[open quest] seek me out; round iii

[anatomy]

They make their choices, and each world plays out differently. The queens are saved—sometimes by kindness, sometimes by force—and they are safe, for the time being. But things are changing once again. Another vision comes, and you see the two queens, the ones you had to choose between. You see them together, black against gold, framed in the deserts. Their intimacy needs no explanation, and you come to know that they were lovers, queens ruling side by side. You could only save one, but they were meant to be together. There is a sound that echoes in the distance, like fabric tearing. The oasis that so easily transported you to save your chosen queen will not so easily take you back. Instead, there is a portal, but it must be found. By you, and the queen. Bring her back, the unknowable voice says to the saviors, reunite her. Reunite them. The portal isn’t far—half a mile, at most. But it means that the queen cannot simply be shoved through, that you must journey together, however brief. That you must convince her, by whatever means. Rules: For failing to respond to Round 2, @[Cassian] is given the defect of Intermittently turns into sand - Your character will sporadically disintegrate into sands. This cannot be controlled. The defect will last for 1 BQ year, unless you wish for it to become permanent. Your goal this round is to convince Craft or Anatomy to follow you through the portal. Your post should end before successfully (or unsuccessfully) crossing through. You’re welcome to powerplay Craft and Anatomy, within reason (no extreme violence or injury). You can use any traits your character has. Failure to respond to a round risks temporary defects. Entries are due Dec. 12 by 11:59 PM CST. craft & anatomy

[bean]

Saved, the black queen follows the little brown mare and Bean makes sure to stay right by her side in case she turns back to the cliffs. As the fog envelopes them, the queen is stolen from her side as another vision plays out so very real before her plain brown eyes: black and gold, the sands at their backs and love in their eyes. 

She understands; lovers and rulers, together and meant to be, like a fairytale and Bean smiles. How could she not? Her mama told her about this kind of thing, that once in a lifetime kind of love that is so hard to find but worth so much. She sees it here in the flesh, knows it to be as real as the air she breathes.

It chokes her up and brings big fat tears to her eyes as she looks to her side and finds the black queen there once more. “You two are meant to be,” she murmurs as she hears the sound of something coming asunder, like a tear, a rip in the fabric of time. 

“Knew it wasn’t going to get any easier,” she mutters under her breath, putting the tears aside as she blinks them off her eyelashes repeatedly and squares her small self up. “I think we need to go that way,” she gestures in the direction the sound had come from either a flip of her nose. The black queen is neither agreeable or disagreeable, and Bean just sighs.

“Well come on, you don’t want to keep Aida waiting for you, do you?” her question is met by that regal green stare and a slow nod of acknowledgement is made by that black head. Bean swallows and leads the way, careful to make certain that the queen follows her every step. Which she does, despite an occasional wayward stride in the opposite direction that leaves Bean snaking behind her like a stallion, herding her back to the right path ahead. 

She is tired, and imagines the queen must be so too. Tired and thirsty and there is nothing but sand all around. She sighed again, careful to stay against the black like a bit of brown glue - Bean isn’t going anywhere, until they reach the portal and the black balks at it. “Oh bother!” she huffs before turning to face the other mare.

“Look, I think we have to go through on account of our own free will. That’s usually how these things work in the stories. I’ll bet Aida is just in the other side, and if she’s not that pretty gold partner of yours, then I’ll bet she’s waiting over there too.” Bean falls quiet for a moment, nervous as evidenced by the sudden swish of her tail. 

“That’s not Aida. That is Craft, my queen and lover. Aida is my daughter.” the voice is as imperious as the eyes, but instead of sounding wild and frantic as Bean expected her to still be, the mare is calm and collected - the picture of what a queen ought to be, she supposed. Can’t be all that sure, since she’s never met a queen before and doesn’t know how they should act. Stories say that some are good like sunshine and apples, and others are as bad as a bee sting.

Bean though, is stunned to hear her speak at all. “Will you walk on then? Please?” and for her sake, she tries to look like she is curtsying or bowing or showing as much respect as she can to the great black mare. Whatever it takes, she tells herself as the black takes a step forward then hesitates, so very close!

The little brown mare is growing exasperated but tries not to let it show on her face. “How do you know they’re waiting on the other side?” asks Anatomy, pinning Bean with a suspicious stare that almost makes the brown squirm. She chews her lip for a second before shaking her head, tasting bitter defeat in her mouth. 

“I… I don’t. You just have to trust and take that step. I don’t know what waits for us on the other side, just that it feels right to go through there.” Bean isn’t sure how she knows that, but it feels right and sounds right. Apparently Anatomy agrees too, and walks on into the portal as Bean trots afterwards to keep up with her. 

She has no idea why the queen would even trust her, a relative stranger that appeared out of thin air, but it seems she has as they are caught in the portal’s embrace.

ooc: edited for paragraph spacing.

[Leilan]

We got older and I should have known
that I’d feel colder when I walk alone

Saviours, hah – if only he knew, he might have a good laugh. Instead, he is dead serious; there’s something weird going on and he will want to see the end of it.

His fall down the temporary-iced waterfall is broken not by his landing anywhere, but by a change in the air. The vision, mirage, whatever one wants to call it, is gone in the blink of an eye, and he stands in the desert again.

