"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
11-20-2017, 05:19 PM (This post was last modified: 11-26-2017, 02:03 PM by a demon.)
Tenebris, For failing to respond, Tenebris has been returned to Beqanna and is now blind for 1-BQ year which begins the moment he is posted outside of the quest.
T H E B E A C H
As the trees begin to thin, as red clay turns to sand, thunder grumbles in the distance and the sky fills with ominous black; a tendril of dark cloud reaches down from the great thunderhead, it twists and turns. It grows, and grows, gaining strength and speed and soon it starts ripping the trees from their roots. It tosses your assailants around like toys, tearing them apart with debris before your very eyes as the island beneath your feet falls away—drips away.
It turns to liquid, falling like colorful rain into the starry abyss.
You float along in the nothing—
(“We all float down here…”)
—And from the nothing comes a voice unlike any voice you have ever heard.
And then, you sleep.
You sleep, and you sleep, you dream… until you wake up in Beqanna, a little worse for the wear but with a little something extra for all your troubles.
Bragi, Takei;
You chose The Beach; this returns your character to Beqanna and has made them blind for 1-BQ Year, which begins the moment you post outside of the quest.
For taking part, you now have the choice between wings, horn(s), or immortality. If you choose wings or (a) horn(s), it will take 1-BQ year for them to fully grow and the growth may be painful (player decides). Once your character’s temporary defect has worn off, their trait will be usable. Immortality is effective immediately.
Wing(s)/horn(s) may be of any type (ie: Bat wings, Dragon wings, Rhino horns, etc) but must be tangible. You only have to specify what type they are in your update if they are not the typical Pegasus Wings or Unicorn Horn.
This trait will be genetic.
T H E G R O V E
You lose them along the way, their heavy footfall fades and you keep right on running until you no longer hear them crashing through the jungle behind you; the singsong of pretty, colorful birds that call the citrus grove home replaces their angry voices. Here, there are fruits of every shape and size and color; they hang from the trees until they get too heavy and drop to the forest floor below.
It smells so lovely here—until it doesn’t.
As you’re meandering through the grove, you notice a foul stench soiling the air; it isn’t clear where it’s coming from until you look down and notice that the jungle floor is covered with maggots. They’re abnormally large, most of them as long as your legs and twice as thick; some of them munch along on the fallen, rotten fruit, others make a meal of the birds—the birds, which no longer flit happily from branch to branch, but lie dead on the forest floor.
You make a move to leave, but the maggots turn their attention to you; they slither up your legs, they latch on to your back, sides, and neck; they chomp down on your skin and intend to eat you alive. There is no hope for you, no one to hear you scream; the grove is silent except for the horrible whine of thousands of slimy creatures making their way to your body—at least, until it isn’t.
There is a piercing screech, a great dark shadow swoops low over the grove; lifting you into the air, the giant of a macaw is hundreds of times your size and carries you with ease. Determined, its great wings propel you both up high and away from the grove and its monstrous maggots.
Wherever the macaw intends to take you, you feel safe—until you don’t.
(“Meddling fool.”)
The voice comes from nowhere, from everywhere all at once—
A jet of fire hits the macaw square in the face.
From thin air appears a dragon, as dark and ominous as the thunderhead that first took you away; the macaw swoops back towards the island, racing the great scaly beast—it drops you as low as it can on the beach with the dragon hot on its tail, leaving a trail of singed feathers scattered all over the jungle.
That’s when you notice the others appearing at the treeline—still ugly, still empty-eyed, they shriek and scream with delight at the sight of you before charging forwards.
Clearly, it’s just your lucky day.
If you chose the Grove, you now have three choices: Flee to the Cave, Stand and Fight, or Follow the Trail of Singed Feathers.
Describe the chase, then your arrival; describe the grove, describe the parrots—or any bird you want, really; go crazy!
Describe the maggots; surely, their sudden appearance must have been unsettling? Describe your character’s reaction to them and being (almost) eaten alive, your character must acquire wounds from the maggots. Severity of the wounds are entirely up to you.
