"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
06-03-2018, 01:39 PM (This post was last modified: 06-03-2018, 09:22 PM by Neo.
Edit Reason: Example added
)
They come. Just as the summer heat gives way to a slight morning frost. They seek those who are un-gifted.
Normal.
Their plans will work best on these specimens. No unique gene will hinder the results of what they are about to do to those captured…
The 411:
* Something/someone from somewhere comes and somehow captures your unsuspecting pony!! (is that vague enough?! Lol) GO CREATIVE CRAZY! This is the beginnings of your story...
*Start with your pony anywhere in BQ and end with them captured.
*No word count limit
*Due June 23rd
Basically you will become a science experiment (it will be completely up to you if it's good or bad outcome) Think of...hmm... Deadpool XD
EDIT:
Example given of what I mean by something/someone, somewhere, somehow...
-An advanced species of ants, shrinks your pony and brings them into their anthill- (yes it can be that out there) make up crazy things/beings/worlds!
Rules:
*One entry per player
*Entry must not have anymore than a one-space trait
*Deadlines between chapters will be no less than one week. There will be 5 chapters.
*No editing posts
*No use of existing traits during quest(physical features such as wings or horns will remain intact only until Chapter 3)
*No extensions- notify me if you must drop out
*Defects can be given but will be temporary
*There will be a 1st, 2nd and 3rd place trait prizes TBD
*Judged on creativity, flow of your story, and following rules ofc
This world was different than the one he had known. Gray with stone walls, the space echoed with the nearly silent hum of electronic machinery. A far away beeping filled his ears in time to the quickened pace of his heart beat. Groggily his eyes blink rapidly as his body awakens from whatever influence it had been under. The limbs attached to him feel foreign almost as if they did not belong to him, with a million different parts moving simultaneously. Instinctively his arm attempts to lift itself from the stone slab it had been resting upon only to be met by the harsh grab of a stiff restraint. Repelled by his confinement and inability to move, his body lurches upward, his back arching as an animalistic grunt rises up from the depths of his throat.
New panic grabbed a hold of his as his head twisted from one side to the other as his breathing picked up, forming a hollow place in the barrel of his chest. There was no grass, no trees – only gray and dark places. A nearly sheer blanket acted as a barrier to the space just beyond his and despite his singularly blind eye, his ears caught the faint rasp of another’s breath. He was not alone. For a moment he wanted to call out to the unknown entity shielded from his sight, but his vocal chords felt tight and unfamiliar, much like everything else.
Just beyond the cold slab of stone he was attached to, medical equipment filled almost every available space. Tubes filled with multicolored liquid trailed down the length of the tubes that sprouted from them and into his body. Fleshy and pale his veins bulged blue in a spiderweb like fashion. Hanging all around him, bags containing the unknown substances hung ominously, dripping their poison with every beep of the machine. He felt no pain, but his limbs were heavy, and a thick fog clouded his thoughts and prevented his memories from shedding light onto his current predicament.
A shuffle just beyond his fabric wall drew his attention away from the things that he could not explain. With a momentary struggle he turned his head in time to see a white coated woman slink between the sliver of an opening. Clipboard in hand she stared down at her notes, her muddy eyes only flitting to meet his momentarily. Humming deep in her throat she tucked her board beneath her armpit and began to fiddle with the many dials and buttons upon the various different machines that surrounded him.
Smacking his lips experimentally he tested the weight of his tongue, disliking the feel of it in his mouth. “Wh – where am I?”
She says nothing, and, for a moment, he wonders if she heard him or if he had spoken at all. Her movements remained steady and unfaltering at the sound of his disjointed and raspy question. It’s only when she is finished that she turned to regard him, her eyes cold upon his naked form.
“No need to worry, Mr. Hephaestus,” she said in a robotic tone as she slowly drifted towards whence she came. “Sleep well.”
Although it’s summer, Nerine’s coastal lands are pleasantly cool. Along the shore, a gentle breeze accompanies the constant roar of waves crashing onto the beach. Nataliya stands just beyond the border between wet and dry sand, allowing a small amount of seawater to touch her hooves every time another wave washes ashore. Seagulls spiral and dive overhead, calling as they chase one another. Some might consider the noise annoying, but Nataliya would not have them any other way. She feels safe here, facing the grey-blue sea with her back to Nerine’s tall granite cliffs, and knowing that Hyaline lies between her home and the Loess-Sylvan alliance. (Nataliya feels like a horrible equine being for thinking like that, but … it’s true …)
A seagull swoops down in front of the dark bay mare’s face, and the rest of her thoughts dissolve into laughter as she chases after the grey-white bird in a carefree gallop. She gets far enough that the water reaches her knees before stopping to splash around, letting out a joyful whinny. For Nataliya, life in Nerine is wonderful. She doubts its shores will ever bore her. Tossing her head, she starts to trot back to dry sand when she nearly trips on a clump of kelp hidden beneath the water. Deciding that the sand looked appealing anyway, Nataliya trots to where the water is shallower, carried by her free, high-stepping gait, and starts to roll around. The wet sand sticks to her mane, tail, and coat, getting everywhere, but she doesn’t care. There is always the sea and its waves to wash it off later.
