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    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


    [mature]  Set fire to the roses on my grave; Ryatah
    #1

    I tried to sell my soul last night
    Funny, he wouldn't even take a bite

    Honestly, he’d lost track of the time. Not like he didn’t have plenty of it anyway. Perks of being a god-damned immortal. Or well, whatever fucked up version of immortal he is, at any rate. Not that he’d call it a perk necessarily. More like a fucking shitty joke.

    Still, he’s here, doing the same damned thing he does every day. Repeat ad nauseum.

    Fuck, he needs something to do. Some dick-bag to kick in the guts. A pretty lady to fuck. He’s not picky. For a time though, even that’s not enough to drag him to his feet. Not like he doesn’t go out and do that same exact shit every god-damned time he’s bored. How does one cure boredom when the fucking cure sounds boring?

    Damn. He’s so fucking tired of this sometimes.

    Finally he manages to drag his lazy ass to his feet. With a soul-deep sigh (damn straight he’s getting fucking poetic), he half-heartedly shuffles over to the nearby lake. He’s not quite sure how long he stares into the still waters, but his eyes burning and stinging remind him he should fucking blink. With a self-deprecating snort, he shoves forward, feet splashing into the shallows as he almost mindlessly seeks to do something. Anything for fuck’s sake.

    Lifting his wings, he wades deeper. Deeper. Until his feet can’t touch. Hell yeah. So fucking stimulating. -insert eye roll here-

    Pulling the wings he’d spread across the water back, he uses them to shove himself upwards. Abruptly pulling them into his sides, he dives down into the murkey water nose first. He sinks down, the weight of the water surrounding him with a heavy silence. Fucking blissful. He’s usually not big on silence, but damn, this better than the fucking apathy he’d been smacked with.

    As he drifts down, he opens his eyes, seeing the faint shadows of seaweed and fish glinting as they swim by. It’s dark. Mildly hellish. Well, fuck. Maybe this is where he belongs. He wonders then how long he can stay down here. Wonders if he has the balls to play chicken with his own life. Not that it’s much of a fucking loss if he does lose. He’d just fucking come back. Not that he’s especially keen on dying. Or being a damned kid again.

    But even when his lungs begin to burn, he doesn’t surface. Not quite yet.

    Hell, it beats the fucking apathy.



    @[Ryatah]
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    #2

    She has grown accustomed to living in her boredom. There were still days that she felt like she might combust from the inside out; there were still days that her heart beat so hard that it might leave her chest in its desperate search to find something, anything. She has learned to bear it, though. She has learned to grit her teeth and force her boiling blood to settle, has learned that she cannot always seek out her next hit. Her spiral had lasted longer than she had expected, last time, and she had the scars and the children and haunting memories to prove it.

    She could be normal, she thinks. She could go back to being a ghost. She could fade further into the backdrop, like before, and just let herself be.

    This part of the meadow was quiet, and she almost wishes it wasn’t. Noise and distraction made it easier to forget. To forget that Skellig was gone – as if she could blame him. She was the quietest hurricane, a tempest trapped inside a bottle, but she had still managed to wreak havoc on both their hearts. What would she even say, if he came back? She knows him; they would pretend nothing had changed. They would pretend there wasn’t a brand still so stark on her hip, they would pretend she hadn’t been with Ashhal, Carnage, and Atrox – like she wouldn’t go back to any one of them the very instant they called. They would pretend, and she would spiral, again, and again, and again.

    She doesn’t remember coming to the lake, but when she blinks and refocuses, she is staring at the flat surface of the water. She preferred the ocean; preferred something wild that could break her apart, but for some reason she is staring into something tranquil and calm. Something that completely betrays what simmers on the inside of her.

    There is a sigh that breathes past her lips, and she takes one step into the water, and then another. The chill of it bites at her skin, and even though there is something invigorating in that, she doesn’t make it past her knees. Instead, she is focused on a strange movement beneath the water in a deeper portion of the lake, and, in her typical fashion, she does not back away from the danger. “Hello?” She doesn’t know why she says that. Doesn’t know why she thinks whatever is under the water will answer her, or even hear her. But she stands there, unmoving, waiting.

    Ryatah
    even angels have their wicked schemes


    bold of you to assume this thread will be mature.
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