Describe the rescue; holy hell, what a take-off. Describe being scooped up by the macaw and the brief flight around the island.
Crash landing; Describe the macaw being attacked by the dragon, then your character being plopped back on the beach in front of their so-called friends.
There is a minimum word limit of 500.
You have 48 hours from the time this hits the board.
T H E C A V E
The others notice your little hiding place.
They come crashing through the waterfall, shrieking with delight; it sends you reeling back and you bump your head quite badly. Despite the blood gushing down from the wound, you desperately stumble along through the dark.
You travel deeper and deeper into the cave, deeper and deeper underground until you can see nothing. The others scratch, they claw; they cackle, they scream—every little thing they do echoes off the walls of the cave—until it doesn’t. Silence, total and absolute silence blankets the dark; you suddenly hear nothing but your own breathing, nothing but the rhythm of your own heart thrumming in your ears.
At least, until a soft cry comes from up ahead.
Surprisingly, it doesn’t sound… pained.
You notice a faint red light, it draws you in and pulls you close; the passage grows narrower the closer you get to the source of the light until the jagged walls of the cave scrape your sides raw.
It opens, however, into a large cavern and what you see surprises you; it’s your friends in their original states engaging in every sort of twisted debauchery you never cared to imagine. A moan comes from someone at the center of it all and you notice that they are the source of the light. It’s your friend, your very best friend who glows red.
They smile at you, beckoning you to come join them.
(“Come on, you know you want to…”)
Their voice comes from inside your head, sending a shiver down your spine—you aren’t sure if it’s caused by fear or temptation, but the rest of the group turn their eyes towards you expectantly. It’s then that you notice one of the other missing members of the group hanging from a vine that dangles through the roof of the cave, stalactites stuffed into their skull in place of their ears. Their blood drips down on the rest of the group—though they do not seem to mind.
If you chose The Cave, you now have three choices: Join the cult in their activities, Confront them, or Turn back.
Describe being found; that didn’t work out quite the way you planned, now did it? Your character must hit their head, the severity of the wound is entirely up to you but it is gushing blood so take note.
Describe your descent into the darkness and the mad scramble of the group as they try to catch you.
Describe wandering around in the dark; it might’ve been minutes, it might’ve been hours, but eventually your character comes across a strange red light; your character’s sides are raw and bleeding by the time they enter the room, make note of it.
Describe stumbling upon the cult; you do not have to go into great detail about what the cult is up to when your character finds them, that’s entirely up to you. Alluding to it is enough.
Describe seeing the next missing member.
There is a minimum word limit of 500.
You have 48 hours from the time this hits the board.
Sloene runs and runs, and the trees grow taller and taller around her, she gradually stops hearing his heavy footfalls behind her. Instead they are replaced by the increasing chatter of birds, somewhere high above her in the trees. Not a moment too soon, anyway, because she is exhausted and she can’t run any farther. Her body feels heavy and sore as she slows to a trot, then a walk, peering up into the branches of the trees above her. The smell is tangy-sweet, familiar from the breezes which had blown across the Shore since she woke up here.
The birds are bright and noisy overhead, and she smiles nostalgically. They remind her of her galaxy-herd of pseudo siblings. They had always been bright, and bold, and noisy. Sloene nibbles on a few fallen fruits as she meanders, looking for a place to hide. The trees are growing denser and denser, trunks brushing her sides now often as she walks, but there is nowhere to hide. Still, it feels safer here in the deepening gloom than out there where the trees are few and far between. She’s black now, after all, and she will blend in the shadows.
Creepy Crawly Doom
She considers turning back when the trees start to open up once more, but the gloom is still deep and Black is somewhere behind her, and the others behind him. She can’t afford to turn back but she is nearly sleepwalking in the forward movement, continually reminding herself to open her silver eyes and press on. Quiet falls, as she stops hearing the birds as well. The only sound is her own hooves on the firm ground.
