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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


    [open]  maybe you are me, and i am you. || deimos
    #1
    i'm not going to change, so stay out of my way.
    i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
       The winter was bitter – frigid, and unforgiving in its rough touch, lacking subtlety as it gripped onto the base of her spine, rattling her to the core and stirring a shiver from her too-still form. She had tucked herself away within the darkest corner of the dense thicket, her once glimmering golden skin dim and untouched by the bright sunlight – instead, she is shrouded in a blanket of darkness; a shadow cast across the terse line of her jaw. 

       She is unmoved by the distant echo of crooning birds, or the rustling of dried leaves across the damp, icy ground somewhere beyond where her eyes could see – her once insatiable curiosity dampened by wretched apathy (which had begun to consume her;  gnawing at the frayed edges of her composure). And there, with sharp, dry stems digging between the tender skin between her ribs, and scratching, brittle bark digging into her muscled shoulder, she remained – quiet, brooding, as the sun came and went, its bright light meaning little to her darkened spirit.

       The hours eventually faded into days, which inevitably seeped into months. As autumn had become cold and still with winter’s grasp, soon winter fell at the hand of spring, warm and tender as its tepid heat finally penetrated the darkness that had long ago settled into the deepest crooks and bends of the forest. And when a single ray of sunlight finally reaches the plane of her cheek (where too many tears had been shed and dried, though her pallid complexion hid the salty stains from the naked eye), she is roused from her proverbial slumber, blinking away the haze that had fallen over her.

       With a low, rumbling sigh, she draws herself away from the solitude she had permitted to take presence in her very bones – enough time had gone by, she decided, and enough time had been wasted. Though her heart still ached for what could not be, the thought of Magnus no longer caused her anguish (he had been so much to her; meant so much to her - he always would) - and the thought of Warrick's lips across her cheek no longer stirred guilt (but perhaps something more dangerous, stirring within the pit of her belly, even now). Her mind had not been well when she found solace in the silence and isolation; the once fortified threads that held her together had become weak, worn and threadbare – but time had its way of mending all things.

       When she emerges into the blinding sunlight, it, too, is unforgiving – not in the brutal way that winter was, but her grimacing, sensitive hazel eyes shy away from its light, blinking away the blurred colors and shapes from her gaze. Slowly, her broad wings (carefully preened; and brilliantly white) stretch out and a soft groan of satisfaction rises from her throat – it had been too long since they had touched the brilliant blue of the morning sky. Too long.

       But she does not move.

       Instead, she bathes in the warmth of dawn, letting the bright sunlight seep into her skin and warm her icy heart, as its steady thrumming unsettles the proverbial icicles that clung to it.
    Ellyse
    Reply
    #2

    Unmoving. Unforgivable.

    He moved through the wood, silent as death. These thoughts were forever on his mind. The fall of Pangea had stirred a restlessness in him that he could not put aside, and the anger that roiled around in his belly was more than the indigestion of an old man whose dinner did not agree with him. He was torn asunder, with no prospects, and no direction.

    He was an unmoveable object, with an unforgiveable face. What kind of world was there for such a creature as he?

    The ground snaps silently as he draws his body between the trees, weaving this way and that. The shadows play with his skin, wreaking havoc as they reflect down a massive darkness. He is evil incarnate—but darkness only has so many places to go, before the light shines brightly again. And on this particular morning, the sun was wretchedly bright, burning white light that blinded the red-eyed stallion as he tried to find the last shadows to cling to. Summer was nigh, and the days were long and the nights were short. Gone were the days of frozen hearts and shivering bodies in the dark. Deimos, with nowhere to go, found himself stuck for the first time in his incredibly long life. Displaced, unmoving. Unforgivable.

    He flirts with the treeline, grappling his massive talons as they reached to the trees, crushing them as he walked past.

    He is bored.

    So. So bored.

    A turn and glimpse. The scent on the air is new. His nostrils flare wide at the prospect of new blood dipped in power, and he lifts his carcass into the air, like a black winged beast of old mythology. He followed the scent of her blood; the taste she gives off. She’s beautiful, he can tell that before his eyes even set upon her. And he is hungry.

    Later. Always later, they say. When can we play? LATER.

    When at last he lands, it is with a thud that sends the displacement of weight spreading through the entire wood, coming to stand a ways off from her, pumping his wings to catch his balance. Those big black things attempt to reach out, to grab and touch and taste, but he tucks them in, allowing their wretched fingers to sink deep into his muscles, bleeding black thick oil like blood down the sides of his barreled, muscular chest. The scent of his quarry assails his senses, and his body goes rigid. He is now attuned to her, aware of her every move. He does not eat, though he appears to. His curiosity… nee boredom, has brought him here. His dissatisfaction with life.