As she rolls, dark brown eyes spot an unnaturally sparkly shell. How wonderful! she thinks, reaching to nudge it with her nose. But as soon as she touches it, the world around her trembles and warps and bends until everything is a mess of jumbled colors and blurred outlines. Suddenly, shadows spiral from the shell, multiplying until Nataliya is surrounded by darkness. Startled terror takes little time to turn into fury. How dare the shadows attack her?! Moving is, for some reason, unusually difficult, but that does nothing to curb the Saddlebred’s determination to make the darkness pay. Ears disappear against the muscles of her neck and her dark mane, and Nataliya rises into an uncontrolled rear, lashing out with her front hooves before the shadows take her in their grip and she is forced down, down, down until everything turns black.
When she wakes, the world is dark and cold and unfamiliar. She’s lying on her side, surrounded by rough grey rock. She tries to move, but exhaustion surges through her veins and she has to lay down again. And - where was that creepy music coming from?
As if on cue, a shadowy shape appears in front of her, fiddling with something. “Welcome, and thank you for volunteering to help us gather new knowledge,” it greets, and the music stops abruptly. Nataliya feels a flash of anger. She never volunteered for anything. “We hope you don’t hate your stay here too much…” Here, the creature chuckles, an unpleasant raspy noise. “Though some things can’t be helped.”
OOC: If anyone's wondering what the music is, here's a link.
the first time he calls you holy, you laugh it back so hard your sides hurt.
the second time, you moan gospel around his fingers between your teeth.
The long days of summer always drag out the colors of summer, the oranges and purples like spilled paint across the clouds until they sigh into purples and blues. Virgo wears a faint smile as she admires it. Then, she hears her name so delicately and lovingly whispered behind her. She turns with a curious tilt of her head to see who could possibly recognize her after all these years but she is met with the open meadows she knew before. A snort escapes her and she shakes her head in agitation.
Virgo!
The voice is clearer now and.. beneath her? No, but certainly just as close. Virgo peeks her pale head toward the water of the lake beside her but she can only spy her reflection across calm waters. It is the face she has known all her life, unchanged by the pool. She has known magic all her life and so she does not startle as she waits for some familiar face to peak from the depths. Somehow, it makes sense to her that way. No one rises to meet her and there is no more calling her name to snare her attention, only the wind across her forelock. Seconds tick by as she slowly, s l o w l y leans her head closer until she’s nearly kissing her reflection. But still there is nothing. Another snort stirs a weak ripple across the water.
A tiny ink black hand reaches out and lays its palm flat against her muzzle with the lightest of touches. She does not recognize this hand, but the sight of it makes her heave and shriek with terror as she back pedals to retreat from it. But the hand is not alone. Countless more reach out, swarming one on top of the other with impossible reach, dragging her closer to their slick, wet colony. She struggles in their iron grips and thrashes in the water while she cries out for help, but the empty meadow does not heed her call.
Why are these little hands so strong? These frantic thoughts cloud her mind as the water reaches up to her knees. Why here? Up to her shoulders now. Why her? Over her head now, and deeper by the second. Water floods her mouth and nose as she struggles for breath where there is none. The hands deposit her, finally, on the lake’s floor and release her. The surface is a pin point of light to her now and she knows it is too late to return there in time, but death does not come to collect her today. She does not even lose consciousness. The terror of dying and drowning do not leave her despite this, making her twitch uncomfortably in the icy depths.
“Worthy?” a voice whispers to another.
“Unworthy!” another spits in response.
Trembling, she twists her body until she can find the source. A thousand unblinking little white eyes stare, wide in awe of her, as they hurriedly mumble to one another. If there are faces attached to the eyes then she cannot see them. Each seems to have their turn casting their vote in chittering voices until one hisses above the rest, “Test!” Then, there is a pause of silence as the revolting children consider this vote. She prays for death before these unholy things, prays that some miracle will spare her from their tiny hands once more.
“Test! Test! Test!” they all begin in a slow chant. Virgo finally manages to stand upright beneath the weight of all the water above her as they begin to whoop and howl in delight at their final decision. If there are tears flowing from her eyes, she cannot feel them, but she believes they are there.
Virgo
you will ruin him and he will thank you; he will say please.
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
It’s dark when she startles awake. Something has snapped her from the soft arms of slumber, jolting her body so suddenly her bones seem to crack and ache into place. The high, dark walls of a Nerinian cave still rise around her, but the pale sand is glowing with moonlight. Wishbone’s slender head tips up to spot the milky-white orb floating directly in the center of the skylight of the cavern. The force of the light darkens the depths of the sky surrounding the moon and the girl has a sudden, dripping realization that the skylight looks akin to an eye.
And then, it blinks.
The ocean laps only feet away from the entrance to the cave, but Wishbone quickly scrambles out into the fresh air. The waves are bitter with the night’s chill and they sting when they wash over her heels. “What the fuck is going on?” There’s a sight before her eyes, so tangible yet ethereal that she wonders if this is a hyper-realistic dream. If it is, Wishbone isn’t sure if she wants to wake up from it.