The girl is suddenly awake when she takes another step and something squishes beneath her hoof. Her eyes snap all the way open and she looks down, revolted at the sight of the huge maggots crawling all over the fruit and the dead birds - that explains the quiet. They are unreasonably large, and her skin crawls, and she steps backwards, but a branch crunches underfoot and suddenly they are on her; she shakes a few off but the next few have already latched on, little pin-pricks of pain. Sloene bucks, squeals, fails to dislodge more than can reattach quickly. She spins around as best as the trees will allow, weighed down by more and more of the maggots attaching themselves to her unfamiliar black hide.
This is the end, she supposes, as her knees buckle. This is how she will die, and it is worse than the idea of being murdered by her new family. She can feel them taking bites out of her, and the only reason she isn’t bleeding all over is because there is not part of her not coverages in hungry worms.
A Timely Rescue (Kinda)
But then the gloom becomes true dark in the shadow of something which emits a nails-on-a-chalkboard screech, and the maggots begin to fall away from her body, letting out their own tiny screams of - what? Fear? - and her stomach drops sickly as she is snatched from the ground, her own cry of fear stolen by the wind. From between the talons carrying her up-up-and-away, Sloene can see that her savior is a blue, red, and green macaw. Or something that resembles a macaw except - you know, unbelievably large.
She sobs, just once, in relief and fear.
The land falls away beneath them and Sloene can see now it’s an island - and the bird is taking them away, headed out across the expanse of water. She takes a deep breath, hope rising in her chest - perhaps her savior is taking her home! Home sounds nice. She starts to relax, only for every muscle in her body to stiffen, pain screaming from the hundreds (is it hundreds? Thousands?) of tiny cuts on her body as she feels blood seep into her black coat and the voice is everywhere all at once and it hurts her ears, though that pales in comparison to the state of her body. ’Meddling fool,’ it shrieks and Sloene tries to see the macaw’s face, trying to determine if it is the bird who speaks, so she is looking up at that huge black beak when the jet of fire burns past, and the macaw falls and then catches itself, wheeling back towards the island.
‘No!’ Sloene wants to shout, ‘No, don’t take me back there!’ But she doesn’t, because she is afraid to distract the bird as they flee the dragon - and anyway, if it drops her in the ocean, she is too tired to swim anywhere, if there is even anywhere close enough to swim to. They are over the beach now, lower and lower, and Sloene watches the dark dragon gaining on them.
Until she’s falling.
The macaw has dropped her, nearly on the ground, and then it is gone and the dragon is following, leaving Sloene to her own devices. She gets to her feet, shaking the dry sand from her dark coat, and takes a deep breath. Nothing broken - maybe some bruised ribs, on top of the hundreds of open cuts. Nothing debilitating. She watches the macaw drop half-burned feathers in a trail over the trees as the bird and dragon disappear, and with it her hope of escape. Back to the hiding plan, then.
This. Again.
Except it’s too late to hide. They have appeared on the shore, her so-called family and friends, just at the edge of the trees. The seven of them, Green and Black in the lead, Red and Yellow hanging the furthest back.
They don’t look any friendlier now than they did earlier.
Green and Black are approaching with deadly purpose and she knows she cannot fight them. She is smaller, and weaker, and there are too many of them. Her only chance is that the macaw will evade or defeat the dragon, and that it will come back for her. She was worth rescuing once, surely she is worth finishing the job. Sloene turns as sharply as possible in the sand and takes off, following the trail of bright feathers left behind when the bird fled.
Balto’s time alone in his cave does not last long.
He had hoped the water would wash off his scent, lead them astray and perhaps take them onward in the wrong direction (they hadn’t been able to travel this far without him in the first place), but he is terribly surprised when their garbled shouts and monstrous moans of rage begin to echo within the darkness. His blood runs cold, cerulean eyes fastening on the bit of light spilling into the mouth of the cave before him, muscles taut with adrenaline and dread. Balto has never been a violent being, but with the quick realization that his life may truly be in danger, he prepares himself for the worst.
