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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]  all the kings horses, all the kings men [M]
    #1
    **Mature warning: this thread details the aftermath of sexual assault that may make lovely and sensitive hearts uncomfortable <3 Please don't read if you may fall under that, or if you are younger than 18**

    Wallace

    Lacey..

    Her coat shuddered and she winced, the only movement she'd made in -however long she'd been lying here. Blood ran freely from her wounds, and yet went entirely unnoticed. The physical pain could not compare to the damage done to her... heart. Yes, it seemed she did have one after all, viper-tongued Wallace had a beating heart like the rest of the world.

    Lacey.

    Brown eyes stared at -something, but nothing was really seen or acknowledged. She stared hard, blinking slowly only when her eyes forced her to. Her mind, though, was focused inward, withdrawn completely inside herself. Nightmares played out, stuck on repeat. A stuttering breath quaked out of her like a dry sob. There was no weeping, not now. Dried tears crusted her cheek where they'd streamed so freely before, with abandon. Now, she wasn't sure she could weep anymore; she shouldn't be able to. So much already, here in her solitude. Dried up.

    You brought this on yourself, they'll say. Saucy Wallace probably tempted the wrong man this time. Bit off more than she could chew. She probably begged for it, actually, she was always a terrible girl. That tongue too sharp, those eyes too bold. And did you see the way she curled up with Ashley as though she owned him? Yes, that wretched girl probably brought it on herself. Got what she deserved.

    Oh, look. Not entirely dry. Her eye moistened just a little, not enough to climb the lip of her eye and become a real tear. Just a pretender like Lacey.

    All around were browns and whites of winter, and yet all she saw was silver. A man of iron. He had the power to call on the iron in her blood, force her in to whatever positions he wished; and he did. Oh, he had done that. He loved it. She was so drab and boring, and somehow that intrigued him. So much so, that he fixed it, made her beautiful in his way. He hated her name from the start, named her Lacey instead, and with sharpened iron he drew in her skin. Little elegant laces now rested on her flanks like a permanent lingerie, by his artist's careful hand.

    Lacey.

    Her hair had been so matted and disheveled. He'd loved her, cared for her. Took his time to groom her til every last tangle was freed. She'd never felt so looked-after in her life, an orphan who'd lost everyone and had to make it on her own. He admired his work after, told her she was beautiful -that had been so nice too, dull Wallace was beautiful- but something was still missing, he'd said. And his metal blade had shorn her mane, trimmed it short like a child's. She'd worked so hard to be an adult in their eyes, and now she was a child again.

    She lay in a drying pool of her blood. All manner of body fluids -his, hers- matted and dried into her coat.

    And Lacey could do nothing, but try to remember to breathe. Just breathe.
    In.
    Out.

    Like him.



    @[Reilly] @[Sabrael] @[Ashley]
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    #2
    Oh, it was so good to be back! Back in the norm, with the freedom to be as sober (or not) as he damn well pleased. At present, he is pleasantly blitzed. Not enough for slurring and stumbling and double vision, just enough to feel really good and warm. Ahh, perfect. His massive body moves at an easy pace through the forest, not minding the cold of winter one bit. The light reflects off his pure white coat, marked with red only on the top of his head and streaked through his mane and tail. His pleasure is marked plainly on his face, a slight smile in place (when was the last time he'd smiled?) and eyelids at half-mast.

    That is, until the scent of blood invades his nostrils, causing them to flare at the pungent odor. Blue-green gaze finds her quickly, and the sight of her is like a punch to the gut. Times ten. Frowning, and without thinking, he is drawn to her. His direction changes towards her before he even fully made the decision to. Is she alive? Yes, he realizes, as he nears her and catches the soft sobs that rack her. He'd never in his life seen anything more pitiful. There were wounds everywhere, deliberately placed and obviously intended to cause pain. Her rear end.. Bloody hell. And her face, crusted with tears and her eyes glazed over. With one deep breath, Reilly clears his intoxication away so that he can focus. It doesn't take much for him to piece together what'd been done to her. Bloody fucking hell.

    Stopping at her head, a few steps away, he nickers softly at her. "Ay, there, lassie. Can ya hear me?" He wouldn't dare ask if she was alright. All evidence obviously points otherwise. Irish accent lilting his deep voice, he tries to encourage her. "Come, dearie. Ya gotta get up out'a that." Blood pooled around her, but had congealed and had begun attracting flies. Damn, but he doesn't know what to do in this situation. He wants to step forward, wants to nudge her and get her up. But he won't, not yet. Not with what'd happened to her. "My name is Reilly. I'm not gonna hurt ya, lass. Can ya tell me your name?" Shit, what was he gonna do? He could certainly make her feel better in his special way, but he wouldn't until she was at least up and talking. Damn the bastard that would do this to her. Poor thing..