He’s not back in the oasis, so something is off – or perhaps, the changes are to be called normal by now. After all this, how could he possibly know if what he sees and feels is even real? Inception is nothing compared to this; that had been a matter of counting the levels. But Leilan doesn’t know movies and doesn’t often linger in the dreamworld; if anything, he is still suspicious of everything he sees.

The new image is like a flashback. Distorted, visibly unrealistic. The mare he just found by the waterfall, the mare lost in the forest – or a younger version of them – here in the desert, accompanied by a much softer version of the palomino he’d left behind. Softer only for her. A lover. He doesn’t need to be told any of this, to know that they are together. Doesn’t need to have seen her before, doesn’t need to know about two other queens who had been lovers and ruled a kingdom together – he does know this, he has seen them before (in the forest, in the visions), of course – he sees what he saw a few years ago, sees what he lost and doesn’t need a reminder of.

A painful crack shoots through the icy layer he’d built around his heart; the layer that had been weakened by the fairy’s tasks, and by his adoptive daughter. He had loved her. Still did. He just didn’t want to live with the pain.

He turns away, thinking to leave altogether. But the voice returns, the knowledge that he is not done and must see this through.

Ice blue eyes deepen in colour; deep dark blue replaces it in the blur of being transported once again.

Back atop the waterfall, he momentarily looks close to crying, but he blinks those things away. His irises take on an icy rim, though the deep blue stays in their hearts when he addresses the black mare. ”There’s someone here to see you.” he tells her, his voice trying to hide his own pain, but still a little thick with emotion.

Of course she latches on to that. Snapped out of her own pain by another’s, she assesses him. And yet he looks away, breathing deep as if steadying himself. He ignores whatever questions she asks, and when he does look back to her he’s a wavering version of himself, held together by the ice he so clings to. She sees the fragility of it, probably, but he doesn’t care. Instead, he briskly starts to walk, expecting her to follow.

It’s only because Anatomy has nothing else to do, that she wants to know who he is talking about, and why he looks like he’s seen a ghost – well, altogether three possibly reasons, probably the pile of them stacked together – that makes her actually follow him.

The scaled, frosted roan however, says no more, and crosses through the portal, leaving it to her curiosity for her to follow. He doesn’t know what the portal does, though he suspects it will take her to her dead lover. Possibly, this means that she will die too, or this version of her anyway; he knows there is a very lively one roaming about the forest, and Beqanna probably doesn’t allow two of them to coexist.

And curiosity is what kills a cat, after all.

Leilan

no. 7 | ice forged in fire

[Castile]

and underneath the layers, I find myself asking what's left
a hollowed out form, the skeleton of a ghost, the pitiful echo of what once was

The world changes again and Castile’s eyes tightly shut. A reeling step back adds space between him and Craft as a sickening pit forms in his stomach. He almost asks why – why is this happening again? – but his voice never comes. Silence envelopes him until his eyes open to see that once again, the desert rippled away. They are still here, of course, but in front of them plays another memory. Quiet fascination grips him as he observes the intimacy between the two Queens before his orange eyes drop to Craft walking up to his side. ”That’s us,” she whispers, choked with emotion as she sees the love in their eyes from generations past. Castile suddenly doesn’t matter to her, not when a reel of her life plays over for her to witness as an outside party. ”We fell in love,” she confesses into the empty air, prompted by the way Castile’s gaze narrows on her. He says nothing, not yet at least. Beneath the sun – he sees it, but cannot feel the heat against his skin – they together watch the intricate beginnings of a love affair.

”He murdered me,” her voice is distant and eerily flat as she recollects that day in the deserts and what actually happened before this odd intervention. ”We died apart when we belong together,” slowly, her amber gaze falls to the sand underfoot. It’s clear that her mind is spinning, but when there’s a moment of gathering, she turns on Castile and searches his eyes, bristling at how similar they are to Garbage. ”You’re related to him,” her voice rises as anger heats her entire core, ”You’re just as cruel and awful as him! You have his eyes!” She lunges despite the residual pain wracking her entire body from Garbage’s murder attempt. Successfully latching onto Castile’s neck, Craft attempts to engage in a similar match as moments prior. ”Get OFF!” Castile snaps back at her before shying to his right, adding more space between them even as she persistently tries to attack.

That’s when the voice croons to him, advising him to unite them. There is no body associated with the words that slip like musical notes into his ears. A fleeting moment is spent searching for the source, but he is forced back to Craft as she kicks at him, bruising his shoulder. A primal growl reverberates through him, threatening her, but still she presses on.  Easier said than done, he thinks to himself.

The oasis isn’t terribly far. It’s calling to them just as it had to him previously. ”Stop running away, coward!” She yells at him in her determination to annihilate anything – anyone – related to her discarded son and murderer. ”You can be reunited again, just come on!” He is leading her there, acquiescing to moments of battle before slipping away and closer to the oasis, knowing that she will follow. Her taunts are polished knives slicing past his skin, angering him with every passing second, but he is steadfast. She remains unharmed while small lacerations bead with blood on his skin. For her, for this, he is willing to sacrifice.

