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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


    this is the day the lord has given; any
    #1

    SabbatH
    i'll let you play the role. i'll be your animal.
    She used to dream of being soft like her mother. Sabbath genuinely believed that her life wouldn’t always be like this, racked with hunger and trying to breathe around the lump of rage growing in her throat. But she saw what kindness did to Leliana and Adna. She saw the price of being gentle firsthand and she vowed to never be like them. Instead, she withdrew and curled around the lessons her father gave her when madness still dragged its ragged claws along his mind.
     
    You’ll never love anyone the way you love the sound of bones breaking.
     
    As a child, she told him he was wrong and that the love of her family would always prevail above the ravenous need for the hunt. She wasn’t calloused then. Her heart was raw and beating on her shoulder with a desperate need for company. (She’s still lonely, still empty, but she pushes it down.)
     
    Sabbath grits her teeth to keep them from chattering as the winter cold tries to dig its fingers into the soft flesh of her skin. She wishes she could purge her slender body of such weakness. If only she could chew that mortality from the sinews of her muscles and spit it out like a cancer in the frozen dirt. But all her body seems to do is lose the vibrant red of her mother in favor of the dreary gray of her sire. She is neither, she tells herself as her breaths come in little puffs of hot air from her pale face. She swears that she will be stronger and more terrifying than either of them could ever hope to be.
     
    Her sage green eyes narrow as she arrives at the river. It flows stubbornly despite the awful cold and somehow it feels kindred to her soul. She steps closer to the water’s edge and does her best to ignore the way it splashes up onto her slender ankles, snapping its frozen teeth into her skin all too eagerly.
     
    Happy birthday to me, she thinks with a snort. She doesn’t remember being born here in the snow and the mud but it feels more like home than anything else. Sabbath runs her tongue across her teeth and lowers her head, wedging her slender horn between the larger river rocks. A slow inhale, an even slower exhale, and she twists her head with a jerk. The horn breaks with an awful snap that echoes off the nearby trees and for a moment she is blinded by the pain of it. She blinks to clear the stars from her vision and forces herself to breathe once more.

    Chest still heaving with the aftershock, she can see the first third of that horn sticking out of its new little grave and she admires the jagged edge of it – but not for long. Once she regains some semblance of composure, she kicks the little ivory spiral into the river and watches it float off to who knows where. The serpent girl imagines her old self drifting right along with it.
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    #2

    The familiar creaks and groans of his aging bones changes with the weather and the seasons. He may have the surge of immortality webbing under his skin, in his blood, in his veins and pumping through his ever-young heart – but his body, his body is not protected from pain or the sting of aging. It does fade, seems to go with his mentality – depressions make everything hurt, but they will never stop. It is the curse of a real thinker, the dreaded parasite that lives in the mind that will not, cannot, sit still for even a second. Depression, it comes in crashing waves, kicked up from a storm that birthed itself with its own agenda. Ride it through, his mind will soothe itself with this, and so he will hide for months and enjoy the miserable solitude and silence because for some reason he finds comfort in the isolation. Winter is always the worst.

    Snow was falling when he crawled out of the deep cave carved in the side of one of the many mountains in the northern part of the Meadow. He avoids the open hills of that place, though, skirting it through the forest. He follows an already trodden path, a brown slushy streak through the pristine blanket of bleach white lying across the forest floor. He walks ever calmly, almost as if he is tired but he has had plenty of rest. His ears tweak and twist, his breathing methodical and automatic, he listens to the forest as he strolls through and onto the River.

    Even in the bitter cold, the water flows, chiming through the leafless trees. It was a different sound in the colder months then in the warm, humidity muffled seasons. Out of curiosity, maybe in trying to wake his old mischievous self, he follows the prints of a stranger to the river’s edge. He could not see, upon his slow approach, what she was looking down at – but he could feel the madness in the air. He can recognize that sort of twinge in the atmosphere easily. He moves to present himself from the side, down river, just briefly catching the tumbling piece of horn clink by on the ice and rocks. His teal eyes draw up to her face, not being surprised or otherwise bewildered by the girl’s odd sense of calmness about her broken horn. He has no real way to know she was standing there so coolly because she just did it to herself, but he can taste the madness in the air. His ears twitch and he sucks in a breath through his inky black lips, letting it roll out in white plumes through his nostrils. He cannot think anything to say beyond ‘you lost a bit of your horn there, girl.’ or ‘whoops.’ Nothing really viable, he guesses, and likely to get him lashed at one way or another. So he just kind of looks at her, observing the woman with her ankles in the icy water, the tip of her horn clinking down river to rest forever on some pebble bed or dam of debris.



    CHEMDOG
    to the window, to the wall
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    #3

    SabbatH
    i'll let you play the role. i'll be your animal.
    She, unlike her parents, will age as time has always intended rather than existing within eternity. Old age will find her and weaken her into a soft death, unlike Chemdog, but for now she is still young and vibrant. Or at least as vibrant as a sad girl can be in the middle of a terrible winter. Still, there is something cleansing about watching the perfect tip of her horn go dipping and floating with the water’s current. Her shivering breaths begin to grow even and calm while the corners of her lips curl into a soft smile that contradicts her inner turmoil.

    That is, until she hears his hoofbeats as he approaches.

    At first, only a single ear swivels in his direction as she tries to decide whether or not he is watching her from a safe distance. Was she really so unapproachable? Glimmering scales and pointed teeth are all things of beauty in her sage green eyes but she forgets that this does not always hold true for others. She swallows hard and lifts her head, the red scales across her graying cheeks catching the winter sun’s light. Slowly, she turns to face him with her freshly broken horn. It throbs and it aches but she keeps a straight face despite the pain.

    Sabbath takes the few careful steps required to escape the frigid waters until she’s standing on the river bank before him. Her mess of black forelock hangs in her face a little but she doesn’t seem bothered by it. The girl nervously chews at the inside of her lip as she tries to find something to say. In the meantime, she admires the way the perfect white of him gives way to ink black on the edges of his chest and face. The red dapples across her back and hips aren’t so interesting to her as the splash of color that clashes over him.

    At last, her eyes meet his and she blinks slowly, like a housecat subtly affirming its affections. “Are you just going to stare at me all day? We could try introductions,” she says in a voice like black French lace. “My name is Sabbath.

    And then she falls silent, only the sounds of the river filling the air as the chunks of ice collide and break against one another. Will they be like that, too?
    @[Chemdog]
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    #4

    When her eyes fell on him all smoothness had left him, all his serpentine charm is melted away for a second and he can only push out one baritone word, “Sorry,” he sucks in a sharp breath, blinking his bright eyes but not really pulling his eyes away. He’s always found beauty in all female bodies, every type, truly. But the dangerous ones always made his heart pump a little harder – the only other women he had met that struck him the same way so quickly was Yidhra. He shivered internally as he pictured the tentacle woman.

    His lips pull into a grin, dement and mischief wrinkling his muzzle and lighting his teal eyes. “To tell the truth,” he chuckles while his slowly draws in a breath between words, looking to her feet and then back to her face. “I was not sure if you were real or some sort of fever vision.” He smiles with half of his mouth now, turning his head to the side, “..I’m getting over a little sickness.” he adds this for flare, he is not, and he knew she was real.

    I am Chemdog,” the stallion nods politely, “Pleasure.” He waits an indeterminate amount of time and addresses her with a puzzled look, clearly staring at her busted horn. “What was that all about, then?” If she is going to be blunt, then so was he.


    CHEMDOG
    to the window, to the wall


    @[Sabbath]
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