    ((This is sucky, and am sorry. Reilly is very very concerned <3))
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    #3

    When one mourns the loss of innocence, there is an audible sound that accompanies the breaking of hearts. Scales fall from your eyes, and you put the rose colored glasses away. Reality shifts into black and white, and the color of the world is dulled just slightly. The joy of love is no longer the simple task of saying I love you to someone who has always been there—like a child to a mother—but instead it becomes a desperate clamoring up a vertical precipice, grasping at any straws for some semblance of happiness.

    Thiago’s life has not been happy. He has chosen his life underneath the ground, away from most others. He is alone, and prefers his own company much more than that of others. Without an ability to build a burrow, he finds himself topside, walking through the trees, finding solace in their canopy, as if they provided some sense of cover—it was not a burrow, but it would do for the time being. He is a loner, and he is aloof.

    But one thing he cannot stand is injustice.

    He is cold, but he is not coldhearted. He is a highly-functioning sociopath, and perhaps a bit disjointed—but there is nothing evil about him. He just wants to be left alone.

    This day, Thiago is sleeping in a makeshift lean-to that he has created out of the branches of a nearby fallen tree. Something to shelter him from the falling snow. There are tree limbs everywhere… and the rustling. Always with the rustling. A gasp, and a cry. Thiago tries to sleep through the night, but the ever present sound of rustling sets him on edge. Makes him uneasy.

    When morning comes calling and the rabbit emerges from his burrow, Thiago looks back on his handiwork and frowns at it. He would never be a carpenter. He turns back towards the sound where the rustling had been all night. It is eerily quiet now, except for the sound of breathing.

    In.

    Out.

    And finally, a hiss, as if some disjointed thing were whispering mystically through the trees. Lacey.

    Thiago’s eyes narrow, and he finds he cannot help himself. He rolls his eyes at his own curiosity—because he has never given in to it before—and comes around behind the shadow of a fallen redwood. In the leigh of the massive trunk’s shadow, lays a thing. Beside her, a pile of hair, viscera, sinew, and blood.

    It would have looked like a pile of spaghetti and noodles if the scene weren’t quite so tragic. The wind, it is whispering again… disembodied. Lacey.

    He approaches the stench of blood is vile to his sensitive nostrils but his mouth is familiar with the taste. His fangs—they knew. And even without them, that coppery taste could never quite be washed away. He would assume that the pile of spaghetti thing were dead, except that he remembered that it was still breathing—hence what had drawn him here in the first place.

    Another mail has approached, and immediately Thiago’s hackles are on the rise. He jerks his head from the pile of fur, to the male, and back again, before closing the gap quickly and taking a stance over her. Of all the times to not have teeth. You wish something away for years, and the first time it becomes useful…

    The grass is always greener.

    Thiago snorts. Jumping to the most logical—although incorrect—conclusion, he glares at Reilly. “You better have a good explanation for this.”

    THIAGO
    here comes peter cotton tail, hoppin down the bunny trail
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    #4

    The dragon knows blood even if it hasn’t satiated itself on it.

    Yet.  It makes its second promise even as it – he – scents the air for more blood.  Because the predator is intimately, instinctually drawn to it.  Because it hangs heavy on the light air, a crimson beacon leading to its disastrous conclusion.  Because she is at the end of the trail.  And no matter the twigs that catch his hair and poke through the thin membrane of his new wings.  No matter that he hears the growing sound of shuffling movement towards the blood-source (predators, he thinks, moving in to finish the job).  He winds through the gloom under the trees, stumbles but never sprawls over fallen branches in his haste.  Because she is the disaster at the end of the trail – and he needs to find her before anyone else does.

    But as he runs, the beast soars.  It rattles his ribs like a caged prisoner desperate to fully escape.  It squeezes his meaty heart in its claws, tries to control him.  The taste of its freedom is not enough.  It wants more and more.  Sabrael gasps at the dragon’s power, gasps because his breath becomes shallower with each hoofbeat.  He tries to concentrate on the path ahead, but the world seems to close in on itself around him.   He – the dragon – hisses its pleasure, knowing the prey’s fall is only a matter of time. 

    Mine.  

    Sabrael staggers, shakes his head.  Somewhere in the near distance, the sound of voices replaces the shuffling of leaves.  His frustration burns him from the inside out.  Because he will not be the first to find Wallace and god only knows who it will be instead.  And who is to blame?  The part of him that always lurked in the hollow spaces, the creature made of fire without a face (but oh, he can see it like his own reflection now), is not cooperative – it is his competition.  And his body is the prize.

    He fights against the dragon – against himself – before he has his answer.  A truce if not a victory.  Blood, he thinks, don’t you care for a taste?  And of course the monster obliges, greedy for it. 