The stars are dripping from the heavens. Constellations pull themselves from the darkness of the sky to float down to Nerine’s shoreline. They move as though they are feathers — tossed to and fro by the fingers of the wind-currents — but their routes are always directed toward the patch of sand before Wishbone’s slender body. When they land, their shapes call to mind her father’s voice and she quietly echos his words aloud. “Aries, Cephus, and Vela. Pisces, Draco, and Orion.” There are plenty more, their hazy light illuminating the wonder on Wishbone’s face.
Before she has time to say anything more than name a handful of those gathered, the darkness of the empty sky seems to split open. A lavender glow comes from the crevice before a shape appears from the seams. Wishbone’s amber eyes squint upward at the figure, even while the constellations murmur in starry tones around her. The creature that flies down to her on a direct, noble path is one she has never seen before.
Long, tan legs extend from a torso clothed in pale ivory fabric. There’s a head of curled brown hair atop a circular head and Wishbone’s eyes find the dark green ones of the stranger. For some strange reason, a word she has never thought of before enters her mind: human. It is quickly shoved out by a more prominent thought, this one nearly doused in the color of defense: no, god.
“Wishbone.” The god’s voice is rugged and matches his handsome features well. Anticipation marries wonder among the tissue of Wishbone’s mind. “My name is Hermes. You have been chosen.” She nearly asks what she has been chosen for, but the god is speaking too quickly. “Come with me, quickly.” Before Wishbone has time to think, the constellations are shifting again in hazy, whimsical movements. They align to form a bridge high into the sky, aiming for the lavender glow among the darkness of the starless night.
“What is this?” Wishbone’s mind is a whirlwind, confusion kissing thrill, but her feet are stepping onto the glow of the constellation-bridge. Hermes gives no answer, his bare feet touching down on the bridge before he runs ahead, calling her to follow him.
She follows him — running upon the shoulders and backs and lines of the constellations (the very ones her father would point out with his navy nose on Tephra’s ash shores), a slender figure pale by the glow of the stars, racing up into the black night toward an adventure that will lead her farther than she has ever gone before.
Hermes disappears into the lavender crevice before her, with a last “Hurry up!” over his shoulder. Wishbone doesn’t slow her pace, long legs stretching to eat up the final distance of the starry bridge. There’s a warm, tickling feeling across her whole body when she touches the glow and then it suddenly all disappears into nothingness. A heavy ache spreads into the marrow of her bones but she is fading, fading, fading.
When her eyes slide open, she feels different. There is a softness she has never felt before on all sides of her, as comforting as the depths of her mother’s womb. Soft yellow light shines out of intricately-designed lanterns, warming the room to a comfortable glow. Wishbone sits upward, surprised to find her body in the same configuration as Hermes. Human, but not a god. A mirror lies on the table beside her bed (the names for these objects flow from her mind as easily as if she has known them all her life and, decidedly, she doesn’t question it) and she picks it up with pale fingers.
Her face stares back, splattered with dainty freckles along her nose and under her eyes. There’s a thin, slender scar against her full lips and when she touches the blemish, she finds her mouth to be soft and supple. Her eyes are the same — wide with amber color and full of ambition and wilderness — while her hair falls in tangled, tender locks of the same mahogany that used to cover her body. When Wishbone sits forward, the blanket falls from her torso to reveal a thin ivory nightgown. The material is nearly transparent, yet it covers her more than nudity would, and thus she slides her long legs from beneath the blanket to stand upon the warm floor.
A gorgeous woman appears just as her feet touch the ground. “My name is Hera, sweet Wishbone.” Her cupid-lips have been painted a deep maroon, complimenting the pale rose gold of her dress. “Please, follow me.” Without asking questions (what sorts of questions would she even ask?) Wishbone follows the goddess. They pass a window in the hallway and, when her amber eyes peer outside, she finds more dazzling constellations twisting in intricate, delicious displays above a wide expanse of dark nothingness.
“You have been chosen.” Her words are a feminine echo of Hermes’ rugged ones. The floor is cool beneath her bare feet, but when Hera opens a large door, the warmth of the room before them drives away any thoughts of a chill. A tall, ebony stallion stands to the left, pale blue wisps winding along the slope of his body and the strength of his legs. To the right swims a great white shark, a creature Wishbone has only seen from a distance in Nerine. Although there is no water to be seen, he swims through the air as easily as though he were in an ocean. And directly center, a god crafted of dark gray thundercloud and white-hot electricity, the shaft of a lightning bolt held in one large hand.
“Wishbone.” They all speak at once, each with varying tones of masculinity (the horse, a raspy tenor that slips into her ears like poison’s voice; the shark, a smooth baritone that slides against her eardrum like the slip of rain on a window; the thundercloud, a deep bass that seems to vibrate within her very body like the laughter of a volcano). “You have been chosen.”
Exhilaration paints rose-pink upon her freckled cheeks.
It was named, perhaps unimaginativly, for the chain of artificial islands which had been created for it. If the name was unimaginative, the purpose most certainly was not. One part sociology project, one part biology experiment, one part fever dream; the Beqanna Project had been an undertaking of unprecedented scope and technology. How it got approved is anyone's guess. But it had, and it had gained massive support through a Truman Show-esque following worldwide.
The premise was an unusual one. Carefully monitored and controlled islands, populated by a uniquely genetically modified subspecies of equine, was observed day and night by a dedicated team of researchers. Only a select few of these were permitted direct contact with the subjects, and only then through "magical" alter egos considered by Beqanna's residents to be kinds of deities.
