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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


    Mine is a Quest for a Mouthful of Skies
    #1

    She was not quite what you would call refined.

    The woods are quiet, but they are not silent. The fog drifting through in the early morning is low and thick and it deadens the sound of careful footsteps, but does not mute them entirely. Popinjay is creeping through old haunts finding solace in familiarity when so many new experience  buzz in her brain like bees, each clamoring for the same flower of her attention. The world is larger than she knew, than she expected, and the prospect of delving deeper into the strange places she has darkened with her great winged shadow draws a wild grin across her face. But first, the Taiga.

    She has neglected the woods in favor of the world laid out before her, but she returns, nimble and surefooted, dancing now over fern and fen, and when she finds her way to the skeleton of fallen redwood, she leaps atop it with practiced ease, knowing where each stair-like groove sits without looking. Once, as a child, she teased  the wind from this precarious bridge,  trusting the feet that never failed her. Now she trust the feathered wings furled tight beneath her dark skin. The wind ruffles her coat and turns her grin to frenzy. With the fog so thick, it is nearly impossible to see where the other end of the tree is lodged at the far side of the ravine, but even the clouds cannot hide the darkness of its center or the dry smell of tannins in the slow creek below.

    Lost in that memory, Poppy almost does not hear the small feet pressing leaf and needle over the roar of the black canyon beneath her, but her dark eyes are sharp and the fleck of gold gives the boy away long before he breaks the tree line. Her merry hooves stop drumming the great trunk and she is still but for the wild whipping of her mane and tail.

    "You shouldn't be here," She knows that it's true because he is no older than she was the first time she came, and she certainly was not supposed to be here then, either. "You should go back to your mother."

    Despite the scolding words, her voice drips with an unspoken dare.

    Image by Ratty


    Nashua whenever you get to it Smile
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    #2
    NASHUA

    He likes the wild wind.

    It’s why when he is done in his little clearing - when his knees have a few scratches, when there is an ache in his young wings - he follows the siren song. It calls and flows, ebbs like a tide in his veins. (There is a pull there; a familiarity which he will come to understand with time.)

    The wind gives a command and he goes, as swift (that he is sure of) as if his hooves didn’t touch the ground.

    (Someday, he tells himself again and again. A promise, an oath. Someday.)

    The fog is thick, near impossible to guide a horse through but the wind sings. It blows past his auburn feathers and the boy goes, sure and confident in his steps and stride. Taiga has been his cradle. His wings long to stretch outside this place (and his mother had promised with sweet smiles - soon, she had said, Nerine. Ischia, perhaps. Soon, they would take another trip. Soon.)

    Soon is so impossibly far away to one so young, to one who is brimming over with wanderlust.

    Soon is still so faraway. She, however, is not.

    She looks like a creature out of his mother’s stories. She’s almost feral. Dark-winged and dark-eyed. His mind flickers to the fire-woman, to the woman that Elio had described but this is an entirely different entity. There is no flame here. Just wind and mischief.

    The gleam in her eye is the calm before the storm, the sweltering heat that comes before the angry hoofbeats of thunder. Her eyes spark like lightning strikes.

    Curious, he tilts his head. Nashua doesn’t quite think of these woods as his but why should he return to his mother? A storm is brewing and he likes to think himself old enough that he doesn’t need to cower underneath his dam like a nursling.

    ”Where is your mother?” he asks, wondering if she blew in from the sea. A wild thing like her must have been a gale and that thought does disturb him. Her mother might be a hurricane.

    and for every king that died
    they would crown another


    @[Popinjay] nash got 'your mom' jokes
    [Image: jCdBK6.png]
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    #3

    She was not quite what you would call refined.

    He tilts his head at her, and there is something in the expression that is familiar, but Poppy has always been terrible with remembering the faces around her, especially translated into new shapes. He could be anyone's child and she declines to guess whose, but an old, recognizable, giddiness is rising her throat as thoughts ripple and race through her mind like starlings over an autumn meadow, barely skipping a beat when he throws her chiding back with a simple question. She drops her head low, to the height of her rounded withers, and casts a keen, searching glance left and right of her, then peers back at him with a conspiratorial grin.

    "Not here."

    Her voice is a whisper, small ears forward, and the bright star on her brow peeking from between the soft curl of her forelock like a jovial moon through drifting clouds. The wind that rises from the ravine tears the fog to shreds around her, but rather than come to meet him at the head of the bridge, she drops to her knees, front legs folding beneath her, then hinds, and though the trunk trembles slightly with the weight of the sky's breath against it, she rests as if the dizzying depth below is nothing. It is her turn to cock her head, a snapping, avian motion. Her skin shivers and dark, mottled feathers gather at her edges, then reabsorb. Sharp eyes flick over his small wings. Poppy never had wings like that, but once upon a time she had a friend that did. Small, soft, nothing but down and pins. Insufficient. A shame - chasing the wind from the ground just never works as well.

    "My mama didn't like me to come here," Her voice is still a whisper, but now, there is a rhythmic, melodic quality to it, "she didn't like me to dance on the Giant's head. She was so afraid I would be hurt, but nothing feels as close to flying as this - except maybe for falling." She can feel his desire from here, in the way he moves, in the jealous restlessness of his young wings, a nestling perched at the edge of his bed, testing, pushing, ready to jump even though he's still wholly incapable of flight, "I bet you aren't afraid of anything, huh?"

