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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


    you just shoot to thrill // thana
    #1
    He takes comfort in the darkness of night. Although the stars spread their arms wide in the sky (twinkling so far away, casting their dainty light down on innocent heads below, dancing and winding and sparkling), the hazy fog that constantly curls through Sylva dims the stretch of their glow. The trickster finds he enjoys his new home most once the sun has gone down (it looks the most like the Valley, in the period of time between dusk and dawn).

    He winds between the tall trees (scarred and marked body stretching out casually), his thoughts a curious swirl of patterns. He has only just recently decided to call Sylva home, but already he is on the track of ideas for conniving and cruelty (as he often is). The trickster can recall many kingdom meetings where he would shout idea after idea (his eyes afire and his feet working divots into the ground) only to be turned down with a shushing look from the throne.

    He can tell that might not be the case here.

    The grass crunches quietly under his hooves as he wades between the rock formations. They loom amid the darkness and fog like quiet monsters (he wonders, for a split second, what would happen if they came alive). Eventually he settles his lanky frame against the peeling bark of a birch tree, bruised eyes peering into the shadows thoughtfully.
    LOKII


    @[Thana]
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    #2
    It's in her kiss; the black seal.
      The quiet is soothing to her.

      Suffocating, stifling - the air is thick, but she has long since become accustomed to the density of the still, unmoving oxygen festering in the depths of the dark, concentrated darkness. The fire had long since slipped away, but the ash remains, tainting the woodland with charred remnants of what the flame had consumed. She is a part of it (a part of the darkness, that is) and her breath is shallow while the broad hearth of her chest is barely rising with her baited breath; a predator through and through.

      She has never felt more at ease than she had amid the thicket, with dry and brittle bark clutching hungrily at the swell of her feminine hip - the jagged bone resting against the curve of aged oak as her breath is caught within the confinement of her throat.

      She is drawn to him from the shadow, and the shimmer of her eye and the warmth of her breath across his hip is enough to speak of her curiosity, and her desire to know him - a glint of curiosity tucked away behind the impish gleam of her eye. She had heard much about him, and though he may have yet to taste his name on her lips, he is formidable, and his reputation precedes him. Her silver eye roves the slope of his spine, the curve of his hip, where scarring lay - a story etched into every line, and she is a voracious bibliophile, anxious to devour each word carved into flesh.

      ”You must be Lokii,” she murmurs, close enough for her shoulder to brush his own. ”I am Thana,” the Queen, she doesn’t say. It does not need to be said. She is a only a companion to carnage and a lover of destruction. No crown of thorns or coveted title could speak of what she had done and what she could do, and that can all be seen in the mischievous gleam of her eye, and in the sultry tone of her voice, carried to him through the dense thicket and echoing off the birch and hickory that surround them. ”I’ve been looking for you.”
    Thana.
    It runs deeper than you can dare to dream it could be.
    Reply
    #3
    He’s noticed the damage to the woodland (the charred remnants that surface as the snow melts, the brittle trunks that reach their naked arms to the sky even as the others around them are clothed, the stark lack of underbrush that might shelter the forest creatures) and it reminds him of another scorched forest he’d called home (although the desolation of the fire had been absolute, the flame eating at everyone and everything who were not fortunate enough to climb inside that bubble of solitude). It piques his curiosity, but he remains silent about it. He can guess something interesting had happened (the bitterness of winter has long since drowned the scents of sex and sin that might have clouded the air here), although it had happened before his arrival.

    He isn’t ignorant of her presence. There’s a certain sort of awareness when another (a fellow chaos-lover, someone else who delights in orgies with destruction and sin and death, another who toys with the tendrils of mischief) creeps nearby. The trickster’s ears turn in her direction as she creeps along his hip. Her breath is warm and sparks a hint of a flame deep between his legs. He smirks although his bruised eyes do not look in her direction just yet.

    It is only when she speaks (in an erotic way that makes the shadows seem somehow darker, that ignites emotions that might remain stagnant otherwise, that pulls forward cords of primal instinct) that he moves to look at her. He is mildly amused that she might know his name (it has been a long time since his title has been found among the households — frankly, he’s missed it) and it shows blatantly in the curve of his mouth and the spark in his gaze.