These primary subjects have been imbued with humanoid intelligence levels, and an accelerated rate of growth and reproduction. In addition, subjects are selectively altered with the insertion of the "magic" gene. A biologic mutation, this gene can manifest in untold variations of expression, often altering the appearance and abilities of the subjects which carry it. This gene may be potentially held across four chromosomes. The locations and activation of these alleles determines the type and intensity of the expressed traits. This gene is what the Beqanna Project is all about.
◇◇◇
An accelerated reproduction rate means that we have been able to observe advancement and evolution of the gene more effectively than we could have dreamed possible. Variety is added to the gene pool via specimen insertion, often with "natural" adult equinoids. With the advancement of the developed species, these insertions are vital for maintaining something resembling a control group. Tests in the forms of meteorological and/or social events are given periodically. The adaptability of these subjects is remarkable and it has been deemed imperative that we deduce what particular mechanisms enable the high survivability observed. Natural, or close to natural subjects have been selected for this study, as they do not have extra ordinary skills with which to rely on for survival. Myself, accompanied by a small extraction team, have been tasked with retrieving selected subjects to be examined for further data.
◇◇◇
Subject #28128, "Sabra"
Age: 6y
Health: Good to Excellent
Mentation: Stable to Excitable
LKL: "The River"
Status: Insertion/Semi-Natural
Observations:
•Subject is observed as displaying as unusual coloration and possessing functional avion fight appendages, but otherwise unaffected genetically.
•Subject originally an insertion, has since integrated fully into Beqanna social structure.
•Subject displays normal to above normal reproductive ability, and has successfully parented three (3) living offspring with varying degrees of mutation, by two (2) sires, within the last three (3) years.
Notes: In previous tests, subject has been observed as extremely survivable/willing to adapt.
Recommend tactful capture, as subject has been previously observed as unpredictable in temperament, and was last known to be accompanied by this season's offspring. Approach with care, sedate with prejudice.
◇◇◇
You know that feeling? The one of being watched? Where you can feel the pressure of eyes on the back of your head, and feel that if you can just look behind you fast enough, you'll find eyes to stare back into. I've been having that feeling all day.
This morning started well enough, the sun waking me from a luscious dream. Still feeling warm from the memory of breath thieving kisses and urgent motion, it was a moment before I felt ready to greet the day with any kind of courtesy. It had been almost a year since I'd last been held in that black and white embrace which had been occupying my dreams ever since. Time flies when you're alone. Well. Not quite alone.
The twins, ever content in their own company, had followed me through the weeks and months since their father's departure. Fraternal brothers, they could be night and day versions of each other. With Kwartz I had been split between his care and my duties as queen, and over time it became clear that I had perhaps neglected the boy at times. Being able to focus on the twins has been a revelation, and I can't believe how incredible they really are. Growing larger and more adventurous every day, it's all I can do to keep them in sight anymore. Santana gets more daring with his outsized wings everyday, and I have begun to note the hint of jealousy in my Raul when watching his brother. Something must be done about that, though secretly I have to agree. Wings are a blessing, and I don't know how I managed to produce a child without them. Watching the boys play as the sun rises ever higher, I graze my plot of earth with vague unease. Am I going mad? Why can I not relax this feeling of being watched by invisible eyes?
Gazing about me for the hundredth time that hour, I almost missed the sound of a strange click, followed by a thin whistle. "Ouch! What the-?" A sharp sting landed itself at the base of my neck. Shaking in an attempt to dislodge whatever it was that struck me, I grew suddenly frightened. A strange cold numbness was spreading with alarming speed from the point. This was like no fly bite I'd ever experienced before. The cold spread like frostbite, carried on my traitorous heartbeats to the ends of my extremities. Too late, I thought to scream a warning to the boys. A raspy, unintelligible groan was all that escaped my throat as my knees buckled under my weight. The sounds of the day grew distorted, as if heard through murky water. "Help..." I whispered as ringing darkness seeped into my brain, knowing there was no one to hear it.
◇◇◇
Well that was easier than anticipated. Subject 28128 is in custody and awaiting transport for extraction. Sedation was administered via dart gun at 1621, to be reversed upon intake. Standing by for further instructions.
The noise was the first thing that she became aware of.
She could hear the cacophony as if she was at one end of a long tunnel, and the rest of the world at the other. By the time it reached her ears, it was muffled and distorted, far from anything she’d ever heard before. It was thousands of little outbursts at the same time, endlessly, combining to form a sea of sound. The noise was punctuated by the occasional deep rumbling, not altogether unlike voices, but conversing in a language she didn’t understand. So too was an occasional blub sort of noise, like bubbles emerging from water. None of this was terribly unpleasant, though she did rather wish for it to stop. Really, she wished for everything to stop, give her enough time to process what was happening, perhaps drift back to dreamless sleep for a while.
But the noises persevered, and she began to realize that the reason she yearned for silence was an almighty throbbing pain resonating throughout her skull. Groggily, she began to unfold her limbs, only to realize that they were neatly pressed against her by solid, curved walls. She struggled to open her eyes, only to discover that they were open, but she was immersed in darkness. It wasn’t absolute, however, and as her eyes adjusted, she understood that there was a faint blue light filtering in the walls around her. She focused on it and realized with a shudder that the light was marbled with streaks of red, looking eerily like veins as they crisscrossed the world around her. Dark shapes occasionally passed, blocking what little light came through, though nothing was particularly discernable.