The group (grotesque and nearly unrecognizable) crashes through the waterfall with other-wordly whoops and hollers, like dogs chasing down a fox. He scrambles backwards on the smooth stone of the cave floor, unnaturally graceful as his hooves click against wet rock (the sound is so familiar, nearly comforting despite the wickedness that is running towards him). They can’t see him yet but he knows they can smell him, perhaps even hear the tightness of his breath as it catches in his throat, his chest thrumming wildly as his heart races.
Balto hesitates - maybe the madness will leave them, perhaps they can be saved - and they are nearly upon him now, eyes roving with the jungle’s madness and open jaws foaming as they crave their pound of flesh. His hesitation forces him to flee quickly and clumsily, and his eyesight dims as the force of his leap forward meets something black, wet, and solid. He is dazed, eyesight blurry and the back of his head pounding hotly as he can feel the sticky mess that is blood begin to pour down his neck. He bumps into the sharp cave walls in attempts to steady himself as he runs, wincing as the pain intensifies in his head as well as his shoulders bruising from his inability to keep upright.
Despite his dizziness and the mob behind him, he is at a slight advantage.
The cave welcomes him with loving arms as he throws himself deeper into the twisting catacombs, welcoming home the prodigal son that has finally returned. Nearly a decade of his life had been spent within damp, stoney darkness and the skills he had learned then return to him easily despite his time spent in the open world on the beach. Wounded and weary, but unafraid as the cavern tightens around him, much like a snake constricting its prey.
Thoughts whirl through his mind but one rings certain and true: ‘Perhaps the caves is where I truly belong.’
The sound of their voices and clacking teeth begin to subside and Balto is met with the sweet sound of silent darkness once again. He squeezes through the cave, the rough walls scraping against his body almost lovingly, even though he can feel the cavern pulling back the skin on his ribs and biting at his shoulders and haunches. His heart rate begins to slow a bit as he realizes he is finally alone again - even if it is in the pitch blackness of a deep, dark cave.
A gentle glow causes him to squint suddenly, and the stallion lifts his head a bit higher in attempts to see it better. His pulse increases, the wound on his head now flowing more with every beat his heart pumps, the blood already beginning to coagulate in a muddy red stain on his shoulder. He hesitates, unsure if he should go towards it, but quickly he realizes that he had no choice unless he wished to return to the blood-lusted mob that waits like a pack of wolves behind him.
The caverns walls begin to open up again, the air feeling cold and unforgiving against his skin that is now free. He feels vulnerable now, out in the open, especially now that the red glow is becoming more and more pronounced, illuminating the beaten and bloodied body of the blue roan stallion. As he staggers closer, he hears something.
A voice, a cry, a moan - of delight.
His blood runs cold and his stomach drops - he does not expect a harrowing rescue or a way out; there is no way that what he is hearing will be a relief.
The cave’s trail opens up and he silently peers in, the voice he had heard originally now joined in a chorus of others; with grunts and moans and laughter. It is all of them (how they got here before he did, he’ll never understand), Ambrose, Rilian, Shasta, Eridi, Jadis, Caspian, Bree. They are tangled mess of bodies and color, he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. They are themselves again (from what he can make out), but the piercing smell of blood and sweat and sex lets him know better. There is someone else, the one giving off the eerie red glow, and Balto’s stomach threatens to spill its contents, bile on his tongue as it rises in his throat, acidic and burning.
Aravis.
She orchestrates the madness, giving them their lust for fulfilling their desires, a satisfied smirk as she stands in the midst of the twisting, moaning bodies.
Her eyes are on him, and he is not sure how long she has seen him - perhaps she has known where he was all along, and has just now decided to reveal herself to him.
‘Balto, my sweet boy,’ she beckons to him, her voice a whisper but somehow perfectly clear and sultry in his ears. ‘You’ve finally arrived. Join us.’
The others don’t stop their acts just because he has entered. If anything, it rouses them even more, and the blue roan has to look away - perhaps looking for another way out, another passage, another world of darkness to crawl into. Or maybe he looks away so that he does not run to the once fragile bay mare that calls to him, the one that treated him like her own son, that he looked to as his own mother. He couldn’t bare to look at her (she is alive, they’re all alive), but something is wrong.