”Stop lying to me. What’s done is done… We will never be together again,” but they must have been together in death, weightlessly embracing each other when their hearts individually stopped beating.

Castile regards her through his labored breaths as he searches for an inkling of where the portal is.

Is it the oasis alone, or perhaps the water that tempted them so dreamily in the beginning?

When Craft lunges again at him, Castile’s jaws defensively clap together. ”Perhaps I am related to him. Perhaps I, too, have blood on my hands,” she bares her teeth at him, loathing the idea that Covet (and even Garbage) somehow lives on in this fool. He tempts her closer with a foreboding hiss, noting how her amber eyes flash. ”But, there is perhaps a way to still reunite you. Stop being narrow-minded,” the insult is salt to the wound as she edges closer, their bodies slipping beneath the foliage of the oasis. ”You belong in the grave with them. You’re no better than them!” Emotions are high after all of this – she has relived her death and witnessed her love with Anatomy – and so Castile utilizes this. Stepping back to the edge of the water, he levels himself with her. His orange eyes flash defiantly and his lips quirk in a smug grin.

”You have a chance to be reunited if you just follow—“

”NO!”  

”If I’m wrong, and if she is not on the other side of this portal waiting for you, then we can discuss where I belong.” Among the dead or the living he mutedly implies. ”You can beat my ass if this ends up being a trick to deceive you.”

Craft weighs the opportunity, scaling together her hatred against her lost love. Taut muscles coil beneath her golden skin. She hesitates before finally agreeing with a distasteful curl of her lip. ”Fine. I’ll put you in the grave myself if you’re wrong.” Castile’s lips tightly purse into a thin line as he slowly nods. ”Okay. Come on then,” he looks over his shoulder to the water, desperately hoping that he is right about all of this. 

castile

[Ruthless]

Ruthless

They sit there momentarily--the air a heavy weighted cold with a bone chilling sheet--only silence bestowing the space between them. A gift surely, when only seconds ago the screams of fear and desperation rang through the air.

“Thank you,” the ebony mare is able to choke out two words, her breathing heavy and lungs still desperate for oxygen. Ruthless doesn’t look to her, she continues to stare at her throbbing right knee and the stream of blood pooling between forearms where her wounded lip hangs.

A breeze lifts the thin mane Ruthless had started to grow only months prior, a silky pearl-white with a subtle hint of cream. Her once clean golden coat now tainted with dust, blood, and a white foam lathered sweat. Picturesque to terrifying, as if the black monster had taken her beauty and her innocence all in one glance.

“I want to go home,” Ruth nuzzles her on knee, a failed attempt to clean her lip leaking the vibrant red liquid. “I want my mom. I thought you were my mom.”

“I am Anatomy, and I am not your mom,” the mare responds hastily, rising to her legs with frantic energy as sudden realization sets in. Aida.

Ruthless watches in disbelief as the mare begins to trot into the distance, the length of her tail nearly sweeping the sandy dunned floor. Her high pitched whiny carries out into the barren desert landscape, lost in the breeze hardly making it yards from her mouth. Her neck paraded high, eyes searching for any form of life.

“Wait!” Ruthless trembles, attempting to rise just as poised and elegant as the mare had only moments prior. Of course, it’s a failed attempt. The throbbing in her right knee triggers a wincing cringe over the right half of her fragile body, and as she tries to leap into a forward trot her legs sprawl every which direction. Adrenaline had shot through and shock had already settled in, leaving her a vibrating mess of energy and exhaustion all rolled into one.

And her trot, oh dear God her trot. An Entanglement of four legs trying to find rhythm in the deep sand holding her like molasses, with an awkward limp perfecting the overall look. Though, her appearance does not dawn on our little golden world. All she is focused on is the disappearing shadow seemingly farther and farther away, and her little legs burning in agony to give up.

“Stop!” A shrill, desperate cry nearly as panicked as minutes before dying over the dunes and cravesses of the desert.

Her mind begins to fizz like a beckoning explosion of carbonation, a familiar feeling that Ruthless had begun to grow accustomed to ever since the mist had stolen her innocence, and carried her to this unruly land. And it is with this mind-numbing buzz, that she sees the beautiful silhouette of gold intertwined with black, their necks linked in comfort and support.

Anatomy knew her?

As the mare continues to slowly disappear into the foreign distance, Ruthless is becoming increasingly flustered. With every stride, her leg cries in anguish.

Her little wings fluff, as if saying pick me.

Skepticism follows, her wings had never took flight. Fear falls, there is a reason she hasn’t.

Baby Ruth, stay here. Stay grounded. You do not know what lurks in the air

My child, your wings are not a gift. They are a danger. You shouldn’t see them as toys.

The soft voice of her mother floats around her ears as if she is here now, apart of the suffocatingly hot air.

Ruth turns to see her wings flutter, a small offer. As if to say, just take a chance. What more does she have to lose, her mom?

Ha.

It takes a second, a little trot and a big push against gravity before her feet suddenly lift from the desert floor and take off into the distance. She is fast, uncontrolled, and more than unstable. Like a pigeon with a broken wing, attempting to navigate through strong winds. A pitiful attempt, but successful and almost.. Relieving?