Suddenly, she was flooded in light, so bright that she squeezed her eyes shut against it. Disturbed and suffocated by the confinement, she flailed, hooves making a hollow sort of sound as they struggled to find purchase against her prison. The walls were coated in something slimy and soft, and her blows were diminished by both this membraneous lining and the lack of space in her enclosure. Somewhere outside, the deeper noises paused, then resumed after a few moments with renewed fervor. The terrible realization that these were voices occurred to her and she lay dormant, terrified. She had only just begun to squint her eyes open when the light vanished, leaving her blind in the darkness. Frozen, she remained motionless until long after the voices faded away. This was a tiring venture in her disoriented state, and she accepted her confinement, slumping down into the smooth curve of the wall below. Despite her worry, the complete lack of options was admittedly somewhat soothing. Or perhaps simply exhausting. Either way, she soon drifted back to sleep.
When Traton awoke, the noises had changed somewhat, and the light had brightened considerably. She still was bathed mostly in darkness, but could now see her own folded limbs, tinted a blue-green from the hue of the light. In her sleep, she had forgotten the predicament of earlier and awoke confused, only to begrudgingly remember the dreadful little prison she found herself in. How had she gotten here? She closed her eyes, drifting back over her memories. Some of them were… fractured, in a way. She didn’t think to connect this odd disorientation with the splitting pain in her head, nor the moment that something (hoof? rock? gigantic bird?) had collided with it, knocking her unconscious.
She remembered the shores of Nerine, the brilliant blue summer sky, the white caps of teal waves. She laughed as Gallia sprinted across the beach, pausing occasionally to taunt crabs. One managed to pinch the soft skin of her muzzle, and the filly flung her head wildly before it let go and went sailing into the ocean. Traton had rushed to her, worried, but the child just grinned toothily through a rivulet of blood. Growing up so fast, she thought, feelings of pride tinged with a note of sadness. After her daughter had left to play with the others, the spotted mare found herself wandering, adrift to a haunt she’d come to appreciate when she’d first arrived in Beqanna.
Taiga.
The redwoods had a way of absorbing sound that made loneliness feel absolute, infinite. Traton preferred a rather headfirst approach to dealing with emotions; burying her feelings in a dead forest was no exception. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but if they did exist, she silently bid them to speak to her and soothe the ache in her chest. She eventually reached the water of the sea, stretching out glassily before her, contemplating the isolation that permeated the core of her being.
Thus, perhaps her surprise was justified as her informal séance was interrupted by a rapidly rising mist from the otherwise dead waters. Transfixed, she stood, equally curious and disturbed, feeling the blood drain from her face furiously. The smell of damp wood and decay gave way to something new, salty like the ocean but otherwise musty and unfamiliar. The mist had thickened to the point of opaqueness and gathered on the shore not far from where she stood, morphing and roiling into a shape that became distinctly equine. He emerged moments later- or perhaps became was a better description- mist still rolling off his gleaming black hide, bits of seaweed and broken seashells entangled in his luxuriant mane and tail. The stallion was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen, and neither uttered a sound as they regarded one another. She didn’t remember walking to him, nor the decision to do so; only the allure of his stunning turquoise eyes and the soft green-blue iridescence of his coat. Luminescent spots dotted his body, arranged in careful lines from head to tail, glowing bright blue against the pale pre-dawn light. Those eyes… that look was so piercing, as if he could see right through her. She had the distinct feeling that he had terrible intentions in mind, but a much stronger portion of her psyche did not care.
The last things she could recall were his beautiful eyes and the smell of rotting seaweed.
Jesper did make it home. Though, most days Ischia did not feel like home. Don't take that the wrong way. Lamb, Brennen and, his brothers did everything they could to make him feel safe and, put his worries to bed. He just could not escape from his own mind. His thoughts held him as much a prisoner as Sylva did. He often found his think-box wandering back to those paranoid strolls through the autumnal forest. His lobes swivel atop his poll in a frantic scan for any, out-of-place noise. His worried aquamarine eyes are wide with anxiety and, flit across the scenery in search of looming threats. His nostrils flare and, slowly filter through large volumes of air to detect the slightest hint of a stranger. His ebony pelt is tautly stretched across tense muscles and, every fiber of his being is ready to be called upon. Despite being out of the grasps of evil, he absolutely could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.
In order to escape these panic-stricken episodes, Jesper sought retreat on the island. He climbed to her highest elevation. Here, he could eliminate the threat of evil sneaking up on him from above or, behind. Rather, the flora and fauna grew sparse up here. This allowed for better visibility and, less hiding places for stealthy advances. His company included the sun and, her nurturing warmth, the clouds and, the gentle whisper of the wind. Occasionally, a brave parrot would leave the comforts of its flock to perch on a branch nearby and, sunbathe. He did find it odd that the bird would fly here though, perhaps it was Brennen's subtle way of keeping an eye on him without literally breathing down his neck. Neverthless, the ebony equine did not mind the foul's company. He would allow his mind to drift away, from darkness, as he watched the breeze ruffle its delicate feathers and, listened to its content hums.