‘Balto?’ he hears her say, her voice a question but a bit more demanding, as if she is losing patience with his indecisiveness.
Balto is familiar with darkness - he knows it well. But the darkness that is laced between the shuddering bodies is not something natural; it is not right.
This thought is only solidified more when he sees the body of Corin hanging like a prized catch on the ceiling, stalactites piercing through his head like a crown, while blood still pours from his lifeless body. How dare they desecrate the cave like they are, using it to cloak their devilish and greedy thoughts! The darkness in the caves is a mother, loving and kind and protective, and here they stand denouncing her before his very eyes. His brow furrows and finally his gaze meets Aravis’, anger and rage boiling beneath the depths of his blue eyes.
Aravis is not his mother. The darkness is.
“Don’t you dare speak my name,” he whispers through a clenched jaw, knowing that despite his quiet hiss, she would be able to hear him.
Aravis’ lips turn downward into a disappointed from (the expression is terrifying) and though fear runs rampant through him, he does not crawl back into the darkness from whence he came.
‘You do not wish to join your family, my loyal son?’ Her voice is ice, unemotional. He knows his answer will either send him to his death or spiraling into madness like those before him.
He hears the crooning of the blackness behind him, encouraging him, giving him strength. How could he have left the caves to begin with? The outside world only brought him here, to this moment where his trust has been depleted and his heart left empty. Never again will he leave her, the darkness is his family.
Even if it meant dying here in the deep underground, at least he is finally home.
“You are not my family.”
His statement causes the others to pause their debauchery, glancing at him with terrible, stoic eyes. But then he remembers a forest with golden rays of light filtering through, a deep and still lake, trees as tall as the sky (a home, perhaps, in the very distant past, when he was just a colt) and the thought comforts him.
‘Disappointing, Balto.’ A pause. ‘Bring him to me.’ Aravis demands, and the group slithers away from her at her command, like snakes coming towards him. It is an unfair fight he knows, but Balto rushes to meet them anyways, returning their bites and kicks with swift ones of his own, as best he could. He would not succumb to them, they do not love him, they do not care for him, he’d rather die than live in a lie.
They begin drag him to the center, towards Aravis, where sweat and blood and bodily fluids all meet, his screams of protest and rage filling the cavern. His own blood pours down his body as he defends himself, as well as Corin’s as it drops from the ceiling.
He half-expects to wake up soon, as if this nightmare would finally end.
But the nightmare is real, and he is sure that it is far from over.
-- once the king of beasts but now they feast on thoughts beneath his vacant crown.
Caiman’s icicle-blue, piercing eyes seem to track her escape.
She feels the stare of them boring into her back as she leaves the group, as she follows the scent of tangy, tropical fruits. Zosma’s adrenaline had been like a flame with a quick fuse. It had started with the hoof by her face and had fueled her through the other mare’s attack. It had allowed her to flee faster than she’s ever run before as she puts space between her old friends and herself. But now, exhaustion is beginning to set in. Only the ragged breathes of the hunters that become softer in the distance behind her keep her moving. She imagines what the islanders would do to her if they caught up. She shudders when she thinks about how hideous they would look while they were doing it, how satisfied. The trail her nostrils track is easy enough to follow. Bright punches of flavor and richness hit her in waves, drawing her forward into safety. The Citrus Grove catches her like a net: stumbling feet, tired lungs, battered soul and all.
The blanched mare wants to lean against a lemon tree and rest. She is weary to her very bones. But she is also like a burr stuck fast in fate’s side; she’s never fallen when the odds threaten to topple her over. She can give up no more than she can live without breathing. Z thinks of her second home, those wild prairies that raised an innocent child into a knowing woman far too quickly, far too harshly. That black-hole night where she had looked up at the stars and wanted to die. Just once, but isn’t that enough? She remembers what she’d had to do to keep herself alive. All the learning and love that came afterwards had been worth it. All she’ll do now will be worth it, too. Because besides the lady that smelled impossibly of lavender (the kind, gentle heart that couldn’t know how wonderful she truly was), there was her own life to remember. She loved to be alive, and she would do everything she could to keep breathing.
