"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
It considers briefly if it had been her - Aletheia - that quickened the cycle or if it was merely time. During the autumn months its shuddered away from flesh and muscle. It became barely more than a skeleton. Its sickly green eyes were retreating until one day in the sunlight they melted away. Blood turned to dust and it felt the ground coil around its bones.
Another death.
It never knows how long it is collapsed in a heat. It remembers watching a thunderstorm pass by and cleanse its stained skeleton followed by more sunlight to bleach it anew. It could feel the fungus and bugs crawl across its corpse until there was a loud crack. Then the sound of something dragging through the leaves. Its bones are drawn to each other, its own gravitational pull. Piece by piece it comes together like a puzzle. The bare bones stand together in a most unnatural way as blood, flesh, and muscle thread along the skeleton. Slowly, it's coming to life. Its naked skull is last to be reincarnated with true skin. Then its eyes with a stare so familiar and hollow.
Another birth.
A breath is pulled into its rejuvenated lungs when it takes a step forward. Then another and another.
In... Out... In... Out...
It almost forgot how to breathe. Once its body begins to decay, the organs shrivel and it loses use of them. As the cycle draws to an end there is no feasible way that it should be able to walk and function, but it does.
And, oh, does it thrive!
Except now.
The world isn't providing it enough to feast on. Even in its rejuvenated state Infection still appears thinner than usual. Its skin is stretched taut across its ribs and muscles. The nightcrawler is typically an image of health and strength during this time but it's hungry. Those sickly green eyes stare across the field. It's searching, waiting, living.
infection
infection by aeris | html by insane | picture c darkcloud013.deviantart.com
He wakes with the voice of chaos singing in his ear. His night had been another one spent lulled by the dreams of his past (of the pink queen’s lips stretching wide after he impressed her, of the lightning bolt falling from the sky to strike the orange mare and cover him with her innards, of the frightened captive trying to escape the blood bath, of the Valley burning around him yet he remains safe, of the dark magician breaking his forelegs and forcing him to bow). His past haunts him just as much as his future – perhaps more so. But chaos is an ever-present song among the chatter of life (a song that lives in his past, present, and future) and he enjoys listening to it.
Chaos is a song that demands to be heard (it is a strong gust of wind, the sound of a scream in silence, the unsettling sound of one’s own heartbeat, the heat of a forest fire, the frozen shattering of peace in a snowstorm). The trickster is simply the one to answer it – always answering the song. He doesn’t ignore it this time, either, as he moves away from the shelter of a tree.
The meadow has been his hideaway lately – it is a place where many different personalities can clash together into a big mixing bowl. It is the breeding grounds of chaos. It is a place where dealings can be dealt, bargains can be struck, souls can be lost, lives can be destroyed, and danger can be born. Although the meadow is the place where his mother birthed him (as, he is sure, many colts and fillies have been born before), it is also the place where he has received many fortunes (the mischievous magician seeking him out, finding tail during breeding season, and – more recently – diving back into the chaos-making business after his leave).
Today, the trickster is hoping that fortune will find him again. The sight of an odd-looking stallion draws his attention. In his years of life, the mischief-maker has seen many sights and many frightening things – but never has he seen anything quite like this… creature. For a flicker of a moment, he wonders if the creature might be who he thinks he is (the undead, meat-eating monster told in the stories a mother might whisper to keep her babe close to her side at night) – but the flicker turns into a full flame quickly.
However, the creature looks like his days of feeding frenzies have been few and far between. Thin bone stretches from underneath a canvas of skin with little muscle or fat to fill in the empty places. The trickster slides closer, unafraid of the hungry beast (perhaps he should be – the creature is starved, after all – but the trickster hardly thinks he is worth anything besides a few stringy bites). A tenor chuckle escapes his crookedly-smiling mouth.
“You look like you’ve seen better days…” he croons. Miniature sandstorms (a constant decorative feature of his) swirl at his ankles, his bruised gaze scanning over the creature’s thin body. “I’d be willing to help you out, if you would like.” He shrugs carelessly, as if the matter didn’t bother him one way or the other. But, in fact, he had been curious to know how much further he could improve his, ah, murdering skills.
The playground and those silly girls had been stupid, stupid, stupid. What was the deal with them anyways? They weren’t anything special - just flesh and blood and bone and hot air. Kraz is thoroughly unimpressed. He thinks then that all women are stupid, save his dam, but even Astri has her faults. There’d always been a glimmer of something akin to worry in his mother’s eyes, but Kraz dismissed it as matronly affection. Today, though, he’s free of that concern and he chooses to spend his time stretching his newly year-old legs.
He’s a sight for sore eyes, with his mint-colored fur that bleeds to a teal underbelly. His matching teal appendages are lithe and lanky, giving a bold hint to perhaps some extra height later on in life. His short, rounded back is indication of good breeding somewhere along his family line, and his once fluffy mane and tail have begun to grow into matching mint tendrils. Kraz is utterly unlike anything lazing around in the meadow, and he rather prefers it this way. What was the fun in being boring?
