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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


    to the same dark places; velkan/sarah pony
    #1
    how to be a monster:
    1. learn the taste of dirt and pain.
    2. teach it to others till your knuckles bleed.
    3. see if that makes it easier to breathe.


     
    He is bred of a monster, but he does not look it.
    No, he looks more like his father (or – the one who bore him; the unorthodox nature of his conception makes titles mixed and strange). Pale gold, like winter sunlight, a diluted version of Rapt’s richer tones. He’s handsome enough, though he’s not preoccupied with such things, grown into his body now, no longer a mismatched and lanky colt.
    He is bred of a monster, and this becomes evident when layers are stripped away, when his other abilities are laid out – the dark smoke of the fear aura, the clutching hands of possession. He has not been kind with these gifts, is quick to use them, to possess and to frighten.
     
    Sins of the father, they say, but to him, they are gifts.
     
    He likes how he looks – innocuous. It makes it easier for him to approach them, to smile easily, to worm his way into the conversation and gain some flimsy trust, which is often all he needs.
    The creature who catches his eye looks like the kind of thing Rapt might fall to his knees before, dark with twisting horns. Cringe feels a momentary swell of disgust, and then he swallows it, arranges his expression into something neutral, bordering on friendly, and he approaches.
    He is curious, and that is enough to drive him forward, to curl a smile onto his awful lips.
    “Hello” he says, bobbing his head, playing at normal, playing at kind, “how are you today?”
     

    cringe



    if he doesn't work for velkan feel free to ignore my descriptors and post with someone else <3
    Reply
    #2
    I’m thinking about my mothers, mostly because it’s convenient to muse for a moment about the similarities I share with the stallion I’m about to meet since it probably won’t come up organically in conversation. I’ve been avoiding the forest because the sharp acidic smell of my birth mother’s horrid blood slapped me in the face there just the other day and I knew she had been hunting, knew it had gone sourly and she would be looking for more blood.

    It’s why I keep gravitating to the meadow, with the open spaces. The mare that acted as my sire could still sneak up on me here but that shadow has other places to lurk now, surely. She won’t need to harass me.

    I don’t miss them, don’t want them to resurface again, because I’m enjoying my return to Beqanna and the friends I have made so far.

    I think that’s why I instantly like the pale-gold stallion that comes over to say hello - no one in my family is ever such a sunny colour so it looks bright and warm to me. We’re all black and shades of blacker than black.

    “Hello!” I sing back, the brightness of my voice is at odds with my appearance, and I'm already at ease with the kind greeting I’ve gotten. If someone came over and asked me how I was doing, that must surely mean they’re genuinely interested, right? And it doesn’t seem like he’s staring unnecessarily at the way my cheeks are hollow and malformed or the curve sharp edge of my upper lip that hides the rows of gleaming black teeth hidden within.

    I don’t remember the last time someone asked how I was doing. How do I even answer that?

    I guess the truth couldn't hurt!

    “Why I’m doing just super! How about you?”



    when anaxarete met ripley


    @[cringe] HERE have a reply already
    Reply
    #3
    how to be a monster:
    1. learn the taste of dirt and pain.
    2. teach it to others till your knuckles bleed.
    3. see if that makes it easier to breathe.


    He doesn’t know of this connection, that they both have sprung from unnatural wombs, he knows only that this other horse – this creature - is dark and strange and he is drawn to it.
    He likes his appearance, mostly, but sometimes he wonders what he would be liked if he looked more like Bruise, with cloven hooves and curling horns, something fearsome, a monster in mind and matter both.
    He has not harnessed his powers yet, he wields them clumsily, often heavy-handed. It’s why he hides it now, not yet wanting to induce fear in the fearsome thing, wanting to draw him closer, a snake in the grass.

    He isn’t sure what kind of response he expects – he wasn’t entirely sure, from the shape of the thing’s mouth, that he spoke the same language – but whatever he expected, it’s not the sing-songy brightness that he’s faced with.
    His façade slips for a moment in the confusion, eyes narrow and confused, and then he inhales sharply, reclaims his hold on himself, and slathers on his smile once more. Friendly as anything.
    Maybe the other’s is an act, too.
    “I’m doing great,” he says, trying to match the other’s brightness and failing, a parody of it, “what’s your name? I’m Cringe.”

    cringe

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    #4
    I don’t notice anything amiss with the smile or the brightness coming from Cringe - I’ve never learned to suspect that smiles are false. It’s the frowns and scowls and the honest-to-goodness unfiltered hatred that I grew up with that I associate with maliciousness. It’s never hid from me before.

    So I ease into the belief that this Cringe, however odd his name might be, is just as friendly as everyone else I have met. “I’m Velkan! It’s nice to meet you Cringe.” I have to say, I don’t like his name. Because it makes me feel bad when I’m saying it - like I should be cringing! But I’m not! I’m delighted!

    There’s at least one hundred other questions that I should ask, and could ask, about the weather and where he lives and what type of flowers he likes best, but instead I ask the one question I probably shouldn’t. Because it’s not very nice of me.

    I’m just so curious though!

    “Did your mom name you Cringe?” My tone is nothing but innocent curiosity, like what you’d see in a young child or puppy (and my head even tilts a little to the side as I consider this train of thought), but that doesn’t stop the needles of doubt pricking at my stomach telling me I should’ve just asked something else.



    when anaxarete met ripley


    @[cringe]
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