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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


    [open]  i am the chief of sinners
    #1
    S T A L A G



    Stalag is not often far from his mother-master. But today curiosity finds him far from home.  Pangea suited Stalag - for the land was as feral as he was.  He was free to do what he wished - to roam for the first time in so long.  The taste of freedom emboldened him, even though he knew mother-master was always watching.

    The hybrid, however, continued to struggle with dueling instincts. On one side, there is the primitive, feral side that constantly battles for control.  When the monster takes over, it’s akin to blacking out.  The monster takes over - burning his consciousness out of his own mind.  He is uncertain how many lost their lives during these episodes for the memories are also hazy and impossible for a conscious mind to comprehend.

    It was almost as if two separate personalities lived in his head.  The mortal creature and the monster. It was confusing for Stalag to live with both, especially when his mother-master seemed to both coddle and encourage the monster that lived within him. She didn’t need for him to have self control when she could simply control him.

    As a result, Stalag had explored very little of this mortal side. He had ever attempted to live any sort of normal life. Large chunks of his life had been lost to the monster, who was far more powerful.

    But today, the monster was quiet.
    Ever present, of course, but sated for the time being.

    And Stalag was curious.
    So he ventures into the forest using the trees as a shield as he moves through the shadows that had contained him for far too long.

    SPAWNED FROM MONSTERS AND MAGIC
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    #2

    violence


    She is familiar with monsters.
    Born of them, kin to them, she grew up around them, always sickened with jealousy. Though she is a powerful thing, she lacks the exterior qualities of monsters, the strange body and sharp jaws. Her sisters had inherited such things, and Violence could never understand it. They wasted their talents.
    She knew what it was to be a monster, having inhabited their bodies (her father, especially, had been weak, he had been easy to possess, to pilot on hunts, so that she could pretend, however briefly, that she was the monster). But it is not her resting state. Her resting state is that of a plain black horse, beautiful but not exceptionally so.

    Though beside this plain black creature walks another, stranger creature – her bone-thing, made of a menagerie of bones from a dozen different animals. Its skull is equine, yet crowned with deer antlers, wolves’ teeth jammed ill-fitting into its mouth. It’s exquisite and horrifying.
    She is not a monster, but she knows how to build them.

    She walks in the forest alongside her creation. She is seeking nothing in particular. She is an aimless creature more often than not, pledged to no kingdom, free of lovers and friends. She has family (magicians and monsters, and none of them like her overmuch – the feeling is mutual, there), but she has not seen them in years, and could not tell you what has become of them.
    Yet she is reminded, starkly so, of her family when she sees the creature in the woods. The body is familiar, yet the face is not, and she realizes the alien is male, when her mother had borne only females.
    She wonders if there have been more, in her absence.
    “You!” she barks out, and she is foolish in her confidence that this creature is kin, because the fact he could turn on her does not cross her mind, “who are your parents? You look so much like my sister.”

    these violent delights bring violent ends



    they are only distantly related but the only xenomorphs violence knows are her direct family...couldn't pass you up <3
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    #3
    The bird doesn't love woodland, but she was raised between the trees and has no fear of the confined spaces, of the shadows and twisting paths that lead nowhere. She has raced every inch of Taiga, surely, in three years, explored caves and canyons and clouds, and now she slips through the oak and evergreens that make up the Forest with the ease of any other shadow. Deep within, she feels the bird ruffle its feathers, irritated, uncomfortable, but she brushes that aside and plunges ever deeper into the murk and gloom of this Forest until the signs of other horses become fewer, fainter. Where the birds flutter fast and low, rustling in the undergrowth and digging through the damp, decaying leaves in search of larva and insects. Their calls are strange, haunting and alien here, and across her skin, a thrill of the unusual. Strange things always happen deep in the woods.

    Not all that travel do so quietly. A female voice catches her attention and two small, dark ears swivel in the direction of the sharp command - grey hooves are quick to follow.

    Poppy does not know any monsters. Or, perhaps better to say that she is unaware of any monsters in her acquaintance, but she does not fear them. The creature strung together of bone and tooth and antler draws her attention right away, but she is not afraid. Mahogany eyes alight. That's new. But it is not who the raven-black mare is addressing. It takes a moment to separate him from the dappled darkness, he is black in a way that the other mare is not, he is skeletal in a way that the Thing beside her is not. Her head tilts, bird-like, pretending poorly at caution. Then, a familiar sly smile grows on her lips. She creeps further, closer. Never mind the dark strangers, her eyes are on the beast of bones. Can it see her? Hear her? It seems to have neither eyes or ears, is it conscious? Ever nearer between the trees until she can reach around the broad trunk of a creaking, old, oak, until she is close enough for eager teeth to snake out and seek grip on one of its legs, to pull and see if the whole thing will come to pieces.

    Popinjay
    She was not quite what you would call refined
    Reply
    #4
    S T A L A G



    He is visibly startled by her exclamation.  For a moment, he loses his grip on the monster, and a hiss escaped him before he snapped his mouth shut, cutting off the sound abruptly. He is skittish for a monster. Though his nerves were not because he feared others, but feared losing control of himself.  His impulses were difficult to control even when calm.  He sucks in a ragged breath from between his sharp teeth.