Her eyes are dead set on the black ebony mare moving at a brisk pace below her, the sound of her cry out for Aida barely legible from the clouds. Ruth feels her heart pull to the mare, imagining Brine wandering lost and alone, but the determination to save her daughter carrying her across the land.

“Wait!” The landing of course did not go smoothly, a few tumbles and somersaults and an odd squeak before she peers up to see Anatomy looking down at her with confusion. “Just wait, listen to me.”

And then… Nothing. Nothing follows. What could she say? What is Anatomy supposed to wait for?

Bring her back. Reunite her. Reunite them

“Well, go on then,” Anatomy’s body language quickly turns from confused to irritated.

“You have to follow me. I know where to go. I came in this mist, and it transported me here. I am not from here. And I saw this golden mare and this black stallion, and then I saw you and here. And I don’t know what it is but something is telling me I can bring you back. I can bring you to Aida, or the golden mare, or something.

“Please. You have to believe me. You are all I have.”

Seconds… Minutes… It almost feels like an hour as the shadowed mare contemplates the insanity before her. The child, out of breath and on her last stitch of effort to find home peering up hopeful.

She has been honest. That’s all she could do. We reward honesty, the voice of her mother easing her worry.

“I am sorry, but I… I cannot go off the fantasy of a child. Aida is missing. Craft is dead. And you are in my way.”

“But please, you have to believe me! I need you. I am alone. I am scared. Please!”

“I am sorry, but go away. Every second I waste here is a second further from finding Aida. I cannot be a mother to you when I cannot even find her… You must understand. Please, go find your mom. Go,” she is short, the tone of annoyance clinging to every letter of every word before dismissing the yearling. And off she continued at a faster pace, as if to run away from a forest fire too far gone to save.

And our little light stays stationary, a spec of flesh in the middle of the heated desert. Alone. And more than a little lost.

She wanders, slowly. A drag in her step, dryness clinging to her throat. A body so ready to give up and become apart of the sand, like the golden queen only hours before.

And it is here, in her final moments before disappearing into the sand, that the small rotating golden portal sits before her in the side of a dune hidden by shadows. It’s rotating door spiralling.

Attempt after attempt, our golden child tries pounding through the portal every which way. Running, walking, head first, hind first… Anything to appease it’s demands, though every time falling short.

“You think this will take me to her? To them?” A familiar voice reaches the ears of baby Ruth. Hazel eyes whip around to see the ebony mare, Anatomy, looking into the golden portal.

“I don’t know… But I wouldn’t lie.”

“Alright then, lead the way…” The softest of smiles creeps into the inner corner of Anatomy’s eyes, curiosity lining the inside of her eyes awaiting for Ruth to take the first step.

The portal changes to a warmer gold, hints of reds and oranges lining the inside. The soft sound of nature whistling through the other end.

She wiggles her wings, touching one feather ever so softly to the portal that only seconds before had felt like stone.

It gives to her touch, the feather softening into the portal like quicksand.

And with her wings leading her confidence, Ruthless takes her first steps through. Breathing a sigh of relief, praying Anatomy’s trust is not broken.

[Wishbone]

take my soul & make it undone

be the one, be the one to take me home and show me the sun. i know, i know you can bring the fire, i can bring the bones. i know, i know you'll make the fire, my bones will make it grow.

Two sets of amber eyes peer out from two contrasting faces as the sun’s descent casts long shadows against the sand. Wishbone feels her heart flutter with anticipation and lingering adrenaline. The thrill of wielding ancient bones and saving a life has temporarily melted away her fatigue, leaving behind an electric charge in her blood. The growing darkness cannot hide the flash of zeal that shines in her eyes. It has been too long since she has felt like this — alive — and she revels for a moment in the feelings of exhilaration, liveliness, and simple existence.

“Craft.” Wishbone’s eyes focus on the palomino’s face at the sound. The word is simple enough, but a hidden message feels interwoven with the letters of the mare’s name. The mahogany studies the angles and curves of Craft’s face, searching for the reason why the consonants sound bitter and the vowels sound fiery. Before any more discoveries can be made — about the orange-eyed stallion attempting to murder Craft or about the way one single word seemed laced with mild disgust — the world is swirling around Wishbone once again.

This change in scenery is different from the last few times. Wishbone is aware of her feet remaining firmly planted in the sands of the desert and the sound of the stallion thrashing from behind his bone-cage. The vision dances in front of her like a mirage, illuminated by the final rays of the sunset. Craft has moved to stand next to Wishbone. The mahogany can feel the heat of the other mare radiating off her supple skin, and all of a sudden Wishbone is brutally focused on the fact that this might all be a dream.

Her heart aches at the thought that she might blink her eyes awake to find herself spending another day with the Dead. Everything has been so startingly real, as though she were experiencing it as truly as possible, and she feels a small sense of betrayal at the thought that it might not be. It would be a cruel joke for her to wake up in Death after going through the heartbreak of sacrificing her father, feeling the pain of reliving death, and surviving a vulture attack. The deep ache in her chest blossoms into a fire of anger… She’ll be pissed if none of this is real.

