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  • Beqanna

    version 22: awakening


    LILLIANA -- Year 206


    "There is still something of himself - something of the Wolfbane who would always love her - that rallies against the slime. It says, 'lie in the bed you’ve made'. So he gathers the covers and tucks himself in." -- Wolfbane, written by Calcifer

    is there a part I haven't found; any


    She can practically taste death on the air.
    It delights her, this change, things clawing their way back to life. She thrives on death, has built her own private kingdom on it, building bone-things that she makes walk beside her. And now it’s all around, a fetid tinge to the air, a taste of rot in the back of the throat.
    She’d returned, perhaps drawn, back into Beqanna. She is not a notable character here – she does not waste her time with kingdoms, nor does she have any great loves. Her name is not whispered across any lips.
    Yet she cuts a startling enough figure as she moves, shadowed by a monstrous creation of bones. The architecture of it offends, a haphazard collection of bones from a dozen dead things, elk and wolf and horse and who knows. It moves beside her, controlled by her powers, her own dead thing walking. The creature’s head tosses, its equid skull forever in a grin.
    Violence, besides the bones, is far less gruesome, much to her dismay. She is dark, and beautiful enough in a land where beauty comes plentiful. If she had things her way, she would be terrible to behold, awful angles and rotted flesh, but she has been unable to change this, and her mother, the withholding fool, has ignored her requests.
    And so it passes, so Violence and her terrible creation walk into the meadow, the taste of death on her lips, and her eyes shining bright.

    ignore the messed up html i broke it but i love you. whoever you are, reading this.
    When you see a woman commanding the dead, it is best to not approach her. 

    The sweat from his morning workout still dampens his coat as Clegane lazily grazes, content and ready for a swim after this quick meal. But his plans are forgotten as he hears the clacking approach of the strangers. His soft grey wings rustle above his top line as realizes he should probably leave, as she draws closer, but he makes the mistake of truly looking at her first. Maybe it is the hardness in her eyes that causes him to linger - the way she looks out across the empty meadow as if she were face to face with a would-be rival who wasn't worth her time.

    Like the world is against her, but she doesn't mind.  

    She reminds him of someone, someone he misses even if he doesn't allow himself to think of her.  So he doesn't do what a smart young stallion should, instead he remains. 

    He was a child born into the tribulation; he had known death at an early age. Puckered and gruesome, the face which had been made for him would never allow him to put that past cleanly behind him. He worked to separate himself from his first years, their darkness, and most of the time he was successful. But this stranger and her creatures hold his silver gaze.

    She turns his stomach and reminds him of things he would rather forget, but he can't look away.



    She too had known death at an early age – but in excitement, rather than fear.
    Raised by magicians and monsters, she had met quickly with corpses of all kinds (father hunted for his meals, strange, alien thing that he was). She’d learned of her power of them, and later, her power to possess others’ minds. She’d started with her father, possessing him for the hunts, it was through his beaklike mouth that she’d tasted meat, that blood had run down her chin.
    It has only made her all the more jealous, all the more desiring to become a monster. But her mother had refused, though such a transformation would have been well within her powers, and thus Violence had remained, a woman unremarkable when placed alongside such things her as parents.
    (Her jealousy had only grown when the next daughter was born a xenomorph, like their father. She’d possessed her, too, but the satisfaction had been fleeting, as Violence always had to return to her own body.)

    She’d split away, soon enough, had not been back to see them in ages. She still found death easily enough – at her own doing, occasionally, but mostly leavings, natural or unnatural causes, they all offered a palette for her, their artist.
    As she moves, she feels a weight upon her. She turns her head, curious – her bone-thing’s head moves in tandem, and otherworldly echo – and her dark gaze falls upon a scarred stallion. She meets his gaze, unwavering, still now, curiosity stirred. She wants the story of her scars, to revel in whatever horror caused it.
    She wants, perhaps, to write scars of her own.
    “It’s rude to stare,” she says, tone brusque. She should be kinder, if she wants him to stay, and she knows this, but kindness – or, the façade thereof – is not an art she has mastered.

    It's rude to stare.

    This he knew, better than most. It was more than just a lesson handed down by a parent; neither of his guardians had needed to explain it. He hadn't had anyone to stare at in those formative years, back when he was an afterthought, dragging behind powerful women. 

    But he had felt the truth of it when the fillies stared at him for all the wrong reasons. No, not because he was handsome or someone they wanted to make fall in love with them. 

    (That would have been a game he willingly played) 

    He had wanted them to like him. He wouldn't have minded their stares if they had been admiring his powers or the handsome turn of his brow. But any second looks he was given were once he would have rather not had. 

    They were afraid to let the monster boy out of their sight, of what he would do if they turned their pretty little backs to him. 

    But he had never done harm, never tasted blood other than his own. Even then, it had only been that one time: the time his mouth and eyes and ears had been full of it. The time they all wanted to know about.

    But they never stayed long after he told them. 

    He tastes the bitterness on the back of his tongue and wonders who she is, who has stirred up these feelings he had so carefully hidden. He wonders if he can swallow them down one more time before they get the best of him, but when he finds his voice the bitterness had already spoiled them. 

    "Haven't you ever found yourself unable to look away?"


