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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


    [open]  he came to me with the sweetest smile, any
    #1
    messiah

    For three years, it is as if he has not existed at all.
    And now, now it is as if he springs from the shadows fully formed.

    And perhaps he had. The mother was made of shadows, after all. Darkness he could press his mouth against. Stark black except for the eyes. And he, the opposite. Doused in white and gold, a halo settled high on his brow, casting him in an ethereal glow.

    And yet. And yet, the boy is no angel. With wings made of leather and smoke that curls sweetly from his flared nostrils. With a mind that can both destroy on a molecular level and breathe life back into the dying earth. No, an angel he is not. What the boy – and he is still a boy, certainly, even at three years old – does not understand is that Lucifer was also an angel.

    Here in the dead of winter, he finally emerges.
    He sucks in a sharp breath, unperturbed by the way the cold seems to wrap a fist around his lungs. Because he can breathe fire. Because he is impervious to the frigid temperatures; he is above them. His heartbeat is a flame, spurring heat through the fine network of his veins. So, there he stands and heat rolls off him in waves. And he grins, because what a thrill it is simply to be alive. But there is a darkness in those vibrant, golden eyes. A yawning emptiness.

    He moves slow now, the hard-falling snow collecting in the tangles of his mane and down the length of his rocky spine. He finds an alone thing in some desolate corner and he tilts his fine head and says, “what are you doing out here all by yourself?” And these are his first words.

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    #2
    Isilya

    yet it was not that nature had shed o'er the scene
    her purest of crystal and brightest of green

    She’s decorated today in soft pastels, the woody vines that take place of her mane and braid and twist down her spine are covered in big droops of white and soft blue wysteria, punctuated here and there with gentle blooms of baby’s breath. She’s quite all dressed up - it helped her feel better about what she was going to do today. She’s never been a big fan of winter, even though she certainly matches it today, but she’s using the dormant time to really work towards her goal today.

    She was going to stop hiding herself in gardens and forests and talk to someone else.

    Only, finding someone else to talk to was proving a little harder than she expected. Isilya had been standing still for a while, fretting and wondering if maybe she should head back to Tephra, when an unfamiliar voice broke the near-silence.

    It takes the golden-pointed mare a moment to realize he might be talking to her. She does a quick look around, just to see if there’s anyone else in the area, because she’s a little bit confused by the atypical greeting. What happened to the good old fashioned ‘hello! I like you let’s be friends forever’ that was more or less her staple? Still, she supposed he had to have points for creativity.

    So, once she’s certain that there is a very good likelihood that he was trying to talk to her, she turns towards him and offers her brightest, sunniest smile. “Waiting for someone to say hello, I guess!” That had been what she had been doing, after all. Working up the courage to go over and say hello to someone herself but here comes along this wonderful stranger with a gorgeous halo and he greets her first instead! Takes all the pressure off.

    She is still getting used to talking to other creatures that can actually talk back, so hopefully some of her awkwardness can be forgiven.

    In contrast with the chill around them there’s only warmth in her voice as she continues. “I’m Isilya. What’s your name?”


    ’twas not her soft magic of streamlet or rill
    oh! no, it was something more exquisite still



    @[messiah]
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    #3
    messiah

    What a remarkable thing she is.

    He makes no effort to conceal how intently he studies her, the gaze lingering heavy on the gold she’s dressed in that catches the light and sets her aglow. He smiles then, a wolfish and mirthless thing, his fine head tilted a degree as her drags that heavy, discerning gaze up the length of her neck to her face. He does not need to study the woody vine that runs the length her neck, her spine, to know that it is strange. He cares little for the petals, the way the white of her coat throws them into sharp relief. But he does not imagine destroying them (and it would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To channel all of his focus into watching the erode from their centers). Not in the way he imagines destroying so many things.

    She does not startle when he speaks, merely turns to him with a smile that puts a throbbing in his temples. He wonders if it is difficult, to trust in others so thoroughly, to look at him and smile and trust that he has no ulterior motives. He knows that the dead are rising at a rather impressive pace, wonders if she knows it, too. Wonders if there’s anything at all that strikes fear in her.

    But he is not an evil thing, Messiah. And yet. And yet, he does not know the true depth of the cruelty that lives at the center of him. This is the first he has sprung from the shadows, here in the dead of winter, and this… this, his first conversation with anyone other than the mother who herself was made of shadows. He is not an evil thing so he feels no intense desire to tear the pulse from her throat. He does not long for the metallic taste of her blood. He does not wish to watch the life drain out of her eyes.

    But he is not a kind thing either. So, when she smiles and offers up her answer, he does not smile back. He merely shifts his focus from her mouth to her eyes, gold like his, and nods. “Well,” he muses, “it’s your lucky day, isn’t it?” He is a vain thing, to be sure. Arrogant in his beauty.

    She offers her name, though he hadn’t asked. Still, he files it away on the off chance that it might be of some significance later. “Messiah,” he purrs. “What’s got you feeling so lonely, Isilya?




    @[Isilya]
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