The sound of a soft sigh brings Wishbone’s thoughts swimming back toward the vision. The noise has come from Craft, whose eyes seem to bulge further out of their sockets each moment the mirage shimmers before them. When the Nerinian focuses on the image, she can see why Craft is so drawn to it. The mare from the previous vision (dangling on the edge of a cliff, calling with that heartbroken voice) stands close to the palomino, the deserts bathing them in shades of blue-sky and tanned sands. They remind Wishbone of night and day, woven together like the sweet moments of sunrise and sunset.

Their adoration for each other radiates out of the vision, coating Wishbone in a thick layer of rose-gold and comfort. There is no denying the romance that lies in the few inches that separate the pair and Wishbone imagines the distance feels electric. She can remember the way inches used to feel like miles; in her years of Death, those memories often brought her comfort. They were never memories of Ivar — not simply because he murdered her, but because the affection they shared for one another was rooted in instinct and poorly-controlled passion. No, the sight of Craft and her lover reminds her of a certain golden stallion with eyes illuminated by a hundred cave-dwelling glow-worms.

“I remember that feeling well.” Her voice is soft, the honey-syrup coating over her normal brusque-and-whiskey tune. “Who is she?” The mirage flickers like a dying flame before disappearing completely in the silence that lingers after her question. Craft’s expression is distant, Wishbone notes. She can imagine memories are swarming her, washing over her head like the waves of Ischia drowning the mahogany.

It is only the shredding sound of a distant world opening that brings Craft’s eyes back into focus. “Anatomy.” The name sounds like it has been ripped from the palomino mare’s chest. “We ruled together in the Deserts.” Deserts, a word that Wishbone remembers hearing during her lessons with Scorch. A kingdom of the Old Beqanna, before the world was washed clean.

Just as the oasis had pulled Wishbone closer, the distant portal calls to her. “Bring her back,” it whispers. “Reunite her. Reunite them.” Wherever this new world is, and whatever it looks like, Wishbone is certain that Night and Day can be restored again. Perhaps in this new world, Wolfbane will be waiting for her. She doubts it (there has been too much time between Life and Death for her childhood friend to have waited for her), but she has been wrong before. Wishbone can’t shake the picture of his finely-etched face brightened with a blue-green glow, casting shadows on the hollower pieces of him and highlighting the angle of his cheekbones.

She had been young during that adventure… A teenager discovering how her curves could draw his eyes and the way he made her feel like she was on fire.

“I want you to have that happiness again,” she begins. If Wishbone is never reunited with the golden stallion, she at least wants to give Craft the chance to be with her lover. “There is a place we can go, a portal we can enter. It will bring Anatomy to you, and you to Anatomy.” Deep in her gut Wishbone is certain of her statement, and her determination alights in her amber eyes like the flaming sword of a soldier.

“Even if you don’t want to be reunited with Anatomy, there are chances to have a life in this new place.” Life isn’t always about marriage and romance, Wishbone has discovered. There is much more to each day than waking up and falling asleep with a kiss. The world is a messy, dangerous, and beautiful place. The relationship between Craft and Anatomy is an intricate piece in the world, but it is not the only piece in either Craft or Anatomy’s worlds. “Please, trust me.”

Wishbone’s always been honest and to-the-point; even in convincing Craft, she refrains from giving a speech. “I will try,” Craft says, and Wishbone audibly sighs with relief. The portal is within view — a shimmering haze in the dusky light between two crooked, burnt trees. Even from the distance, Wishbone can see the rainbow of colors dancing across the expanse between the trees.

They have walked only a few feet when Craft tries to turn back. It might be from the sound of the orange-eyed stallion pawing at the bone or perhaps the fear of the unknown. Wishbone isn’t sure of Craft’s reason, but she is determined to keep the palomino on the track toward the portal. So she tells a story.

It is a simple one of her childhood, but as Wishbone reflects she begins to realize how important the adventure became to her. The Nerinian tells the Desert queen about the time she had attempted to summit Tephra’s volcano with Wolfbane. He was still learning how to use his wings at the time, but he remained aloft and zig-zagged through the air as Wishbone grunted, sweat, and sliced her knees upon the rocky face of the volcano. He’d teased her the whole time and she had bantered back, gritting her teeth and shouting “I’m going to ruin your snarky little face!” as he haphazardly managed his balance in the gusty winds. After giving up, they had splashed each other in a freshwater pool lying in the face of the volcano, washing away the sweat and blood from climbing and flying.

Each sentence brings them a few steps closer to the portal and a few steps further away from the stallion. Her words have seemed to melt away the anxiety of their journey, leaving Craft pleasant-eyed and soft-faced. The ending of the story leaves Wishbone feeling uncannily broken… It had only been a memory of her childhood and yet she feels winded from speaking it into existence. As the silence begins to settle over them, Wishbone can see the way Craft thinks of turning around again. So she tells another story.

This one is a memory of her teenage years, the one she can’t get out of her mind. Wishbone and Wolfbane’s swim from a rough Nerine shore into the dark mouth of a cavern etched into the side of the granite cliffs; the way he had followed her bravely through the narrow darkness until they broke into blue-green light; the glow illuminating the features of their growing bodies, casting shadows and highlights in all the right places. Their breaths had been heavy and yet light at the same time, as if on the cusp of breaking into dangerous territory. His olive eyes had captured her in that cave, and she had felt her heart succumb to him that night.

