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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    [private]  I walk my days on a wire, carnage
    #4


    lord, I fashion dark gods too;


    If Ryatah had asked, he might have listened.
    He likes the stars, has spent many decades in their midst. It was a fight, at first, to be among them. The first time he tried, his magic was weaker, and he himself still tinged in mortality. It had hurt, had drained him, to traverse galaxies and wear them on his coat. But he had overcome that as he swallowed more magic down and learned better how to bend the universe to his whims, and after a day or a year or a century (he doesn’t know, doesn’t care, time is all but entirely meaningless to him) he found it easier, to do what had once nearly destroyed him.
    And so there would have been a pleasure in it, in turning his daughter into a star, setting her somewhere in the night sky where Ryatah could look upon her, be bathed in her faint light.
    But she hadn’t asked. And so their child remains mortal – or something like it – and so they are here, with her hurting, and him, merely curious.

    He sighs when she speaks, names the source of her sadness. Another mortal failing, the pain of losing another can bring.
    (Never mind the way his own emotions have sparked when he is defied, he is conveniently hypocritical in his remembering, and is rarely questioned on it.)
    “Tiercel,” he murmurs, but the name means nothing to him, as the boy himself means nothing.
    He reaches out, briefly – a kind act, one of a doting father – and feels for the stallion, but there is nothing. It is a cursory search, and one that does not extend far. He shakes his head.
    “He’s not here,” he says, “and he’s not worth your time.”
    He could reach further, of course, drag the stallion kicking and screaming back here, or reanimate his corpse if the thing had the indecency to die. But it seems tiring, to do so, and besides, Islas will be better off learning to excise such whims from her heart.
    “I can make it easier,” he says. Perhaps he is feeling kind today, or fatherly. Or perhaps he is simply ready to carve something up, and her memory would do just fine.

    c a r n a g e



    @Islas
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    Messages In This Thread
    I walk my days on a wire, carnage - by Islas - 04-23-2022, 04:19 PM
    RE: I walk my days on a wire, carnage - by Islas - 05-01-2022, 01:53 AM
    RE: I walk my days on a wire, carnage - by Carnage - 05-12-2022, 12:56 PM
    RE: I walk my days on a wire, carnage - by Islas - 05-20-2022, 11:38 PM
    RE: I walk my days on a wire, carnage - by Islas - 07-05-2022, 12:29 AM



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