When he found himself alone, Jesper chose to stare out towards the horizon. From this elevation, he could see the vast sea, in all of her glory. As he stared and, studied it, he noticed that the edge of the ocean is not a straight line. An irregular mass is visible just to the left (northeast) of where the daystar rises each morning. Whether the light of day or, night touches it, the blob was a different consistency and density than that of water. It never changed shape nor, did it move from its location. Every time he looked in that direction, he found it, looming there. He puzzled on this; on the possibility that other lands existed outside Beqanna. Did they possess life like Beqanna? Did they possess magic? Love and war? These deeply intellectual thoughts were a welcome distraction from his usual musings.
One crisp day, while Jesper stood atop the safety of his post, his ears pick up an unfamiliar buzz. It was nothing like the rubbing of a flies wings together. It was a mechanical whir he had never heard before. He grew tense and, immediately, began searching for it. From above, from in between the white wisps of cloud vapor, came a small object which heads straight towards Jesper. It bore wings, though they did not flap like a bird's. It had a glossy window where a pair of eyes should be though, their were no eyelids or, blinking. Realizing that this foreign contraption was headed towards him and, afraid of what its arrival meant for him, the stallion shifts into motion. Muscular haunches engage, as they were prepared to, and push the desert-bred equine down the slope he adorned.
Light footfalls drum the loam and, onyx male enters the heart of the jungle's foliage. He makes sure not to lead it in the direction of his king or, his brothers. Rather, he zigs and zags through the maze of tree trunks until he feels he has lost it. He slides into a stop and, with sides heaving, he draws in several breaths to replace the oxygen stores just depleted. Lobes face rearward, as Jesper pants, to listen for the drone's buzz. Much to his dismay, the echo of its buzz reverberates off the nearby foliage and the tufts of his ears. With it hot on his tail, he does not hesitate to shift into gear. He chooses an easy lope to carry him to the northern shores, away from his job and, the rest of Beqanna. As his hooves churn the sands of the coast, Jesper applies the brakes and, his limbs slow into an animated jog. He pivots to face his chaser with lobes pinned flat to poll, sides heaving with rapid inspires and expires and, his stare as cold and unwavering as ice. Jesper locks onto the approaching gadget and, studies its every sway in the coastal breeze. It falters for a few moments and then, it charges at him. The ebony stag rises onto his hind pillars and, strikes his front limbs at the unknown attacker. Hooves jab and claw but the device is not deterred.
Gravity soon brings the equine ungracefully back to solid ground on all fours. As his weight slams into the gritty terrain, a high-pitched whistle is heard from his left. And then, a sharp pinch, the jab of a tranquilizer dart, is felt in his neck. Skull swivels to allow gaze to identify the drone's new position. With it hovering just off to his left, labrums peel back to unsheathe teeth which part and snap at the object. The sudden snaking of his head, combined with the sedative now coursing through his veins, is enough to throw his balance off. Limbs shuffle to catch himself and, while successful for a moment, his vision becomes extremely blurry the next. The emerald forest of Ischia blurs and the light of day fades. Before he knows it, Jesper finds himself sinking onto his knees, in the cool sand and, his eyelids growing heavy.
He falls into a dark slumber and, remains unaware of the invasion that occurs on the northern shore. He can not hear the purr of the boat's motor as it enters the shallows, the cease of its rumbles as the waves push it ashore or, the scraping of the bottom of the boat against the sand. He does not hear the excited voices of the two-leggeds who rush towards him and, examine his sleek, fit form as he lays there. He does not feel the canvas sling embracing his chest or, the soft flesh of human fingertips lifting his front legs to slide the wrap into position. He does not feel the sling wrap around his midsection and, tighten over his back. He does not hear the crank of the crane that lifts him from the sands of Ischia and, lowers him into the metal holding cell on deck. He does not hear or feel the vibrations of the motor as it comes to life again.
He remains unaware of the jostling and rocking of the vessel across the sea as it returns to its home port. He is unaware of the gurney that the crane hoists him onto and, transports him from the boat, down the dock and, into another vehicle on wheels. This vehicle carries the unconscious Jesper, to the research lab, however far away that is. He is unaware of being unloaded from the vehicle upon his squeaky wheeled ride. He does not feel the sterile air that rushes over him as he enters the laboratory. He can not feel the warmth of the clean water or, the sensation of soap being rubbed into every crevice his pelt covers. He does not hear the rush of water as the soap and, dirt that make him Jesper, are rinsed down the drain. He does not feel the second bath; this one a disinfecting scrub that, if he could smell it, smells strongly of chemicals: chlorhexidine to be exact. He does not feel the second poke; this time of a large guage needle piercing through his pelt to withdraw a sample of crimson from his veins. He remains unaware of when they have finished initiating him and, finally, move him to an isolated room.