    They move together as one and reach her just after Reilly and Thiago.  One of them is near but the other is Too Near.  “Move,” Sabrael says like cold steel.  His punctured wings lift from their forgotten place on the ground, flaring out defensively.  The hollow is scent-painted with destruction and it takes all of his concentration to hold the beast at bay.  Kill them, it urges.  But they are not the purple-hued man he should have killed, the artist whose careful manipulation had sculpted the scene before him.  Down to the finest details: the lace curling along her hips, the glimmer of tears, the red, red of spilled blood. 

    The half-horse takes single, reptilian-slow step towards the nearest stallion.  His eyes flick between both of them, but it is the mare he addresses next.  “Have they hurt you, Wallace?”  Do I need to hurt them?       



    Sabrael

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    #5

    Wallace

    Lassie.
    Lacey.

    No!


    Her pupils shrank and she lunged blindly for him. Her teeth only clipped air as she fell back weakly with a hard thump, closing her eyes to the dizziness that followed. But for that brief little moment, she'd had power again. She'd finally had control of her world. She was in control.

    Then it slipped away.
    She needed to feel it again.

    His words went unheeded. She didn't care. Just leave me, but her voice wouldn't come; she could only swallow. And shortly thereafter, another joined to stare down at her sick mess. One white, one black. Her ears pinned back, but she refused to look at them, refused to answer them. She didn't want to be seen this way, but she was too weak to do anything about it. It was better that they were strangers, at least. They wouldn't know how strong she'd once been. How so very far she had fallen.

    She swallowed a whimper and her eyes blurred with moisture.

    "Move."
    The command, so firm, startled her with a painful little jolt. She winced. But.. Oh no. Familiar. She was thrown into a wild whirlpool of conflicting emotions. A panic. He'd see her this way. He'd know. He'd hate her. He'd pity her. He'd know! No, don't let him see her this way. Ruined.

    And also.. Relief. Home, safety. She wanted to curl into his lap and sob like the child she now resembled with her shorn hair, let him make it all better. Let him fix everything. He could, somehow. He'd make it all go away. Hide her away from the rest of the world, until she was better. If she would ever be ok again.

    "Have they hurt you, Wallace?"
    Gentle, but still firm. Different, changed, deeper.
    She tried to twist to see him, but recoiled from the aches in her body and fell back to the soaked earth.

    Sabrael? Her voice cracked, raw and raspy from.. screams. Screams he'd forced from her. Screams he'd coaxed from her so purposefully like a tender lover. Her face crumpled, eyes pinched shut tight and teeth clenched, trying to fend off the dark images assaulting her once again. Tears spilled freely now as a strained keening squeaked from her, clipped by a choked sob.

    That was her biggest secret, her hardest truth. He'd known her body more intimately than she had, knew just what to do.

    He'd made her want it.

    Make it stop, she whispered, begged. She knew begging, now. She hated that she did it just then, but she couldn't possibly fall any farther than she already had.
    Ruined.
    Broken.


    Please make it stop.. The pain, the memories. Wake her from this nightmare. Let it all be a horrible dream. She'd never go to the forest again, never taunt him with her barbed tongue.
    Looking a little dull there, metal man. Bet a good dunk in the lake would fix that. Oh, or would you sink?

    The perfectly wicked grin that answered.
    That now burned permanently to the inside of her eyelids.

    Make it stop.

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    #6
    A black and red man enters the copse of trees where he stands with the woman on the ground, and Reilly snorts and finds his ears laying back on his neck at the gall of him. Coming to stand over her like a prized possession and then glaring blame at him. "I hardly think I would be standing here asking if she needs help if I were the one behind this." Something rises within the Irish stallion that he's never felt before. Protectiveness, empathy, an intense desire to make things better for her. And this wanker comes around acting the maggot with him. Standing to his full height, a good hand and a half taller (bigger, in every sense), Reilly moves to take a step toward the arse and rightly remove him from where he stands. But then he catches the look on the poor lass's face and ceases his movement. His entire face softens to her. His heart swells, his gut wrenches. She looks so broken, so lost. And they weren't helping. So he turns his vibrant gaze back to the male and aims the most piercing glare he can manage. His lips part and his words are prepped to speak.

    "Move."

    Pretty much just what he was about to say, but the singular word had not come from him. Instead, a bay roan approaches, slinking from the shadows. His wings are unlike anything he's seen before, but it isn't the wings that have Reilly inwardly side-stepping. The man has a certain presence around him, powerful and promising of menace should he be crossed. Reilly is not afraid of him, by any means, but he instantly holds a level of respect for him. For reasons he doesn't fully understand. He seems to know her, speaks her name and asks a question to her similar to the one the other had. Exasperated, Reilly tosses his head, rolling those blue-green eyes. He huffs. "What the bluidy hell do I look like? You fellas are jammers of shite if ya think I'm the type to be layin' the boots on the poor love. Get off it, you fools." He glares fire at them. Angry, no pissed. It surprises him, how much he is affected by all this. Typically he would be the one, when told to move, to say sure fine and go on his merry way. Not this time. No.