Pausing is not an option.
The very real threat of her former family stalking behind her spurs her deeper into the grove. The Spanish horse walks with renewed strength and an appreciative eye. Beautiful wasn’t justice enough for this place of sanctuary. The trees here, like the ones deeper in the forest, are also large with life. Though this time it is the fruit they bear that makes them wide and heavy. All manner and type of fruit decorates the place of plenty. She sees grapefruits fattened by the dark, rich earth. She spots lemons and limes dotting the trees like bright stars. An orange plops to the ground next to her. Zosma jumps until she sees the culprit. Then she smiles a little and bends down to grasp it between her front teeth. The juices explode in her mouth and slide down her throat, tangy and strange and delicious. She eats it all.
Her movements through the grove are not frantic, but she continues further ahead just in case the islanders are still following her. Here and there, she samples the various tropical fruits, always walking as she eats bits and pieces of them. It is the birds that catch her attention, however. They flit above her from tree to tree. Like her, they are not choosy with their food. They bite into everything with their curving beaks. They sing in the moments that they are not eating, each melody unique to the species. She doesn’t know the names of these birds, they are so different than the ones of the prairie, of Espana. Some have brilliant multi-colored feathers of reds, blues, and yellows. Some are tiny and their motions are more erratic. One bird is mostly black with a long, reaching beak. Caiman, if she was a bird. It looks wicked, but she notices it eats fruit just like the others. Harmless, unlike the black horse.
Zosma is trying not to think of the others (though her heart stretches back to Koala and even Emu – the children would so love this colorful place) when the smell of rot hits her hard. She considers turning back. Surely there are other hiding spots in the jungle? But she maintains her course, even though it becomes quiet. Eerie. The shushing of bird wings and their songs ceases. She startles for the second time when a young macaw bursts from the depths of a lemon tree next to her. Its’ beady eyes are black and wide. It squawks at her noisily before fluttering back the way she’d came. Z’s heart hammers in her chest. She takes a step back and feels something collapse like a wet paper bag under her foot.
Juices spill again, but this time they are not as pleasant as the orange had been on her tongue. This time she jumps forward, repulsed by the white goo that warmly covers her ankles. She stifles a cry of disgust, still cognizant of her enemies. Unfortunately, the gigantic maggot is not alone. The floor of the forest is covered with them. They crawl and wriggle and squirm about, coating the rotten fruits with their thick bodies. It isn’t only fruit, she notices with abject horror. The maggots feast on the poor parrots and other birds unlucky enough to be caught. She’s seen enough and turns to move back to the beginning of the grove, back to birdsong and life, when they all start on her.
One latches onto her hind leg as she wheels around. The mare kicks out, trying to dislodge it, but the creature only bites down harder. When she turns her head to see the ugly thing on her hock, she sees the rest of them coming at her en masse. They slide over each other without concern, the squelching sound of their bodies like splinters in her ears. Nasty, she thinks, biting her lips hard enough to draw blood. It isn’t the only blood that spills. Because the maggots catch up to her and crawl over their brother still attached to her leg. They move over each other like a grotesque ladder, climbing atop her back and up her neck. She thrashes and rocks from side to side, but there is no escaping them. At once, the foul monsters start biting down. They gnaw off her pale coat in places, find the pink flesh underneath. One tries to burrow into her shoulder it seems, she bleeds freely from the open wound it leaves. Another climbs between her ears and over her face. The weight of it and the slimy trail it leaves makes her shake. It bends its’ little, ugly face to one of her eyes and sucks.
Zosma screams then because she is going to die.
CRAAAAWWWWW
The call rends the air like a weapon. But as the large shadow precedes the owner of the call, she is just as sure it will seal her doom as it will be a savior. She can’t see out of her left eye. Something warm and gushing streams down her face on that side, and she’s not sure if she even has an eye anymore. But out of her right eye, she sees the maggots scram. They fall off of her just as she’s enclosed in a strange embrace.