He meanders without purpose, glittering blue eyes dancing along the backs of those around him. The thin, dull array of winter-turned-spring herd is a droll monotony of useless humming and the occasional laugh. Where was the drama? Where was the danger? Where was the fun? He sighs flippantly, ears falling against his neck as he pushes his way through the crowd to source out some entertainment. Pushing past the back ends of two rather rotund, pregnant mares, he peeks a glance at the surrounding area and spies exactly what he’s looking for.
There, only a few meters away, stands a deathly looking creature with another stallion sporting a silver mane and tail. They’re an odd pair, and Kraz can sense that something is very different about them. With a sideways smirk he slithers away from the crowd and approaches them slowly, head raised while his teeth grit together to contain his excitement. In fact, he’s so overcome with emotion that his once thin, greenish ears have turned short, furry and black (A stark difference from the rest of his body.) But the boy knows nothing of his powers yet so he remains unaware.
“Planning a murder, are we?” He asks, completely a jest without realizing how dangerously close he was. He asks because the look on their faces reeks of mischief. Despite the countless instruction he’d gotten from Astri on how staring was rude, his bright eyes seem to glue themselves to the skeleton of a horse, and they remain there. “Woah …” He whispers, letting the noise drift off into a staunch, fear-filled silence.
It regards them plainly. They've reached the circus and now settle their eyes on the main attraction. A mongrel, a behemoth, a monster. There is no single name to describe the monstrosity in front of them.
Deathcrawler. Murderer. King. Fear. Nightcrawler.
There are many names - many entities - that it lives by. For a moment it tries to recollect the curses spat in its direction, but it remembers very few. The insults were shuddered off like a winter's snow before it indulged in its own pleasures. Once upon a time it pissed the entire world off. Now, that is only the prequel to this second part of life.
A slow swallow pulls the drool in its mouth down its throat. It can almost taste them as their body heats mingle and radiate. "You haven't seen me on a bad day," the words crawl like spiders. They haven't seen its body decayed and torn yet. They see it reborn and near perfect, but still beastly and strange. They see it starved when once before it was heavily fed. And so that is why it considers Lokii's offer with a shaded gleam of its eyes. Food, it muses in silence as its stomach churns in hope. "And in return?" It finally asks after a long breath of pause to weigh the options. Infection hasn't forgotten the other stallion who stands alarmingly close. "Do you have anything to offer?" The question grates against their ears. Nothing is ever truly free, but there are always symbiotic relationships.
infection
infection by aeris | html by insane | picture c darkcloud013.deviantart.com
caaaal, kraz's html is broken so I couldn't read most of the post I could read up until, "his short, rounded back is indication of good breeding somewhere along his family line, and..."
The trickster can, unfortunately, remember his childhood days (the days before his first birthday spent in self-pity and practice; the days after his first birthday spent in more practice and working hard). He never did socialize much – at least in his youngest months of life. Most of it was spent secluded in the forests, focusing his energy to refine his tricks. He’d developed them quickly (through endless practice, through forcing rabbits with his mind to kill themselves from terror, through making his brain believe the wind was wrapped around him on a cloudless, sweltering hot summer day) for someone as young as him, and it impressed the pink queen greatly.
The trickster can only wonder if the minty colt next to him has as much potential. Most youngsters in Beqanna, it seemed, were born from common things (in this land, at least) like rape or faux love or bargains struck for power. Some children were born without the love of a mother (too many nightmares about the ‘father’), some children were born for greatness and fell short, some children were loved dearly by the parents (oh, the lucky few). The trickster himself is the product of a thirsty, tricky stallion and a mare who didn’t want a child.
However, when the monster speaks, the trickster’s bruised eyes are drawn away from the boy. He can only imagine what a mischievous trio they must make (the undead monster, the mint-green yearling, the chaos-bringing trickster) to the outside world, but rarely ever does he care. Nonetheless, the gleam of something (is it excitement? Prospect? Interest?) causes the silver bay’s lips to creep into that comfortably smirking grin. He’s seen it before, and he knows it means something good.
He asks what he might get out of it (they always do, he regards) and the trickster waits an equally long pause as the monster. “Perhaps,” he drawls slowly, carefully. His tenor tunes melt against the background of meadow-life, but still ring into the ears of those around him. His bruised eyes (blue and black in the right, blue and white in the left – both shining with mischief and bloodlust) glance toward the curious colt for a brief moment. But the trickster has been dealing with the world long enough to not care what a child might overhear or witness, especially if it were his own fault at listening in.
At the colt’s age, the chaos-lover was murdering the bodies of those trying to escape a bloody feast for alien predators.
“If you teach me how to kill better, and all the ways to do it, I will give you my prey as your meals.” He’s heard of the monster before and he knows what or, rather, who he eats. “A fair trade, I would say.” One ear shifts toward the boy again, wondering if those words would send him running for his mother. Welcome to the real, deadly world of Beqanna, boy.
I could read up until, "his short, rounded back is indication of good breeding somewhere along his family line, and..."