    She is, in truth, unbothered by the stares. She is used enough, to being stared at, it’s to be expected when you walk alongside your own personal menagerie of bones, when the thing nods and moves its mouth, as if speaking.
    (Giving it language is beyond her grasp, and she is a poor ventriloquist, so she settles for sometimes making its jaw move, imaging the words instead.)
    Such oddities are a bit strange, even in a world as strange as Beqanna, so she has grown used to the weight of others’ gazes. It’s useful, at times, to capture attention, it makes it easier to lure them in, to distract them from other things, like how she’ll prod at the corners of their minds, seeing if they’re weak, if they’re malleable.
    (Her possession is flimsy, often times, useful only amongst the weak or the willing – and in simpleminded beasts. It has its uses, but it mostly leaves her frustrated, this unfulfilled promise of power, of control.)

    There is a look in his eyes that is inscrutable, but she does not try to delve further. She cares not what has struck his interest, she cares only that he might be entertaining, that his scars have a story she could possibly use.
    “No,” she says, and her voice is sweet, almost a purr, “I’m always in perfect control.”
    A lie, of course. She’s lost her temper a hundred times over, she’s collapsed to want or whim too early in the game, impatient, she’s broken bones in frustration at their refusal to submit to her architectural vision – the list goes on. But he knows none of this, so she lies, blatant, perhaps to see if he will believe her, or what else he may do.
    “I’m Violence,” she says, head high, keeping herself tall – she may not look much like a monster, but she scrambles for intimidation wherever she thinks it may be found.

    His silver eyes travel across the edges of her face as she purrs her response. She seems to be near his age, but something about her whispers to him that this is a lie. He even doubts the confidence of her answer, but he doesn't contradict her. Clegane had no reason to expect honesty from a stranger, and the fog of arrogance which surrounds her intrigues instead of offends him. He had spent too much time in the shadows of powerful women to curl his lip at signs of strength. But the sound of her drawing breath to speak again causes his roaming eyes to lift, his gaze leveling on hers and he isn't afraid she will look away. 


    He nods, wondering if it is one she has chosen for herself or was given, wondering if this is something he should ask her. But the skeleton clatters quietly beside its master and his attention reluctantly leaves the beautifully proud face. The usually talkative nomad inspects the collection of bones, assembled artfully to mimic the living, arranged in such a way to be unique even for Beqanna.

    "I'm Clegane," he finally says as he looks into the empty place where a horse's eyes once had been. Then his face, scarred and raw as it is, turns again in her direction as he steps aside. "Don't let me stand in your way."
    It was a given name – odd, perhaps, to an outsider, but normal amongst her family, all named for monsters or other terrible things. She likes the name, the sharpness of it on the tongue, how it is cruel and fitting both.
    He gives his name, then - Clegane - and she nods, though the name means nothing to her. Still, it is useful information, perhaps – they soften, sometimes, when their own name is repeated. A false familiarity. He moves for her, and she considers going on her way, but she still has questions about him, curiosities she thinks can be satisfied with a little bit of prodding.
    He doesn’t strike her as exceptionally strong-willed, though she bases this on nothing but brief assumptions. She doesn’t touch at his mind, not yet, but the temptation is there, mulling in the back of her mind.
    So she doesn’t move, instead, she stands, watching him. The bone-thing watches to, empty sockets fixed on him in mimicry of Violence’s gaze.

    “I have nowhere to be,” she says, and this is more honest of her. She is bound to no one, to no kingdom. She doesn’t even see her family much, anymore, they are boring and stupid and scattered.
    “I’d hear your story, Clegane,” she says, “if you’d tell it.”
    She hopes, of course, that the story is full of her namesake, and that he will share it, the gory details that left him so scarred, But even if it doesn’t, she wants to get him talking, to see what he’s like, and what, perhaps, she could do with him.
    The force of her attention is unsettling. Yet as she deflects his suggestion, and tells him she has nowhere to be, his heart beats a little faster.  The intensity of her presence had led him to step aside for her, but she lingers. It makes him wonder what there is about him that is deserving of her notice.

    To wonder what she could see in an awkward, ugly colt.
    To wonder what he has to do to make her stay.

    Then she asks what he knew she would, asks about the one interesting thing about him. Someday, maybe, he will be a man who knows his own mind, who shrugs off such questions, but not today. Now he is a boy looking for connection, and more inclined to please than to resist. So when she asks her questions, he nods, thinking back over his short life with true thoughtfulness.

    The frost along his topline crinkles softly as he shifts under the weight of the brief silence. The two sides of himself snap and pull at each other, wrestling for the spotlight. He thinks he knows already which side she wants to see, though how he knows, he can not understand. So, he asks because he doesn't want to disappoint her. 

    "Which part do you want to hear," he says, unsure of where to start, "the happy or the sad?"

    violence so sorry for the wait!


    He is so eager to please, and she is so eager to be pleased.
    She sees this, in the way he looks at her, that not only does he not refuse or deflect the question – he asks her to be specific, so that he can better tell it. A grin, savage and hungry, slips on to her face before she can stop it. It’s a feeling not dissimilar to a predator scenting blood, the promise of something in the air.
    She steps closer, tries to make herself appear like a friend. She softens her smile, or tries to. She keeps the bone-thing at a distance, even makes it steps back a bit further. You are safe here, she thinks at him, as if he could somehow pick up on the words, and maybe even believe her.

    “Or,” she says, as if the idea has just occurred to her, “you could just show me.”
    She presses at his mind, lets him feel her there, as if she’s standing on a doorstep, waiting to be invited in. She could kick the door down, maybe control him for a moment or two, but she knows (from experience) that such brutal possession is largely pointless, that it works much better when she is invited into their minds. This power is less practiced than her necromancy, she still wields it clumsily, despite her attempts to refine it.
    “You can let me in. Show me what happened.”

    these violent delights bring violent ends

    Clegane IF he lets her into his mind feel free to powerplay her coming in and him showing her whatever he wants <3

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