By the time she finishes this story, they have reached the portal. Wishbone feels the sting of tears near the backs of her eyes and she silently curses herself. She shouldn’t be upset about this — her relationship with Wolfbane had been over the moment she had left to explore the Beyond. It had been her own choosing, to disappear as suddenly as she had. She could not blame the golden-and-blue stallion for seeking comfort from other women. But the exhaustion of the day (or the night or the hour or the minute… She isn’t sure at this point) is catching up with her and so the tears remain just behind her eyes, threatening to burst at any moment. “We’re here,” she says throatily. “Indeed we are,” Craft says back.

And with that, they step between the trees.

credit to eliza of adoxography.

[Oceane]

to the lonely sea and sky

In the brief silence that follows the necrosis of the dark stallion, Oceane can still hear his primal screams echoing within her mind. She can still hear the hissing of the sand snakes and the grainy sound of their bodies sluicing through the sand, and the titter of arachnid and scorpion legs as they convened upon the beast she'd seen murder the golden woman who now stands before her. A combination of terror and rage and pain swirl in the woman's eyes as Oceane stands with wings flung wide to guard her from the sight of the stallion, bereft of life, prone on the sand behind her.

"Let me see him," the golden woman requests hoarsely.

With pause, the winged opaline Loessian finally concedes. She folds her shimmering feathers to sleek sides and moves out of the way. She rotates, commanding her own amber eyes to fall to the dark stallion on the dunes. Her gaze lingers on the plethora of welted bites that mar his skin, red and angry to indicate the venom that had been pressed into his muscle.

Her heart aches with the knowledge that she had commanded the desert's wildlife to murder the stallion. Because of her, he will succumb to the desert sands. Because of her... "I'm sorry," her voice quivers as she whispers to the palomino mare whose eyes have also welled with tears, "he was going to—"

"I know," the golden woman cuts her off with a voice thickened by emotion.

Oceane takes a last look at the stallion whose glowing orange eyes remain open even in death. Despite the reddening of his sclera from the poison, the opaline pegasi lingers on the familiarity of those orange eyes but turns away in respect before she can place the feeling. Giving the golden woman a moment with the dark stallion, Oceane turns her gaze across the dunes that lay out before them.

The sound of spacetime tearing erupts over the rolling dunes.

Bring her back. Reunite her. Reunite them.

The voice draws the attention of both women, gold and violet. They turn away from the dark stallion whose body is already dusted with desert sand to lay their eyes upon a nearby apparition.

The golden woman and her lover. The mare who Oceane had not been able to save. A cold hand wrenches its way around her heart as she watches the mirage and the love that exudes from it. For a fleeting moment, she is jealous as she watches on, for she had never experienced a connection with such strength and certainty before.

"Reunite?" she questions quietly after the apparition disappears, the gilded woman's eyes glazed over, unseeing, where the mirage had been. "Could we... could she—?"

Oceane nickers comfortingly to the other woman and gives her a small, hopeful smile. "There's only one way to find out." She gives a reassuring nod before pivoting her glimmering body in the direction from whence the sound had come. The two women venture side-by-side in silence, both too fraught with worry and anticipation to make small talk as they journey in the direction they both hope is right.

All thoughts of Nau-Aib, of the King, and of Mchawi disappear as Oceane's bright eyes fall upon the spacetime portal. Hope seizes her heart and she turns to smile at the golden woman beside her. "I never asked your name," she realizes as they come to heel just before the portal.

"Craft," the woman says breathlessly, her eyes never leaving the shimmering entity before them. "Thank you," she adds before bounding into the portal, forsaking any uncertainty that her lover awaits on the other side. After a moment's hesitation, Oceane follows behind.

---

round 3 | speech

[Tatter]

Burn everything you love then burn the ashes.
In the end everything collides;
My childhood spat back out the monster that you see.

“Leave me,” the black mare demands, her green eyes hard and slightly less crazed as she climbs to her hooves, but Tatter does not balk. “I do not know you, and I do not need your help.”

Before he can respond there is yet another vision unfolding in his mind, and suddenly he sees them – both of the women – entwined together amongst the Deserts’ sands. Their love for one another is nearly palpable and Tatter swallows hard, wondering what this vision could mean. He had chosen to save the one that would’ve taken a dive from a cliff, but not the one who had been viciously mauled by her own son; was there supposed to be a way that he could save the both of them?

The vision fades and he returns to the black mare’s side, and for a moment he wonders what to do next. Then there is a ripping, tearing sound in the distance – somewhere amidst the shifting sands not too far off, he thinks – and a compulsion takes over him to bring her back. Bring her back to where, exactly? This is not modern times – the Deserts doesn’t exist anymore. Where is he supposed to be bringing this ancient Desert queen?

“I’m Tatter, not that you asked,” he tells her, hoping to strike up a conversation with her. They need to find common ground, he realizes, or she is never going to trust him.

“I am Anatomy,” she responds, her voice almost dull, though the fierceness never leaves her eyes. “Aida is my daughter, and I cannot find her.”