Slowly, he becomes aware of his own heartbeat and, his gentle breaths. He can feel the cool air surrounding him and, the absence of any sound or, smell he recognizes. When his eyelids do finally, groggily, lift, a harsh light causes his pupils to shrink and his lids to close protectively once more. He is far too disoriented to move and so, he decides to remain where he is, folded up in a peaceful, resting position for now. His tufted lobes swivel and scan with radar intelligence though, he only hears silence. His nostrils inhale a similar emptiness as there is a distinct absence to the air. He detects a void of dirt, salt, must, urine, equine or, any foliage. He attempts to open his eyes once again. This time, he does so very slowly to allow his gaze to adjust to the bright light that bathes him.
He permits himself several blinks to clear the grogginess from his vision before he focuses on the stark emptiness of this place. He is alone. He cannot hear the chatter or, breathing of another. He just barely picks up on the current of electricity flowing through the bars of light coming from the ceiling. It does not flicker or, buzz. He only sees four vertical walls of white. The floor is white and, the ceiling is white, though tinted slightly blue where the light emanates from. Whiskered muzzle reaches out to push against the floor he lays upon and, much to his surprise, it is not solid like earth's soil. It seems plush and gives beneath his touch though, it then bounces back to its original fullness when he releases the pressure of his touch.
Feeling steady enough to stand, Jesper pulls his front limbs under him to push himself into a sit. He then pops his haunches up and, unfolds his hind legs to balance his weight. Once on all fours, the ebony equine extends his right front and, notes that his white marking is no longer stained with nature's touch. Right front hoof applies pressure to the floor to confirm that it is padded, rather cushy. It depresses as he shifts his weight onto the limbs and, supports him with ease as he shuffles forward. He continues until his wiry whiskers bump against the nearest barrier. It is cold and, bears the same leathery texture of the floor. He bumps his nose into it as he had done with the floor and, finds that it also gives to the pressure of his touch. He follows the wall until he reaches where it meets the next barrier, perpendicular to this one. The room is too small to allow for a trot or canter; however, he rushes forward as the sensation of being trapped closes in on him. He continues, corner to corner, in order to assess this strange white box. He finds no faults or blemishes in the integrity of its structure, not in the floor or, the wall or, the ceiling.
As he realizes that he is once again a prisoner, he sighs heavily. He shuffles back to the middle of the room and, there, he sinks into the floor and folds himself into the smallest possible form to await what would happen to him next. There was no use in panicking now. He had to preserve his energy for the challenges that lay ahead. His thoughts drift back to Lamb and Brennen who, if they had not noticed his absence by now, surely would soon. Hopefully, they would know that he did not volunteer this time. He could only hope that if there was any chance of finding him, his Brothers and Sisters would leave no leaf unturned.
She's been watching - oh, how she's been watching...
Years and decades and close to a century have passed since her arrival. Heeded by naught, she slid in unnoticed by any, under a different name, a different skin. Regina Atra, she'd been named, Elsewhere; Evil Queen. For some time she'd walked along in silence, learning Beqanna simply by the smell of her, and by the sight of her every curve and slant. But as silence continued to be her sole companion, Beqanna changed her fate, christening her anew, swathing her in its likeness.
Gone was the black coat of a mare forgettable; in the wake of the Faerie's gift, a goddess was born.
Not in the same sense as some, perhaps, but in her own right; an up and coming Rea. As the years passed, she went from stallion to stallion to bear him a child. Despite her height and the cunning of her dark brown eyes, she never let on about her scheming plan. Instead, she acted the meek and mountable lass, ever fuckable and ever reproductive. Though it took time (years and decades and close to a century), her plan eventually came to fruition.
The children of her children bore crowns atop their skulls; they were fruitful, multiplying tenfold the amount she could on her own. Across Beqanna, purple heads began rising up like weeds, called forth by the sound of her devious laughter when no one was around to hear it. Well, except the Faerie, of course, but we'll get to Her later.
Kirin, Klaudius, Kylin, Karat, Krone, Kharon, Kyveli, Krominium - a legion of lavender children identified by the hard Cuh that began their names. They were the most prominent of her descendants, wreaking havoc across the land in ways that most assuredly made the Evil Queen proud. Of her other purple children, Brynn was perhaps her favourite. She had a lark naming her two daughters Larq and Larck, full siblings that they were to boot. And of course Winzy was winningly beautiful, being the colour shifter she was; birthing Winzuzu and Winzlet, who the Queen was sure would fly into fame sometime soon.
But enough with the alliterations and inside jokes that only she and the Faerie shared.
(Ah, yes, the Faerie. Gilded in wonder and clothed in starlight, the creature resembled a human when She wished. Larger and less defined, She walked with the grace of one who had perhaps once been a resident of Beqanna, and not a Ruler of it. Oftentimes she could be seen during the winter, aloft in a white dress and often - always - mistaken for a cloud. She'd been the one to redefine Casia's existence, her own Messiah. And though she had more pressing duties than a mare with a wont for sex and subtle power, the Faerie found herself irresistibly drawn to the Evil Queen. Something about those eyes and those hips, and most of all, the way she spoke. The Faerie suspected that they'd known each other in a life before, that they were perhaps reincarnated lovers - but as time went on (years and decades and almost a century) she cared less about the past and more about the present. That is to say, they became lovers again - needy and careless and wanton. They schemed and they planned, wary in their illegal union of Fae and Mortal. Others had done it before, but perhaps not out of love: perhaps not out of lust. They fucked with an abandon that Casia could never hope to recreate with any stallion Beqanna had to offer, though that did not stop her from continuing that agenda. For an agenda it was, after all - you do not become lovers with a Faerie without paying a price. And her price was to reach 164 descendants, as an experiment to the Fae hierarchy in exchange for hers and the Faerie's union. In the name of love and diabolically good sex, she prostituted herself out to all of Beqanna - but it didn't matter any. She had the Faerie. What more could she need.)