    Image by Ratty


    @[Nashua]
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    #4
    NASHUA

    Oh, there is something on her face that makes him think of Taiga in a windstorm. She is like the angriest part of the branches about them, waving and too proud to break. She’s looking all around this forest (for who, he wants to ask? Who could be out there?)

    But then he remembers.
    The trees could be listening.

    He comes closer, one slow step after another until he is peering up at her. If she intends to share whatever the woods can’t know, he’d like to be close enough to hear. Not here, she grins and it fires Nashua’s own. His mother isn’t here either.

    That leaves just the pair of them, electrifying the air around them with possibilities. As if she means to to share them with him, she drops to her knees. She comes closer, bringing all those things he’s wondering about with her. The flaxen colt comes closer, comes closer enough to see the stark white of her star. He takes another step, wanting to know what else she has buried beneath her forelock. What secrets might she have?

    His ears flick back in agreement with what she says. He knows that feeling well enough. Nashua has gone plenty of places that he was not supposed to.

    There is danger and a dare lurking beneath her words He hasn’t fallen yet - not really. Not beyond the few feet that he’s been able to sustain himself off the ground. There has been no plummeting, no diving from any great height.

    It’s a thought but she strikes it in him. Maybe he just isn’t trying high enough.

    "I’m not,” he says (though that’s a lie - Nash has been scared of plenty of things.) He wants, though. His want overrides whatever instinct might have told him to turn around.

    Firing his rapt attention on her, fixing her with his own sharp green-eyed stare, he counters. "Why should I be afraid?”

    and for every king that died
    they would crown another


    @[Popinjay] aaannddd this bloodline is doomed
    [Image: jCdBK6.png]
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    #5

    She was not quite what you would call refined.

    Popinjay might not be the best one to ask about Fear, her heart too slippery for its crushing hands. She laughs and skirts around the thing on nimble hooves, foolish or brave - or both. Certainly, in her time, she has had experiences that should have terrified her, but her adventurer's heart only drove her ever onward, through the underwater tunnels, up the mountains, now she takes the skies and helps dragons burn islands.

    Oh yeah, she blinks back to the present, Better not think too loudly about that. Not with Owin in range to eavesdrop. Her gaze has drifted to the sea of redwood trunks around them and she flicks it back to the red and gold colt. Why should he be afraid?

    The grin that faded suddenly returns, lopsided and sly, as she takes up his green eyes once more, she wants to be closer to him  and dark wings unfurl to catch the updraft that stirs her coat so wildly, takes the effort out of her upheaval so she nearly floats to her feet. The space is large enough, she thinks, the sky above the ravine open beyond the fog that hides it, and if anyone is close enough to know her thoughts, she knows they will be coming soon to stop her. 

    "Lemme tell you a secret."

    She leaps from the tree trunk and her hooves barely make a sound when they touch down on earth again. Her landings are infinitely better than they used to be. The memory of her first makes her chuckle. His mama probably has a whole list of reasons he ought to be afraid.

    "The thing about fear..."

    There's a crashing in the distance. Maybe just a deer bounding through the undergrowth, maybe not. Her skin shivers as she draws up near enough to touch the boy, to drop grey lips near his inquisitive ears.

    "The thing is, that Sphynx is gonna eat you whether you're afraid of her or not."

    So don't waste your time. In a blink the little mare is gone, the near black cape and the fire of her belly have disappeared and in her place an enormous bird. The grey lips near his ears now a sharpened beak and her merry hooves turned dangerous claws that dig into the loamy soil. Great red-banded wings fly open and, perfectly balanced, the Bird kicks out a giant claw, grabbing the colt up more gently than it appears, and launches herself at the sky with heavy, thunderous, wingbeats that leave the youngest saplings around them swooning.

    How badly did he want to fly?

    Image by Ratty


    @[Nashua]
    Reply
    #6
    NASHUA

    Nashua knows nothing about his fear. His father is a monster and his mother would rather pretend the world isn’t as dark as it is. While the twins have their differences, their mother had encouraged their inquisitive natures, had nurtured their inclinations to wonder about the Magic of their world. To question it.

    (In the case of Nash, the young colt could have done with a dash less of it.)

    Lemme tell you a secret.

    His copper ears prick and Nash lowers his head, coming closer to hear what she has to share.

    All it takes is an instant and Beqanna works Her magic. Where there had been a mare moments before is gone. He blinks and lifts his head, listening, trying to catch her with sound. The boy doesn’t even wonder about what a sphynx is. Whatever might eat him falls to the back of his mind with the resurfacing of a giant bird.

    He has never been caught in an undertow but he’s been warned about the riptides off the rocky coastline of Taiga and Nerine. A wild current of water that pulls and tugs a horse out to sea. It’s the last thought he has as the avian-like creature enfolds him in her talons. Away they go, leaving behind only the phantom sway of Taigan saplings and the slow downward spiral of a single auburn feather.

    and for every king that died
    they would crown another


    @[Popinjay] and off to tephra - hurrah!
    [Image: jCdBK6.png]
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