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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


    Kill your darlings
    #1

    Crackjaw

    When she isn't paying attention - which is most of the time - her tongue tends to loll from her mouth, pink and fat and hanging loose in the air, but sometimes the Star scolds her harshly, and, when this happens, her left ear will turn backwards as though listening to someone behind her, her head might tilt in that moment, her yellow eyes not seeing the stretch of grassy landscape ahead of her. Her head is tipped to one side now and it gives her a quizzical sort of expression, something strange and almost canid. This is not a purposeful impression - she has never even seen a dog, although she has, on occasion, heard coyotes yapping along the tree-line or seen a fox slip through the undergrowth smooth as a snake, but they are more cat-like than dog-like.

    You look like an idiot, the Star snaps harshly in her mind and the filly snorts at it as if it has told a joke, the corners of her lips curling up into a tortured grin, but she snaps to attention in the same moment, gathers her pieces back together, her tongue tucking up tight against her upper palate where it becomes just a shade less obvious that so much of her lower jaw is missing. She almost looks normal.

    Not even close.

    The left ear flicks back again. She is so thin, and her rough hide wears thin over the bone of her hip and shoulder, her abdomen hollow, her mane and tail as dry and brittle as the hollow stalks of last year's pokeweed. She wears this suffering without knowing it should be any different, she does not know that she should be as slick and fat as any other horse, or that the others are not sung to sleep by the growling of their bellies. She has no experience to compare against her own, and hunger has ever been her companion.

    Where should we go?
    The bushes - there, by the creek.


    Her ear flicks forward again and the ungainly filly makes her way to those bushes, nosing through them in search of any soft fruits that may still cling to their branches. The pickings are few, the birds are far better and faster at such foraging, but she plucks the rare few shriveled berries she finds, crushing them with her tongue against the sharp edges of her teeth, patently unwary of her surroundings. The Star does all the watching.

    Someone is coming.

    Crackjaw

    Image by Cievesare


    @[midsommar] weird starter, enjoy.
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    #2

    MIDSOMMAR
    She is a strange creature. Long, lithe, graceful in her flash of blonde and red. Her movements come from watching the elegant legs of a maned wolf and her father's own height. Mix those with the delicate beauty of her mother and - Midsommar is strange and striking.

    Boring, too, though. Amongst the many colors and extra limbs and wild magic, the chestnut filly appears so terribly nondescript. But come close, or observe for just a little bit, and one will see the odd way she draws the eye - the rise of her head, slope of her neck, and limbs that almost seem as if they're floating.

    And at her side, stands that terrible, bewildering creature.

    "Malachai," Sommar says, ending her smooth trot and leaning against a tree. The wolf looks up at her (he has to now, as the filly just continues to grow).

    Yes, he says.

    "Do you ever grow tired of our exploration?" she asks.

    No, the wolf answers, simple and short.

    "Interesting," the filly murmurs, then jumps back into her practiced trot.

    Ahead, Sommar picks up a set of curious thoughts. A creek burbles and bushes rustle and the filly just simply cannot resist knowing what hides within.

    "Hello," she calls, slowing to a walk and tilting her head. "What are you doing in there?" It isn't a sarcastic question, or a particularly prying one, but one that is purely and simply curious.
    " It does no good to die kicking and screaming and lashing back at the inevitable. It corrupts the soul. "
    @[Crackjaw]
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