    Deimos lowers his massive head to take the heads of the grasses in his mouth, he flicks his tail as the membranes of his wings shudder against him. The pain as they sink in deeper, to grab his heart and squeeze what little amount of life he had in this sick world.

    Always the master.

    Always the slave.

    Unmoving.

    Unforgivable.


    DEIMOS
    cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
    HTML by Call
    Reply
    #3
    i'm not going to change, so stay out of my way.
    i don't need you to understand that i'm already saved.
      The quiet tranquility of morning seemingly envelopes her in its warm and gentle embrace, soothing whatever ache had quelled within the empty void of her chest, drawing out into an open clearing and bathing her in its celestial light. The moon has already begun to fall. A wide, blossoming presence, its light waning as the darkness of nightfall is softened with the pale light of morning – and in its place, the bright, blinding sun has risen over the distant horizon, and even the light haze of dawn cannot keep it at bay.

      The solace is momentary and brief, and there is a deep rumbling somewhere beneath the surface of the earth, stirring her from her reverie and causing the ridge of her brow line to furrow with uncertainty – and disdain. Quietly, her gleaming hazel eyes search the thicket and its impenetrable shadows, seeking some semblance of movement, while her lungs grow still and her breath becomes baited, warily listening for any trace of sound.

      Her breath is soon wrought from her with a sharpened gasp as something dark, insidious and altogether enormous descends from above. His behemoth form and broad, expansive wings of thick membrane, muscle and bone casts a shadow across the once sunlit vegetation, and dimming her golden glow with the silhouette of his heavily muscled, dark and opaque body.

      Glowering, she is bristling – her pallid skin parts for thick (yet finely sharpened) protrusions of bone, emerging from her skin wherever the bones of her skeletal outline may be. Along the outline of her rib cage, the pointed spears of cartilage and calcified matter emerge, piercing and curved towards the bright, cobalt sky, while thick jagged horns line the curve of her jaw and the plane of her usually soft, feminine features.

      Though his dark, seemingly endless and empty eyes bore into her, leaving her rife with an uncomforting stirring in the pit of her belly, he feigns interest in the soft, supple foliage crushed beneath the weight of his landing, tearing away at it with his faintly yellowed teeth with a rigid look of disinterest – but she is not fooled.


       He is dangerous, and she can sense the stench of death etched into his skin.

      ”What do you want?” she nearly snarls, her own feathered appendages pluming out at each side as the ridges and hollows grow their own bony extensions, enveloping her in a thorny, prickly armor of her own – though deep down, she knew that even her bone wielding would hardly stand a chance against him and whatever dark magic was seeping from his old and tired bones. ”Who are you?”
    Ellyse
    Reply
    #4

    There was a time when he would have taken care to make sure that no loose ends were left to push the ends of his mind when he chose to act out. The fact that his wings were buried deep in hie chest, instead of wrapped around her throat while he bathed in her blood, showed just how much self control he had come to have as he had grown older. Excpet that he hadn’t grown older had he. Instead He was dead.

    Sort of.

    Hell didn’t want him. So technically he was a dead man walking around, broken bones being held together by staples and things sewn together features haphazardly pressed together in ways that couldn’t possibly walk, let alone function with any propriety. And yet, here he was, having successfully died at least three times… Possibly four, but who is counting?

    Not this writer… who is sufficiently too drunk to care. Whee.

    Point is, he’s dead. Has been dead, will be dead again. The fact that he is living is currently inconsequential. He hasn’t grown, or aged, so forget I ever said that. However, when he comes to stand before Ellyse with his wings buried deep into his body… looking quite like the stupid moron he probably thought he was… he looked at her with quizzical eyes, and then grinned with a dark mirth when he saw that she had the ability to create spikes of bone from her body. Bone bending that. Making oneself look bigger to ward off a predator.

    So then. He was the predator and she was the prey then? Beautiful. Deimos did not hide licking his lips while she spoke to him, his dark amusement only increasing when he realized that she did not know who he was.

    Well. She would not forget him after tonight.

    He laughed darkly, his chest rising and falling…and subsequently his wings too… since.. well. Yeah. The chesty thing.. And then he looks at her, metal spikes protruding from his own body in the very pattern she has created for herself, black blood seeping from every wound as it pusses and bubbles over. “See, Princess? I can do it too… only I am more fashionable. Steel is, you will see, all the rage.” A tongue is drawn tight against his yellow teeth as he smiles darkly at her.

    “I am Deimos. And I want you. Do I look sexy as a porcupine?”
    DEIMOS
    cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
    HTML by Call
    Reply




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