Time ran short, and of time, she had already been taken of too greedily.
"Remember your agreement, Casia," came Her low voice, a humming, thrumming sound. The elderly mare leaned her massive weight into the being's side, unafraid of hurting the magical entity. They'd been together for so long, ever since she'd found that stream and drank of it; ever since she'd shed the name Regina Atra in exchange for the one she bore now. The Faerie's hand was cool against her skull, brushing her thick purple forelock away from her eyes. A tired sigh whuffed from her nostrils, a lifetime's exhaustion threatening to take hold.
"I have not forgotten; how could I, my love?"
Lifting herself, the wizened creature stepped forward, away from their nook and towards a realm that she'd heard plenty of, but that she'd never been welcomed to until now. 164 descendants - how it hurt her head to imagine. In her old age however, she felt next to nothing about this next adventure of hers - but as she looked back into the infinitely wise face of her lifelong protector, something trilled inside of her. The call of passion and of scheming; they'd worked so hard for this. She'd fucked so hard for this.
She'd had ten lifetimes with a creature she never deserved and never would; paying the price now of becoming a lab rat for the science of the Fae was little to none in comparison. Or so she thought.
"Don't be afraid," the Faerie murmured, reaching out with both hands to cup both sides of Casia's purple face. Their eyes connected, a shock ran through her; adrenaline, oxytocin, tranquilizers, both, everything. A moan of sexual pleasure and release slipped gutturally from the mare as the familiar sensation of orgasm rolled over her at the whim of her companion. Trembling now, though only slightly, the mare nodded, nuzzling closer and preparing herself to step through the portal.
"I won't let them hurt you." "I don't believe you in the slightest."
casia
Figured this gal needs a history and a story, so, here it is. >
And there's a lesson waiting to be learned the firestarters always get the burns and the good guys never get the girl
A white mare is probably far too easy to find. Especially one who rarely leaves her home, and when she does, she does so only shortly. For a diplomat I even travel rarely, the blood alliance with Nerine being one of two kingdoms sharing a border, and the alliance with Tephra keeps being secured with Solace being Warrick’s daughter, without interference from Hyaline’s Ambassador. No, it would only be trips to the field and perhaps once or twice a year to Ischia that would take me away from home.
At least in the normal circumstances.
Today is not such a normal day. I suppose that my life has had way more ups and downs than I would have ever anticipated, and being in one such an upwards-curved spiral I suppose I had it long since coming. I spied a bush of Leontopodium nivale; had been aiming for it and focused on the idea of bringing some down for my friend. Perhaps I want to compete with Kagerus, bringing a rarer flower than she. I know that it is a ridiculous idea to even think that we should compete at all, but whenever I see him prancing around being proud of his wilting flowers, I cannot help to feel a little jealous for not being the one who thought of this. He’s happy with the littlest of things, and I cannot get my head denying the idea that he deserves a little more - more than he tiny though beautiful things, more than just silly old me, with my two kids who in retrospect should’ve been his, at least the youngest one should.
I don’t think he has ever thought of being a father, but I’m sure he would be great at it. Better than I am a mother, maybe, for giving one child away and not finding myself 100% loving the other, even if he is the cutest little colt ever. It’s haunting how much he takes after his father, but he is mine and I am so happy that he develops in a different way. To be greater than myself and definitely be greater than his dad.
I cope, and perhaps I will send him away too. It might be better for his development, if he were among friends instead of the crazy way of a family I can offer him. But if I myself would disappear, at least my fellow kingdom members know how to take care of my loved ones.
Which is exactly what’s going through my mind now that I’m here. It’s just so weird. I had been flying, to go for those white flowers, remember? All that I remember after that, is that I heard the birds - as usual I would steer a bit away from them, to let them pass, but they followed this time, a huge flock surrounding me in my flight above the mountains. So much that I couldn’t see where I was going, so I let them guide me, trusting in their eyes but all the while knowing that this was so utterly weird for a flock of birds - to ensnare a flying mare as it were, to guide me somewhere I did not, do not know, making so many turns along the way so that I don’t even know if we’re still in Beqanna or if we’ve crossed the sea to somewhere else.
All I know is that right now I am no longer home. It scares me less than I thought it would, less than I should, probably, too. Looking around there is nothing familiar, but I know I must have been put to sleep or fallen unconscious one way or another, maybe I was too tired, maybe there had been magic involved to block my memories and therefore some of my pain and shock are lulled. But I remember that I have to find a way back at some point, and already a stubbornness I haven’t felt since attempting to defy Ashhal (which was even a weak attempt then), is threatening to take over. But there’s nothing to defy in my cell right now. I sigh, pace, waiting for my captors to show. I know my loved ones are cared for, but I do not want to give into this weirdness without trying to get home.
There’s still so much left to be done.
and shooting stars cannot fix the world
Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
Jesper
