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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


    nothing like a little fear to make a paper man crumble; any
    #1
    Autumn draws a damp chill, the scent of decaying leaves filter through the last of the green leaves that clung to nearly naked branches. Bird song has ceased to fill the air as they have turned south with their lives for instinct drives them what has been their habits for hundreds of years. Mist rolls from the gurgling river in a thin veil as it creeps towards the shore soundlessly.

    The shape of a horse dully forms and grows with each passing breath. It fills a once voided area with her form, elegant and refined, as Epithet steps from the dewy cloud with a solid thud as she breaches the place between element and equine. As she pulls landward, the well structure face solidifies and forms that is soon followed by the curl of a pale neck covered in perfect ringlets, draped heavily and decorated with wildflowers. A soft groan creases her dark lips as lashes fall momentarily to shield her eyes from the wink of a stray sun ray. Epithet fully manifests, her shifting jagged and uneven for a moment, as she has realized she had slept for too long.

    The river gives a cheerful gurgle of of approval as she swings her head back to admire the freedom to just float away. The porcelain dappled woman does not speak but allows the world to cave in around her with the crushing weight of decades to fall upon her slender shoulders. She is not a tall creature but stands more like a stub of a mare despite the careful carve of her nearly dainty form. A long tail braided by silver and iron lay dragging in the wet sand.

    Beqanna as it always will be...everlasting and eternal. Not much is certain in her life save the fact that Beqanna would always recall her to it's breast (that she would greedily and gleefully return to). Others seemed occupied in their conversations whilst some openly gawked at her manifestation. So many here now possess a magic that others in her younger days had killed for. Did they understand their gifts or the sacrifices that were made for them? A dark eye slides from one corner to the other slowly as a ripple of fresh ache tears through her spine. She would ground herself now..perhaps seek a loyalty to a land but for now there were too many new faces and too many unknown names to learn upon her foreign tongue.

    The tales of mythics and the untraited were stories of lore, written in blood and bound by flesh. Epithet could not forget the nightmares that had slaughtered innocent and corrupted alike. Were there still lands of segregation  once more or was the social system still ajoined? Her cloudy thoughts turn to that of Magnus and if he still lived. He had been a beacon of hope once but she doubted if he could recall her short occupation of his time other than the run along the beach where he was horse and she but a hummingbird.




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    #2

    no matter what they say, I am still the king


    It is something wild, to be so old. A creature of the past - a decaying and dying thing. You carry memories of once was, were, is, has gone - a history of layers woven through your hair (your skin, your bones, your blood). You have created what is now - you were a cog in the wheel, the oil slickened mechanics, the blood roved meadows - you saw what it took to be.

    And still you returned.

    She is fickle like that; always calling you back. A ghost song that threads through the chambers of your heart, that curls itself into the cortex of your mind - come back she will call (although she will no longer be the same). And we do (we must) because there is no other choice. There are eons and acreages to explore, but this is where we chose. This is where we landed, our history laid thick like an oil spill, our ties (or lack thereof) so intricately placed. We would like to say we chose - we wanted to return, we decided on our own. But where else would we go?

    ---


    The air is thick with the scent of old magic. (Yes, you can tell, I assure you). It settles like a blanket, a thick fog, a heavy stench that weaves into his nostrils and will not let go. There is another here who has seen the days he has - he can feel it. There are so few now, who choose to return. Some fear there is nothing left, some think it far too different, some simply know there is no more for them to do. And we? We came back. But why?

    ---

    It is not hard to find you; the gaping maws and the shifted eyes - the woman shrouded in white. You are a sight to behold - a goddess from the mountains, a siren from thin air, an angel who chose to land. There is no shame in the way you step from the atmosphere - a shake of your hair, a knowingness that parades as innocence. You smell of something as old as ancient earth and as new as the dew that collects in the morning. You are unabashed - certain in your steadiness - careless in your nature that everyone is lookingatyou.

    You are a mirror image in everything that is opposite - a glaring mirror of what He is not (could never be). A sheen of blinding white - all curls and flecked snow skin and a haunting purity that cannot be replicated. And He, something so dark and vast - a black hole of sharp things and wings and a dark dark sky. Yet there it is, that parallel line; that acknowledgement that you both were once there.

    “Epithet.” He pulls your name from his tongue like spun candy (so easy - too easy - when the world is at your beck and call). His darkness comes forth from the bright spitting trees - and it is a puzzle of color; and lack thereof, and too much. “Home again?” He approaches closer, your bright to His dark something tangible and he can taste it in his mouth; a sickeningly sweet thing that you cannot spit out. “What has brought you back?”

    and now the storm is coming, the storm is coming in

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    #3
    When the world turns cold and heavy with sleep, blanketed beneath a pristine snow fall that lay unscarred, the slick wet rot of decaying leaves still line the bones of Beqanna.

    The dark man has taken notice with eyes far too wide and watching of the perceived little lamb. He titters and minds her openly. The execution of breathing catches within her throat, throbbing her lungs, as he holds her. One long dark limbs draws the creature closer and then another follows. ’Epithet’-, her name in the mouth of another releases the hold and her burning lungs gasp desperately for air.

    He is out of place in this modern world, standing like an ancient god, crumbling and nearly forgotten...but there lay something much stronger that the looming storm of his earthly body. The dark eyed mare notices a tingling sensation begin to crawl up the long path of her spine till it prickles like fever sickness at her jowls, her mouth dry with a sandpaper tongue.  ’Home again?’ The syllables fall away from the scarred lips as his black eyes never leave the curve of her face.

    Perhaps he is an ancient god...one of the ones who cracked the sky and split the earth to draw demons and the Reckoning. Epithet bristles slightly, taunt with anticipation, collected. ’What has brought you back?’ A conclusion to his approach, a punctuation in her atmosphere.

    The pale mist woman lifts her chin slightly to better observe him, breath him, taste the sickness on his skin. He is not of the new generation and it is proclaimed in each calculated moment of the stallion. Epithet can recall the days before her magic had mutated when she once walked the land as a powerful goddess but was too young and naive to wield it. ”I wanted to see what Beqanna has birthed in my absence.” Simple enough.

    Epi is still cautious but curious. His blood is old (possibly older than her own) and she wants to know why he has captured her flitting attention. ”You know my name, old man, how is this?” The question is directed despite already knowing the answer. One brow lifts with the tilt of her head, a hind hood lifting to crook as she shifts her weight from one hip to the other. She attempts to read his demeanor, peek behind the age worn cracks of his alluring features. Gods do not allow themselves to grow old nor do they ever truly fade away.

    They simply rest.

    All other sounds and souls cease to exist as her small ears flicker forward, listening, scrutinizing. She does not tremble in his presence for he is like her. They have a common bond that has yet to be exhumed from beneath the decay of their own souls. They are the rot beneath the snow, the sun bleached bones of the slaughtered. The stories of old weave between their ribs and infect their dreams. Epithet would know him once he gave his name...and only then will the last grain of sand fall in the hourglass that kept time frozen in this very moment.


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