And then she’s lifted up and away.
“Aaaaaahhhh!” The surprise of her sudden departure from the ground on which she’s always firmly stood supersedes any pain she’s feeling. It is exhilarating, though, and Zosma settles into the hands of her hero far quicker than perhaps she should. Seeing the fruit trees shrink into the grove, which shrinks into the forest, which shrinks into the island is mesmerizing, even with potentially one eye. How oddly beautiful the world is from up here! All muted greens and blues and browns washed together. How could terrible things happen in spite of such magnificence? The soft underfeathers of the giant macaw tickle her kaleidoscope of wounds and she flinches. The bird pulls in his belly just enough that it won’t happen again. She is immeasurably glad for the bird’s timing and feels safe enough with it. If she hadn’t been in such pain, Z imagines she could be rocked to sleep by the gentle turbulence and wind swishing through the macaw’s jewel-like wings.
“Meddling fool.”
The pale mare whips her head around to see out of her good eye, trying to find the source of the voice. She can’t at first, and wonders if she hit her head somewhere along the way. Maybe I’ve been imagining everything for a while, maybe the maggots sucked all the brains right out of me. Blood rolls off of her like hot wax on pale parchment, falling down far below. Then the heat comes. It feels real enough as it hits her savior just above her head. Zosma flinches away from it and turns back just in time to see the dragon appear out of nowhere. The onyx beast is like an oncoming storm. The bird spins away from it, trying to outfly what is impossible. Because it is impossible, even she can see that. The dragon is massive and sleek; it will overtake them quickly if it doesn’t fry them first.
The macaw loses altitude and dips back towards the island. She wonders if there is a nest or a secret cavern it will take her to, but it heads for the beach instead. Everything grows larger again. The forest gains detail, then the individual trees do as well. The bird’s grip loosens slightly just past the shore. “Thank you for saving me,” Zosma yells into the brine-soaked air just before she thinks it will drop her. And then it does. She lands, hard but intact, on a sloping dune of sand. Her head pounds from a distinct spot on the left side of her head. She still cannot see out of the eye (if it is even there). The great bird continues on towards the jungle with the dragon pursuing it. She tracks their movements before something catches her gaze along the forest’s edge.
The islanders return to where it all started.
Where the sky was always clear and bright. Where the smell of the citrus grove washed over them, reminding them of everything sweet and good. Where they were beached and bonded. Where they became a family who promised to protect one another.
She doubts the promise holds any water, now.
They slaver at the sight of her alone on the shore. Easy take, their starved eyes seem to say. Easy kill. Even Koala bares his teeth at her as the group starts forward as one - one insane pack of would-be killers. She feels for her reserves, but they are empty. She’s bleeding and sore, and the ragged wound at her shoulder and eye takes her out of the fight. They’ll end her in a moment if she remains stationary. She is a fighter, but more importantly than that she is smart; she knows a loss when she sees it.
“Damn,” she says under her breath. Then she gathers her feet under her and runs past them. Z follows the trail of singed feathers that the massive parrot dropped on his flight. Maybe, just maybe she wasn’t the only one it’s saved. Maybe it carried a sweet chestnut mare in the safety of its leathery toes away from danger before. Maybe by finding the macaw, she will find Kangaroo, too. She owes it her life, besides. If she can help it against the dragon, she will give it her all. There is nothing left for her to lose.
Amidst the mists and coldest frosts
he thrusts his fists against the posts
and still insists he sees the ghosts
She had never thought they would find her. Niko had thought she had been clever by using the path with the rocks but something is unnatural about the way they are screeching and even though it is quiet in the cave, their voices soon shatter whatever relief has hoped to bloom in her heart.