“Then perhaps I can help you find her, Anatomy,” he says, a sudden sadness radiating throughout his bones. “I had a daughter who once ruled the Deserts. When she died, I felt my soul torn asunder. I will help you find her, this I swear.”

The black mare only nods, and Tatter nudges her gently away from the cliffside. The journey towards the mysterious sound is not a difficult one, but the painted king is tired from his earlier scuffles and saving Anatomy, so their pace is slow. Anatomy doesn’t speak as they travel side by side and Tatter doesn’t force conversation, but one thing nags at the man as they travel. “I had visions of another mare, a golden one – and a vision of the two of you, together. Who is she?”

With a bitter smile, Anatomy raises her head to the sky. “Craft,” she murmurs, and she speaks of the golden queen with a reverence that is all too familiar to him – it is the same tone in which he reminisces about Frost, even after all these years of being dead. “She is the other half to my soul, my queen, my partner.”

The portal materializes ahead of them and Anatomy trails off, eyes focused on the swirling colors. Tatter pauses, watching as she approaches it with curiosity. “Anatomy,” he calls to her, hesitant. He doesn’t know if this will lead them to Aida – to Craft, surely, but he doesn’t know the fate of Aida. The black mare turns and if she had eyebrows, they would’ve been raised. “So?” she asks, looking every bit the queen she once was. “Will this bring me to my daughter, or no?”

“I... I’m not sure,” he responds, moving forward to draw nearer to the portal. “I was told that you had to be reunited, but I don’t know if it meant with Craft, or Aida... I hope for your sake that it is both of them.”

“But you don’t know for sure?” she inquires sharply, following him closer to the portal. “For all you know, this could bring us to our certain deaths.”

With a wry smile, he glances over at the green-eyed woman. “I’ve been dead before,” he tells her, “and the Afterlife spat me back out. I don’t think they’re too eager for me to return anytime soon.” He takes another step towards the swirling vortex and is pleased when Anatomy continues to follow him, curiosity coloring her expression. “And honestly, you’ll never know until you take that leap.”

“I suppose... you are correct,” she responds, following him until they are at the edge of the portal. It’s now or never, and together they take the first step through.

Tatter.

[Neverwhere]

The silence stretches ahead of them for miles in the fog and with her jaw pressed just so to that dark, heaving, chest, she can feel the heartbeat slow and the ragged breathing become smooth again. She can feel the balance tip, the immediate danger passes.

"And why should I trust you, Neverwhere?" The words are muted by the swirling obscurity around them. Neverwhere pulls back so that only the wind-braided tendrils of their tails connect the two. The black mare is not looking at her.

"You shouldn't," and she shakes her bald-faced head emphatically, "You don't know me, we aren't friends, and I don't care one way or the other." The dappled mare scuffs her hoof at the fragile edge they stand upon, lowering her muzzle so that her breath stirs the dust and her half-ears twist to catch the distant sound of rock breaking on rock as the bits of stone that cracked away land far below, "But you don't need to trust me to know I'm telling the truth. There's nothing here for you but loss and death."

As she peers into the gloom, her vision clears and turns to somthing else, familiar shining sands and an intertwining of black and gold. She recognizes that other mare, she is the one Lilli ran to save and her thoughts turn to the chestnut mare. The vision tells her nothing on how she fares, if she has succeeded or if she is another body beneath that raven stallion's hooves. Neverwhere's ears pin against the silent command that booms in her head, she sneers at it, imperious, impersonal, demanding.

Reunite them.

She is not inclined to listen.

"I hate magic. I was wary of it before, we didn't have it where I came from but it is rampant in Beqanna." She speaks to the fog that has returned, but loud enough for the mare beside her to hear. "There's magic everywhere here, and no care for the disruption it causes. I heard the Fairies took it away once, but nobody seems to have learned any lessons from that, Fae included, hidden away on their mountain."

Neverwhere turns to the sound of tearing, a portal opening, but to where? Home? Back to the desert? She does not go to it, not yet, still deciding. The only place she wants to go is wherever Lilliana has gone, to make sure the copper-red mare is safe and well. She worries that she is not, and that tugs at her more strongly than her sea-cliff home where she takes advantage of the magic as much as anyone else even as she professes her dislike of it.

"Magic brought me here. To save you, although I don't know why, and I've done my part. I just want to get back to my friend. She was already unwell and she ran to save your palomino mare." She pauses and turns back to lock pale eyes with sharp green ones. No doubt it is unnerving for a stranger to mention your lover when they have no reason to know her but Neverwhere gives no explanation for this knowledge. That her journey here has been magically induced should be reason enough.

"Craft," the dark mare says.

"Do you hear that? A portal opening and where it goes... anyone's guess." Reunite them. "I suppose I'm supposed to get you to go through it with me. The Magic says Craft is there, and if she is, then it's my best chance at getting back to Lilli, so I am going, and you can do as you please." Nev pauses once again, her tone softens, "I'm sorry, I don't think whoever is running this scheme cares about Aida. But my offer stands. If she can be found, then Heartfire can find her. She won't do it for free, but you may find you can live with her price."

Neverwhere turns away from the cliff, towards the open portal she can hear but not see, a mysterious, crackling ring of fog swirling against the wind. After a few steps, she looks back, grinning.

