that of an inky black tiger, bathed in deep red stripes, jutting and jagged like wounds across her flesh. She stares from under him, allowing him to stand over her, they are both aware that she can change to something large, something more dangerous.
They both could.
They could be dangerous.
He slips from her like a spent man tired from lust. The woman rolls to her own haunches, the thick nails ripping the soil from beneath her. Burning red eyes slit as her own jowls slack to pant under the dying sun's gaze. The woman finds it odd that he is turned from her whilst spitting threats. His words of her 'rising to the occasion' are batted away. "Oh Wyrm." She uses his name in a slow purr, a small touch of a girlish smirk curling at the edges of her dark lips. Perhaps she was too calloused with the man.
Oh well.
His name is brushed off with the shrug of her red stitched shoulders as she rises from her haunches to take her full stance. She isn't sure what to say next so she stands with a slightly quirked brow.
'I'm sorry?' No, no. Because she wasn't. She debates on just walking away, to find another spot to watch the moon rise but instead stands there quietly as a sigh exhales from her lips. "Well...you bring it out in me." The words slice the air between then, sharp and glinting. She wouldn't apologize but she certainly would not take his disapproval and downright childishness. They were equals in this great land and she would not roll over for the man who thought himself greater than she. Fuck that.
when the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears:
His name sounds wrong on her lips. Especially when she croons at him like that.
With his back turned broadside to her, Wyrm is struggling to piece together the confusing disarray that simmers in his breast. He knows the separate entities: Lust, Longing, Hate, Uncertainty; knows all too well that they are new to him. What he seems to find impossible to explain is why Epithet, of all creatures, brings them to the surface. He remembers feeling this way once before, when the leaves had begun to newly crisp in preparation for a winter past and Heartfire had found him waking from an immortal slumber. The shifter had lashed out at her too, then.
But this was different, was it not? This was not his spotted lover, not the mother of his children nor the creature that he’d watched blossom into a powerful, desirable mare. This was Epithet - the woman who’d met his challenge tooth for claw, the one who’d exposed a side he’d nearly forgotten about - his equal in prowess and abilities. “Can it be possible,” Wyrm ponders as he finally glances over his shoulder at her, “to want them both?”
“Likewise.” He mumbles in short reply. The inky male rises, stately and silhouetted against the gleam of the great silver moon. Also awash in the glow of ivory light, Epithet’s hesitance and disconcerting red glare are simply too grating for Wyrm to ignore. He sighs, the sound rattling through his chest while he slips forward to meet her on silent paws. In the first stretches of the night he slides against her, black on black skin mingling as he reshapes himself to match her form. “Let me try again.” He purrs, rounded tail gliding softly underneath her chin as he molds himself against the red-striped tigress.
“I lack the finesse for mingling,” He admits, though by now Epithet should be fully aware. With one rounded cheek pressed to the curve of her hip Wyrm’s allows for his tongue to glide roughly over the other shifter’s pelt - a silent apology. “so you’ll have to guide me.”
Faintly, the makings of a smile begin to ghost his lips. “Epithet,” Wyrm murmurs, matching the tone of her voice, “will you please cure my insatiable boredom?”
did he smile his work to see? did he who made the Lamb make thee?