"Nikooo...NIKOOO....NIKOLINE, SHOW YOUR SELF, LITTLE BITCH!!" The voice of Penny nearly deafens her. Niko stands too quickly, reeling as she engulfs in her fear and bashes her poll against the low hanging ceiling. It sends stars across her eyes, the white flash of pain that makes her nauseous. Niko wants to assess the damage but the warmth of blood that tricks down the her cheek, staining the white of her hair and skin is enough to shake her away from such a petty thought.
The painted woman chance at survival is to head deeper into the darkness of the cave. She can hear them calling her in all attempts. Sweet 'pretty pleases', angry sharp words, the acid of cruelty calling her anything from 'bitch' to 'whore' to 'cunt'. Niko, despite the dizziness and the steady ooze of blood, does not give up her life and chooses to darkness over sacrifice. There was no mercy in their voices despite their masked pleading for her to return to them.
Her legs are tired, her lung scream as she scrambles, falls, gets up to repeat it all. She can feel the sting of sweat and blood as she fights her way through the growing darkness but she gladly gave up the light for her life.
After what seemed like hours, the walls seem to be closing in.
Niko had though she was simply bumped into the side of the cave. She traces it along with the edge of her muzzle to help find a passage. The darkness has nearly engulfed her vision but she traces to wall like a blind woman in a desperate attempt at saving herself. Panic begins to set in when she can feel the press of the wall against her other side. Niko is scared and feral in the darkness, still pushing forward despite the pain of the sharp edges tearing into her soft skin. Was this a better fate? To die alone and cold in the darkness?
Yes. A million times yes.
She can barely breath. The wall seems to collapse around her and the hope to escape is dimming. Each crooked edge brings a fresh rip in her skin, her blood surely tracing the sides of the rocky cave like a trail. It is almost too much but...but there is a "-light" she whispers and suddenly the blood dribbling in her eyes and the pain of the rawness on her sides means nothing and she squeezes forward till suddenly there is a -pop- and she stumbles into an open room.
The light is so much brighter here as it resonates against the sides of a cavern like a hot fire. Niko draws to cit easily as it is the only source of light. Her eyes are wide and she temporarily forgets about the pain that she feels before she breaches the edge of the bowl to find them in all states of savagery. There are moans and giggling...and JACK! The sounds of -fucking- are above it all and Niko stands in horror of the images. Jack seems to be the source of it all...she doesn't understand. Oh Jack, how could you?? Niko mourns silently as wetness threatens her eyes till the sight of whats seems like rain droplets, thick and fat, seem to fall from the ceiling. Slowly, inch by inch, her eyes crawl up to the source to only find the horrible construed face of Abigail. Niko does all but scream as she clamps her mouth shut, trying to understand how the rocks bulge from her yellow head, the horses who she had called family, seem to use the blood dripping down upon them like lubrication to worm and intertwine their bodies in their rampant acts of sin.
(How could you, Jack?)
'Come on, you know you want to...' Their voices echo in her head and she can not seem to comprehend it all. It makes her dizzy and tired...perhaps if she could squeeze back through..but no, she had lost enough blood already...but wait, maybe that is just it...could it all be an illusion brought on by the injury to her head? Niko seems clouded in her thoughts and perhaps if she were able to think more clearly then she could have found a better solution but at this rate of blood loss from the gaping cut on her brow and the threads of blood painting her pink on her sides, well what else more could she lose? Niko desperately, and perhaps falsely, hopes this is all just a fever dreams and decides to confront them.
"Jack! Everyone! What is going on?" The mare asks from the edge of the cavern, horrified by their activities, but she does not dare enter their debauchery for fear that their blood bathing may include using her own. She is careful to ask them from the stance and carefully to try and keep an eye on the exit of the cave but...wait? How did they beat here here if they had been out there? Perhaps she was dead already and lost in her won madness but the pain of her sides and her brow were very much real and so she trains her eyes on Jack with a sad desperation wetting them "Jack? What the hell is going on?!" Perhaps he was the puppeteer...Niko did not know but she would soon find out whether it was all a figment of a broken brain or real.
The blood still seems to fall and the red stallion still seemed to glow, staining his own hide a darker red, she is not sure if any of the others have even really noticed her at all...