    He wavers, uncertain if coming here had been worth the risk.  He knows he can turn and flee back to the relative sanctuary of Pangea. His muscles scream at him to run.  But he is not a coward. And this woman - she seems to know what he is. Does she know what sort of danger she has put herself into?

    But then she speaks of her siblings - siblings like him and his own curiosity compels him to remain.  It is the same curiosity that allows him to answer her. “I have only mothers,” he begins - taking extra time to ensure his lips form each word correctly. His voice is thick with disuse - his pattern of speech slow and intentional. It had been so long since he’d used this language. “Anaxarete of Pangea and her creatures are my family.”  He wants to ask about her family, but his attention has shifted.

    She is not alone - she’s accompanied by a monster all her own. He turns his dark eyes upon the creature, having never seen anything remotely similar even though he’s spent his entire life among the things that go bump in the night.

    He gestures to the bone creature, intrigued by the way life has been born of death. “Are you...its master?’ he asks, his voice a thick rasp. He is unaware that his language may be strange - he has had few if any conversations with anyone outside his immediate family.

    His careful composure is shattered the moment he senses Popinjay.  He does not see the girl, but he can hear her footsteps - smell her unfamiliar scent.  Another hiss escapes him as his eyes seem to glaze over, his knife-tail swings meanicingly.  “Someone else is here,” he hisses, this voice deeper - less controlled. He lowers his head, his eyes searching...hunting for what lurks in the shadows.

    SPAWNED FROM MONSTERS AND MAGIC



    @[violence]
    @[Popinjay]
    Reply
    #5

    violence


    It speaks, and she recognizes the cadence of it, words forming from a mouth meant for more primal uses. She can understand him well enough, having had plenty of practice with her alien sister. She still thinks him a sibling, but it names its mother - mothers - and it is not a name Violence knows. Anaxarete. She frowns, annoyed at her misstep, but intrigued – are there other lines out there? Mother was never clear on how Cthulhu came to be, and, truth be told, Violence had never pressed the issue. She didn’t care for her bloodline’s history, her interest was focused on its powers, its monsters, and figuring out how they could best be used. And regardless, it seems that this monster is not her brother, after all.
    Still, she clings on to a word.
    “Creatures? Did they have names?”
    She adds, “my sire…looked like you. But more monster. My sister, too.”

    The attention is then turned to her own creature, and she smiles.
    “Yes,” she purrs, “this is my little creature.”
    She makes it nod its head in greeting to the monster, is considering making it bow when the girl sneaks in. He speaks his warning as the girl’s head darts forth, teeth grasping for a bone.
    Violence forgets the alien for a moment, focused on the thief, and she makes her creature whip around, its head lowering, striking at her, antlers moving and teeth snapping. The movement is clumsy – she did not build it as a weapon – but the movement is fast.
    “Touch it again and I’ll add your bones to the mix,” she tells the child, the purr with which she’s spoken to the alien a moment ago gone. This voice is rough and furious and ready to hurt.

    these violent delights bring violent ends

    Reply
    #6
    She has never paid much attention to the discussions of those older than her, but she suddenly finds herself rushing headlong into adulthood herself, her down fur and soft, rounded edges giving way to sleek length, and with it, a change in what grabs her attention. Perhaps it’s lucky, today, that this is the case, because her ears catch the knife-flick soft voice of the stallion when he alerts to her presence. It gives her seconds only, but seconds are enough. When the clack and crash of gnashing teeth and rattling bone spins round to meet her, the young mare is already pulling up sharply with a wild grin on her lips and her eyes shining merrily, heedless of the threat that surrounds her.

    Stupid girl, she should be afraid, but she brushes the fear away with her bright laughter. Her gaze lands first on the stallion, and he gleams dully in the forest like a beetle, but even the giant staghorn beetles that eat and breed within the fallen trees of Taiga are not so deadly looking as he, though she wonders how he, too, would fare if knocked over on his back. Is he agile enough to roll back up, or would he rock side to side, helpless? Does his armor cover his belly, or is it soft there and vulnerable? The beetles are hard all over, but they are not predators. And while sometimes it takes a predator to know one, in his case it is written so plainly across every part of him that it almost isn't worth noticing, and certainly not worth mentioning. She is more upset that he ruined her game and her boundless smiles turn to pouting. Popinjay screws up her face and snorts rudely at him while the black mare hisses a warning, making the youth turn to her, expression brightening.

    “You could, but horse bones are so boring. Everybody has them. Even he has them… I guess.” She looks back at the stallion with a bird-like tilt of her head, “Well, maybe not. I dunno what he has.” Undeterred, she looks back at the bone mannequin shaking its antlers at her, and she hums appraisingly, but manages to refrain from touching. “I think it needs wings. Could it fly, if it had wings? Or would it just rattle even more?”

    At the mention of wings, she feels a ripple across the dark mantle of her coat, the bird wrestles to be released, hungry for the sky, but she reins the creature in enough that only a few feathers appear, mottled against the deep black of her mane. She shakes them back at the bone creature in response to its threat display.