    "Make it stop. Please make it stop." His heart breaks for her and gears him into action. She is hurting, bad. And here there are these two gobshites standing there staring at him like it's his fault. No. Screw them. He exhales, long and slow, and his powers that had lain dormant for so long suddenly rise from within him. Unseen, he sends it out toward them, whether they would like it or not. Normally he shares his brand of awesomesauce with people to have a mutual good time. But this time, this time he doesn't give two shakes if they want it or don't. It is no small dose that he pours into the two stallions, his every intention bent toward disarming them and sending them off-balance. Let them suddenly see way too many trees and the world spin around them. Let them suddenly struggle to maintain balance. Let them fail to see him move around them to send much softer waves to the broken bird on the ground so that she can be numbed to the sudden jarring he would cause her. He doesn't hesitate, wanting to take her far away from any other male. Far away from anyone else who would ask her painful questions or gaze down on her pitifully. Far away from self-righteous shapers who seek to 'save' her. The damage had been done to her already. She didn't need to be saved right now. She needs to go and heal. Away from prying eyes.

    Still, he sends more waves of intoxication to the other males. Attempting to further ensure their escape. One last glare at them, and then he dips his head to lightly brush her forelock from her eyes. A loving touch as he breathes his power into her, just a bit. Enough to relax her. "Shh, lil bird (in case she rebuffs him). I've got ya now." Without further ado, he nudges her as gently as he can, getting her up into a position enough to where he can scoop her up. She's a small thing compared to him, and he has no problem lifting her and practically hoisting her onto his back. And then he sets forward. On to far away places.

    OOC: um. So. Not what I was expecting to happen. Reilly had plans of his own loool. Permission given to powerplay Wallace so he can attempt to whisk her away. And his intention is to stupify Thiago and Sabrael so that he can do so and disappear without fuss. They can try to stop him, of course. How intoxicated they get is up to y'all, as well as how long the effects last. But he does try to lay it on really thick. He is Irish, blunt and rood <3
    ((If is not okay, and if I need to change, pleeeease let me know. This is first time he is using his powers on unknowing peeps xD))
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    #7
    censored censored censrored
    ASHLEY

    “If you think you’re going anywhere with her, you have another thing coming.”

    His approach had been silent. Sure. The ginger Irish hybrid stallion looked at the throng, and nodded to Sabrael. The others were of little to no consequence. A black and red no-one. A red-headed man from his mother’s homeland—with the ability to imbibe with the rest of them, and to coax his mates (or enemies) to do the same. But he was taking one too many liberties with the precious cargo he had hoisted upon his back. Ashley pinned his ears to his head, his amber eyes siding with the dragon—this was going to end exactly one way.

    Ashley’s eyes slid over Wallace’s frail form. Inside, his guts were roiling. He had done this. His lesson. It had been too subtle. He should have been forthwright. He should have prevented this. He should have protected her.

    Damn.

    He walks over to where Reilly was preparing to slink away with his prize. Good intentions to be sure—but however pure, Wallace needed to go home. Ashley’s eyes race over Wallace, grimacing at her wounds. His warm breath rolls over her and he approaches her head, and whispers into her ears softly, words sticky sweet like warm honey. “Ashley’s here, Darling Wallace. We will make this better.” He noses down her neck, encouraging her mane and ail to grow back—thick and luxurious. The scars—they would stay, but as Ashley rolls down her body with his head, he wills the scars to change—more intricate, delicately knitting flowers and birds and little berries into the workings upon her hide—like a beautiful tattoo against the memories. She is weak, but Ashley hopes that she will approve when she is strong again. She is beautiful to him. She always has been.

    And he should have told her so long before now.

    Behind them, the black and red stallion is pissed drunk, knee deep into his cups and pushing into himself into a tree, constantly trying to knock it over. It seems as if he keeps trying to go down a hole at its base, insisting that he was a bunny. With fangs. Sad.

    Ashley shakes his head at the fool, and is brought back to his mission. He returns to Wallace’s ear and whispers again. “It’s Ashley again. Sabrael and I will take you home. You will be protected. I will never let anyone touch you again. I promise.”

    His voice was terse—his commands; truncated. “Put. Her. Down.” He is matter of fact. Angry.

    “You will give her to me at once and leave this place. I thank you for your assistance, and if you wish to see to her welfare, you can see for yourself on the island Ischia. But she needs to go home now.”

    The one who did this would die.


    and the girls caressed me down ughhh that's that lovin' sound
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