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  • Beqanna

    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


    christmas came early this year...||any
    #1

    Merry Christmas, you filthy animal

    Ugh summer.

    Why must you torture this poor, pretty, maniacal soul? Ruby eyes squint as she stands in a pool of sunlight like an irritated emerald angel. All legs and hips and frowns. Like a pretty pouting gemstone. Slaybell is not pleased with her choice of returning to Beqanna when she did.

    She notices not much has changed except she is no longer in the Valley like she had been when the world imploded...all fire and brimstone. No, she was in the meadow...the good ole meadow with its braying mares and sniveling foals. The red haired woman looks over one slender shoulder to watch a pair of horses having some rather in depth conversation (or so she can tell) with all the fake giggles and rolling eyes and pathetically playful bats from the mare to the stallion. Gag me with a spoon. Slaybell in all her glory moves away from the shmoozing pair with a little too much enthusiasm.

    Once far enough away, the jewel colored woman decides to indulge herself on a little bit to eat. After all, it felt like she had not eaten in ages. Green lips split to nibble on the tender bits of young grass, ears moving within the red hair to catch sounds of anyone who may fancy the green cloaked mare. She won't care either way really.

    ❄ Slaybell ❄

    The Christmas Bitch

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    #2
    The summer heat itched at his skin (it tingles against his nerves and there is no release even when the sun dips below the horizon) so he tricked his mind into thinking otherwise. At the beginning of his life (when he had been that cunning boy, before his knees had broken under the weight of evil, when he had spent his days learning from the pink queen, before he had given a tender yet miniature piece of his heart to the golden-eyed warrior) he had enjoyed the sweat from the sun. He would have delighted at how it burned against his skin.

    Now he found there is no solace in any season. Fall brought the promise of winter, winter brought the promise of aching knees (the same knees broken and carelessly sewn back together), spring brought the promise of protective mothers and enthusiastic children, summer brought the anger of the sun. Perhaps he’d grown grumpier over the years (he tended to get grumpy when there is no sex to be had and no chaos to be created) but he would never admit that to himself.

    Over the years of his life, the trickster had seen his fair share of unnaturally-colored bodies. Her contrasting colors drew him in, however. The green of her body against the red of her mane (the emerald of the grass under his hooves, the deep maroon splash of blood) and the sway of her hips stand out against the crowd. It had been too long since he had been with anyone at all and he certainly missed the fall days when he would sleep deeply from exhaustion.

    He watched (with those cunning, striking eyes - one blue and black, one blue and white) until she settled herself. His gaze moved from her mouth taking a bite (lips reaching delicately) to her chest (swelling with every gentle breath) to her curves (slender, juicy, womanly). The trickster shook his tangled mane to rid himself of his devilish thoughts before he approached her.

    He doesn’t say anything (he used to have a loud mouth as a youngster, but it had been a long while since his mouth had spoken) but he stood close enough to be slightly stalkerish (slightly creepy, watching her mouth take another bite). He’d let her come to him (as they all do).
    LOKII
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    #3

    Merry Christmas, you filthy animal

    He doesn't go unnoticed. Not much was missed by the red eyes that burn like forest fire coals beneath the long lashes that amplify her features. Slaybell has learned from the (many) past mistakes to be the careful. She watches the way these men move, lumbering and awkward before they claim a woman's reproductive organs as their own humping and fighting till they grow tired of the responsibility, till their ears are full of sobs and their shoulders are damp from tears.

    Slaybell is a cautious girl with cunning eyes and a tinker's smile.

    She can tell he had once been vibrant and bright like a fresh flame but the grey that peppers his skin and the scars scattered across his once tan hide can be read like a map to the keen eye. Slaybell allows him to near though she notes his distance once he is close enough to make eye contact. Her own rubies are intrigued by his mismatched pair. He certainly was a story book of intangible words.

    The emerald mare does not say anything but instead continues to tug at the tender shard of grass, the warm heat of summer drawing a glisten across her green hide. She chooses to let the silence settle between them as she was curious to which he would allow. Most horses insisted upon babble to fill an empty space, uncomfortable with silence.

    Then finally, "I'm Slaybell." She lifts her head, the muscles of her cheeks still working to consume the vegetation, red hair lifting and falling like a small banner in the early evening air.

    ❄ Slaybell ❄

    The Christmas Bitch

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    #4
    The world is poisoned (with death, with sin, with disease). The trickster injects the poison into his system like an ancient heroin addict. He poises the needle against his skin and pushes it in with a slim finger. The world is poisoned and everyone knows it (yet not everyone loves it, cherishes it, desires it).

    It’s a given that one must be cautious with so much infection leaking through the air (children can be murdered, wives can be raped, dreams can be crushed). Perhaps that is why emotions are so easily hurt in the face of chaos. The trickster never understood it. He’d spent his life giving zero fucks to anything that happened to anyone (not that he hasn’t stopped - in fact, that carelessness has grown tenfold since his childhood). The only thing he ever cared for was the poison, the chaos, the disease (this comes to mind - a flash of blazing golden eyes, a faint memory of walls of earth around his shoulders, the smell of whispering words in the dead of night - but he pushes it stubbornly away).

    Though he has aged since his younger days (days of the shadowy kingdom long gone, days of dragons flying high in the sky, days of pink queens and ancient gods), he is not old. The trickster’s skin has history written upon it, but his angular face is just as charming as ever. Cunning, precise, and sharp but still charming. His steps are rugged and slanting, his shape is a combination of hazardly-tossed together body parts, his eyes are alluring and sly (but he is a chaotic sort of handsome, a question waiting to be answered).

    She tugs on her meal and he watches the way her elegant neck bends. There a quick flashes of desperate thought (his lips placing sweet kisses on that neck, his teeth shredding her skin to reach her esophagus, blood dripping quietly down her throat) but he controls himself. The infected had taught him well and he yearned for the pleasure those nights spent in the dark had given him.

    Finally, she acknowledges his presence with her name. He takes a step closer and decides to flex his muscles just a bit. Her aesthetic brings to mind wintertime and the chill of snow. The trickster’s smokey fingers leak into the crevasses of her brain and access the sensory machinery. In the blink of an eye, it is no longer summer to her.

    The meadow is a frozen wasteland. There is no one around (no one but herself, as far as she can see) and the trees are even naked from their friendly leaved companions. Snow is piled around the edges of the meadow, high enough the mare might have to crane her neck to see their peaks. The wind is a bitter sting against her hide, the sun is absent (hidden behind a thick curtain of deeply gray clouds), and her breath clouds into a dragon’s huff before her mouth.

    In the next moment, she is back in the meadow during the summer, with the trickster standing with a leg popped out in a comfortable position. He shrugs his shoulders (nonchalant as ever). “The name’s Lokii.”
    LOKII


    i should have asked before powerplaying, so i do apologize. if you want me to change anything please don't hesitate to private message me and i can edit stuff out <3
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