"And if you can't, well, like I said, there's plenty of cliffs in Nerine, too."

Neverwhere

...

[Lucrezia]

Here it comes with no warning; capsize, i'm first in the water

Crossing over several of the shifting dunes, the golden mare remains at her side, travelling at a parallel pace. The screams of agony echo across the dunes, although fading the further the two mares travel away. Lucrezia glances to her side, considering the golden mare curiously for a moment, but the golden mare keeps her eyes forward with a stern expression on her finely golden chiseled features. She recognizes that expression, a visual replica of herself. It was the same expression she always saw on her face when looking at her reflection.

It was a face she wore to hide every emotion she ever felt. The deceit she felt when her family betrayed her after sending her to live in the deserts; disappointment she felt when she could not save the deserts from the flood before it became something of the past and failing to lead Tephra; words she should have spoken before it was too late; and times where she should have forgiven herself.

Suddenly, a cold wind rises and sends a shiver down her spine. Her reflection, the golden woman, is slowing down, but she continues forward, unable to stop. The screaming of terror finally fades. The golden woman turns to face the opposite direction, where she was almost murdered by her son, and where the stallion is a black dot against the golden sand now. The wind howls around Lucrezia, she trembles at its chilling touch, and wishes only to escape it, to run away and leave the golden woman behind. She cannot, something tells her to stop, even if she doesn’t want to, and she turns back to face the golden mare whose back is turned against her still.

“You cannot change what has already happened,” She says to the golden woman, but it is almost like she is telling herself that too. Lucrezia closes the distance between them, halting at the golden woman’s side, watching the black dot that lays against the golden grains. The wind blows harder, shifting the sand in the distance. Eventually the body of the black stallion will fade along with all the memories of the desert.

“I know,” The golden woman says.

Lucrezia’s nutmeg gaze turns to focus on the other mare. The golden mare turns to face her as well, a soft smile growing on her lips. “But there is always a chance you can,” the golden woman tells her. Lucrezia’s brow furrows at her remark.

Before the winged champagne mare can say anything, the wind howls, and the grains of sand pick up. Her vision goes blurry, a cloud of blackness blinds her, until two silhouettes, gold and black come into view. The gold and black shapes focus slowly against the desert background. She instantly recognizes both women; they had been separated in death but now were together. They had always been together, lovers, ruling side by side. She only knows their names by stories, legends of her home—Craft and Anatomy.

A terrifying sound of something tearing echoes behind her, Lucrezia quickly turns away from the two queens, finding the curtain between the two worlds torn open. Bring her back, says an unfamiliar voice. Lucrezia turns back where the two queens were standing, but she only finds the golden mare in front of her now. Reunite her. Reunite them. The voice tells her again.

“You loved her very much didn’t you?” Lucrezia asks staring at the golden mare. For a moment, she feels jealous for the love the two women shared. Her heart feels heavy at the realization of her jealousy. If she had not been so caught up in all her failures and hating herself, she perhaps could have loved someone—someone like Etojo.

Craft nods her head. “She was my lover, my soulmate.” She pauses for a moment, the golden mare turning her gaze to the curtain that tore open, creating a portal between the two worlds. “My everything,” Craft says looking back to Lucrezia. “I’d do anything to be with her again.”

There were many times she had wished to have another life. Lucrezia would have done anything to erase the life she had lived before. However, she wasn’t given a second chance to live a different life. She was given a chance at the same life, but this time she could mend the things that had broken her and not let them destroy him.

Now she could give someone else a chance to live the life they were meant to have. It was almost cliché how she did not want a second chance before when her father came for her and stayed behind, but now she had the chance to reunite two lovers back together.

“I can reunite you,” she tells Craft. “I know you were meant to be together. You should have been together in the very end.” A weary look crosses over Craft’s golden features. Lucrezia takes a step forward with a soft expression on her cream-colored face. “You deserve to have a chance together. Staying here, in this world, will not give you that opportunity. I know that more than anything. The Deserts was my home. I loved it so much, but we have to let it go. We have to let go of the past and stop living in it. I know this new world can give you everything you want. Everything you deserve to have…” Lucrezia trails off.

Everything I always deserved to have too, she thinks.

“Please, trust me,” Lucrezia says softly.

A smile curls on Craft’s lips as her words fade into the howling wind. The sand swirls around them, blowing harder. “I trust you,” the golden woman says and takes a step forward, waiting for Lucrezia to take the lead.

The two mares then move into the sandstorm that begins to swirl and howl more around them. Crossing over the dunes, Lucrezia leads the way towards the portal. She can taste sand in her mouth, every step she takes is blinding, but she keeps close to Craft, ensuring the mare follows her.

Reaching the swirling vortex, the portal between the old and the new world, Craft suddenly stops at the edge. Lucrezia turns to face the golden mare. “We will go together. I promise I won’t leave you.” She tells Craft even though she is hesitant herself. Would they both make it back to the Beqanna she knows?

Lucrezia shakes her head, knowing it was best to not focus on the what ifs. It was now or never. Craft moves to her side, Lucrezia smiles and nods her head. Together the two mares step into the portal.

...too close to the bottom.