    Poppy ignores the smoldering anger that she imagines boiling in the creature’s eyeless sockets.

    “Have you named it? Can I name it? What's your name? And yours, Beetle-Boy?”
    Popinjay
    She was not quite what you would call refined


    @[Stalag] @[violence]
    Reply
    #7
    S T A L A G



    He can feel the monster screaming in his skull.  His conscious mind is still there. Still so interested in learning more about this woman who clearly knows his kind.  But the screaming threatens to drown out everything.  The monster is awake.

    And it’s hungry.

    He squeezes his eyes shut - the pain evident in every line of his body. He is a coiled spring ready to come undone - and that tension is palpable.  But he tries to fight - tries to force himself back into the conversation. Tries to force the monster back into its cage. 

    “Ripley,” he says, though his voice is more strained than it had been. It’s strangled - desperate. “My mother is Rrrripppley,” this time the words escape his throat garbled and strained.

    He sucks in deep breaths - trying to regain his composure, to control himself - but something deep within his mind is awake now.  A series of grotesque clicking noises escape the monster’s throat.  A warning to any familiar with his kind.

    His eyes snap to the movement of the creature built of bones as it whirls.
    A snarl escapes him at the abrupt motion. But his eyes do not settle on the creature of bones. Bones are not food.
    The monster wants flesh. It wants to hunt.  It wants freedom. But still he clings to a single thread of consciousness - the barest hint of sanity.  Stalag squeezes his eyes shut - trying to pretend that he is anywhere else. He sucks in another deep, desperate breath but all he can smell is flesh and blood and prey.  His knife-tipped tail whips around and he buries it into the earth at its side in attempt to restrain himself.

    ”Rrruuuuuuuunnnnnnn,” it snarls, knowing that his composure is quickly evaporating into nothing. Soon nothing will be safe.

    Soon the monster will be free.

    SPAWNED FROM MONSTERS AND MAGIC



    @[violence]
    @[Popinjay]

    SORRY THIS TOOK FOREVER <3
    Reply
    #8

    violence


    She seethes, still, because the child was insolent, and should rightly be punished for laying hand upon her creation. She is trying to focus on the alien before her, to unearth the tie between them. She is curious if he is as pliant as her father and sister, if the instincts are the same, sharp and blood-hungry, or if he is from a more refined line. Yet her attention is split, and the irritation is evident in her eyes.
    “Absolutely not,” she snaps at the child, whose body shifts for a moment, belying its own strangeness there. In other times, were she not so distracted by the monster, it might have been the kind of thing Violence explored, seeing what tricks the girl held, how she might best use them.

    Her attention is back on the monster, now, as he responds, gives a strange name. She does not know her lines past her parents. She’d asked, once, but mother had said it’s of no importance to you and that had been the end of that conversation. So she doesn’t know that he’s an uncle, of a sort.
    But her cares about tracing their relation are aborted when she hears the noises, the clicks. She recognizes the sounds and her heart speeds up. She knows it is risky, to stay, even before he croaks out a command, telling them to run.
    “I know monsters,” she tells him, unmoving. But she does press at his mind, that feral, whirling thing. Her voice is soothing.
    “Let me in,” she whispers, “I can help.”

    these violent delights bring violent ends



    @[Popinjay]
    @[Stalag] feel free to have him attack her or something if he doesn't want to let her try to possess him lol
    Reply
    #9
    The sharpness in the black mare's voice grabs at her ear, but she shakes it off with a flick, unbothered by the irritation that laces through her words. Popinjay has never been terribly concerned with the moods of others, and now is no exception. She turns again to the bone thing with something akin to a frown, as if to say too bad and then she looks to the Son of Ripley as he strains to hold himself together against the churning of his foreign instincts. Her head cocks to one side, dark eyes glisteningly wetly in the bit of light that eludes the forest's reaching branches.

    She has never been one to turn down a race, either, but it does not seem like the kind of run that he is offering. Her thoughts turn to questioning but the giant bird within her stirs restlessly, resisting, a screeching warning tumbling across the sky within her foolish head. What little that seal bay knows of caution brings a solemnity to her usual zeal and a stillness to her merry hooves. She does not, however, follow his advice. She has never been very good at that, and the pair before her are so different from anyone she has met before that now seems like no time to start.

    Stupid girl.

    She does, however, leave a significant space between herself and the stallion, never mind how desperately she wishes to press her nose to that smooth-looking skin and know whether he feels hard like the shell of the stag beetles she so well remembers from Taiga, or if the smoothness gives to pressure, like on apple's flesh, soft beneath the tough, taut skin. She touches neither Bones nor Beetle, and wears a significant pout upon her lips that is belied only by the sharp and watchful eye tracing deftly between the swing of his tail and the eager lullaby of the raven mare's crooning.

    No way is she leaving now, to miss this dance between them.

    Popinjay
    She was not quite what you would call refined


    I apologize for not being in a rush to post, please feel free to attack or ignore her at your leisure. @[Stalag]
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