    Just as she knows who he is, he knows who she is.

    “I’ve heard of you,” he croons. He’s heard the whispers of gossip in the social corners of Beqanna (stories of her association with the white wraith, of her seduction toward stallions, of her position alongside the throne of Sylva). “Gryffen’s bitch, right?” It’s blunt (to put it lightly) but the trickster’s never given a fuck about treading carefully.

    He considers playing a trick on her.

    Her next statement throws him off from his thoughts. He tips his head to the side, a charismatic smile dancing across his mouth (it’s a look that treads a fine line between captivating and insanity). “And for what reason?”
    LOKII
    Reply
    #4
    It's in her kiss; the black seal.
      ”Call me bitch again and I will give you proper reason to think that I am,” she snarls, the deeply rooted predator emerging with the sharpened fangs protruding from her parted mouth. ”I belong to no one, and least of not him,” she breathes, recoiling from him as if he were made of acid, bitter and vile, or diseased – contagious and abhorrent. There is a gleam of disappointment within the darkness of her blackened eye, refusing to linger further across the marred, uneven flesh, no longer drawn to him. Any flickering flame of curiosity doused by his inability to see her for what she is, for who she is – she thought he had potential; she yearned to find another as chaotic and as vehement as she, but he is nothing. Nothing at all.

      Not if he cannot see beyond those she has taken as a lover; not if he cannot see her as anything but subservient to a King that would be nowhere without the Queen that had made it all possible.

      ”If you need to use the genitals that sit between my legs to define me, to define the relationship that I share with Gryffen, you are not half of what I thought you were.” She utters softly, though there is poison beneath her tongue, seeping into every arsenic-laced word pouring from the darkness of her lips. She is not frightened of him – he cannot do anything to her that she would not find delight in, that she would not revel in – (even death!) – but chauvinism held no place and no merit; he discounted her before every truly knowing her, and there is no roiling fury in her belly urging her to prove him wrong. Not even Gryffen had wronged her so.

      She owes Lokii nothing.

      Sylva would not be what it was without her; without her spilling the blood she had.

      Without her kidnapping, enslaving, murdering at a whim –
      Without her carving the bloodshed into the brittle and dying bark of the birch and hickory of the forest; without her moving seamlessly beside Gryffen while darkness descended, and Death followed their every move. She is left yearning for her companion in destruction, in decimation and devastation, angry that he is nowhere to be found, as betrayal and abandonment both fester inside of the dirtied blood of her sordid veins. But she would go on.

      ”I sought you, to see if you could carry your own reputation – to see if you might want to take a place in the history of our own making, but so far you are a terrible disappointment,” she does not look at him – not even once! Her ire is too much; her fury heavy and aching. Salivating, the wolf inside of her aching to burst forth, to clutch his jugular between her clenching jaws and to taste his blood under her tongue. ”Tell me why I should let you leave Sylva unscathed?”
    Thana.
    It runs deeper than you can dare to dream it could be.
    @[Lokii]
    Reply
    #5

    He had not been back very long before he'd found himself wrapped in the indigo beauty. They had spent an unmeasured amount of time together—and when the time had come for them to part, they had done so.

    And yet, not too long after this rather taudry encounter, the black magician made his way towards the stench of the Ghost King--more a ghost now than when he was here the first time, for Gryffen is nowhere to be seen. Sylva. The would be Taiga. There was no sense of a magic wall anywhere. No sense of nothing other than Thana, holding it all together with a tight iron-fisted grip.

    He looks on, walking between the trees and deeper into the deciduous forest. There is a snarl, and a flash of color. Dark eyes get bright with need as he feels his nether regions tightening again—a familiar sensation whenever he was around Thana--and he turned his shoulder towards where the ruckus was coming from.

    What he views is a standoff, between the indigo beauty, and the other... a rather troublesome commodity named Lokii. A creature that made his face known far after the son of Mars had had his hayday. Deimos says nothing, other than making a grunt and a cough. He leans against the tree, a dark smile on his eyes. Those black wings of his--they are massive, pulsating and looking to grasp on new flesh. And yet he waits. Thana will know of his presence. But he's not needed here.

    He just wants to watch her work.

    DEIMOS
    cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
    HTML by Call
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