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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


    been through hell and come out singing; any
    #1

    violence

     
    She pulls bones from the river, and builds with them.
    It’s not much – small bones, mostly, broken and worn by the rushing water. Small, drowned things, she suspects.
    Her creation is nowhere near masterful – her penchant for architecture only goes so far. It’s a slop-sided pile of bones, her attempt at a throne in miniature, but it barely holds that shape. Her materials are poor, she thinks, blaming the tools rather than the carpenter.
    Where her architecture excels is in the creature who lurks beside her, a skeleton that is a menagerie of creatures, horses and bobcats and wolves, pieced together into a monster that click-clacks beside her when she moves. It’s mostly useless, this creature, and it crumbles to dust when she is distracted. But she is fond of it, of the noise of bones clicking beside her, of the way it makes them stare – in fear, in horror, in wanting, she doesn’t care, she just likes the weight of their eyes on her.
     
    Other than the bones, she’s not particularly remarkable. She’s pretty enough, but this is of no importance to her, she wishes she was more of a monster (she’s made herself sick with envy more than once, jealous of her monstrous sisters with their alien bodies and whip-sharp tails).
    She has her bones, at least. An ability unique to her (among her family, at least – mother aside, they were simply monsters). She takes some comfort in this, a sweetness to even out her bitterness.
     
    Her creation crumbles, and she curses. Petty, she scatters the bones, throwing them all over the river’s shore, as if a small massacre had taken place there.
    She is much better at destroying than she is creating.
     

    I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips

    Reply
    #2

    What was it going to be?” Her voice is sure and sharp, if the black mare hadn’t noticed her walking down the river’s edge before, she does now. Kota stops some feet away, to rush a stranger seems unwise, even while blindly inserting one’s-self in their affairs with bones (or maybe especially so?). It takes her eyes a moment to adjust to see the twitching, clicking pile of bones strung together at her side.

    Her eyes move from the mare’s face to the creature, then to her unfinished design lying dead in the moss. She bends to sniff the ground, almost idly and for lack of knowing what to do next. She’s not sure why she doesn’t want to simply walk away, bid the stranger a friendly goodbye and move along. Perhaps she likes to explore the lines between healing and death – she does play in this realm of magic often, there is a reaper out there that probably curses her name. She feeds him oft enough too though, letting go of lives in her possession because sometimes bringing someone's body back isn’t doing anyone any favors. Who let her decide? She doesn’t ask.


    Kota
    those great whites,
    they have big teeth


    @[violence] eh, lemme know if you want a tag or no
    <3


    Reply
    #3

    violence


    The stranger catches her by surprise, with a question on her (failed) creation. Violence looks up, the movement sharp yet graceless, locks eyes with the piebald mare, watches as she sniffs at the macabre art.
    (Crumbled now, detritus, a misshapen pile of bones.)
    She waits a beat, to see if the mare actually wants an answer, and perhaps to think of what it was going to be. A monster? Another bone-thing? A monument to all things dead?
    Violence herself isn’t sure – it was a whim, and she has little explanation for these – but she’ll be damned if she admits as much to a stranger.
    “A sculpture,” she says, then adds, “of my father.”
    Her father - a strange, androgynous alien thing, her mother’s pet, with the monstrous body that her sisters inherited but she lacked.
    (She can wake the dead, sure, but outside she’s so damn ordinary.)

    To be clear, it was not – her father could not be recreated in bone, nor did she care enough for him to do so. Her parents are thought of with a mild disdain and resentment (though the resentment is carried more for her mother, a magician, who refused her, who scolded her, who punished her when she took control of her father or sisters, their weak bodies so open and easy to conquer).
    She could ask the girl’s name, or offer her own. Instead, she poses a question.
    “Do you like dead things?”
    Sparkling conversationalist, she is not.

    I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips

    Reply




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