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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


    have you met the devil's new right hand | islas
    #1
    Most days, the young wolf traveled unseen through the forest. Beqanna was alive with activity, and all the pretty horses seemed to pass through the Riverlands with an unsettling frequency. But even with the uptick in activity, Firen was able to maintain his perfect isolation. Their thoughts were so loud that he rarely, if ever, found himself surprised by the approach of a stranger. Their ideas, plans, and fantasies were deafening, emotional reels that he could no longer understand. They cluttered his mind in ways that made his hackles rise and chased him deeper into the woods with each passing day. 

    Until he found a place they never came. An unappealing, damp corner of the forest that was nowhere near the common route.

    But he feels her mind, and he grows curious - feeling he had not felt for another of his kind in weeks. Her thoughts move in different patterns than the endless streams of strangers. There is plenty of time for him to slip away, but he remains like a stone on the forest floor. Except stones don't lick their paws clean of blood or rise from the earth to better see who approaches.

    Within a moment she is there, in his little piece of the Riverlands, as pale and beautiful as his collection of ivory bones.

    He looks at her with wide, red eyes set like rubies against the black of his fur. But they do not burn hot like the eyes of his sire, despite the brilliance of their color. They are dull and detached. His tail lays neatly over his paws, and above his back, two small flames twist silently in the woodland gloom.

    @[Islas]
    [Image: Firen-insane.gif]
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    #2

    isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone

    She follows the darkness, even in the light of day. She is drawn to the shadows because it reminds her of sleeping against the velvet of some forgotten galaxy, she likes it because she can see the way she glows against the dark just the way a star in the endless black of night would. It makes the captive star inside of her soul settle, helps it to feel not so out of place. The dark was the closest to home that she would ever be again, she thinks, and while it is a thought that perplexes her – because she still does not fully understand how she came to be here, does not understand how or why she was reborn inside this strange, equine form, and does not understand why she cannot go back – it’s not something she thinks about overly much.

    She will continue to toy with the starlight every night, she will keep pulling the strings that she can and perfecting the art of it, all the while knowing this is the closest she will ever be again.

    He is there when she presses further into the forest of shadow and tree, but she is not alarmed to see him. Her face remains impassive, the sharp yet elegant angles softened somewhat by the faint glow that radiates from every part of her. Her eyes, an aubergine so dark it ventures on the end of black, have a strange depthless feel to them when they meet the red of his, and she does not seem to register nor care that he is canine and not equine. She does not say anything at first, until her gaze drifts over the small flames above his back, and she asks him in a voice so clear that the peculiar emptiness is not immediately apparent, “Do you make the fire yourself?”

    Islas


    @[Firen]
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    #3
    i don't eat i just devour,
    every one in every hour

    She is curious but measured, and he sits patiently for her evaluation. The flames catch her attention, but his gaze never leaves her softly illuminated face. Cool and clear as ice, her voice cuts across the damp hollow and her question causes the wolf to give an involuntary shrug of his brindle shoulders.

    "In a way," he answers, as the flames twist and flair almost playfully, reveling in the attention. "The're always here, like this, even when i wish they wern't."

    When I'm hunting, he adds mentally.

    There is a pause, and something encourages him to move closer. He yields without much thought; instinct was his only guiding force in these strange days.

    With a shake of his thick black pelt, the warg stands, and begins to shift as he does. Paws become hooves, and legs grow longer as the dark body reassembles itself. Most of the details of the shift are veiled by the thick pelt he wears, until the end. His fur was always the last thing to change. But within a moment, even that has had shrunk away, exposing him as what nature made him.

    The line of Firens eyes is only just above hers, and from here, he finds he likes the endless black of them, likes the way they reflect his firelight back to him. His mind reaches to brush along her own, this time with intention. He only touches what may be on the surface. He does not hunt for anything she may try to hide, not now.

    "Your thoughts are different," he states. He had not yet learned the benefits of hiding such a skill from strangers, even strangers with haunting, dark eyes.
    Firen
    [Image: Firen-insane.gif]
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    #4

    isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone

    There is still so much of this land that she finds strange. The magic that taints it, for one –  how sometimes it helps, but often times it hinders. That even though magic stretches to every corner, even though the magic still lets her control starlight and has her glow and pulsate as though she was still in the sky, the magic does not let her go back.

    It is just enough magic to fool her into thinking she has some kind of control, when in reality, she does not.

    The magic shows itself again in the way the canine before her shifts. Has she ever met a shifter? She cannot recall, but for all the other things she has seen here, she supposes this is not surprising. It makes her wonder, though,  can she shift back into a star? Is there simply some strange disconnect not allowing her to do it? She has never actually tried. She learned early on that she could control the light the stars emitted, and that she could send forth her own burst of blinding light. But she never attempted to turn herself back into a star.

    By now he is standing before her, and with only a slight upward tilt of her eyes they are looking at each other. She cannot feel the way he touches against her mind; it is not obvious like when Tiercel painted her alive with emotions. This is something far more subtle, and when he comments on her thoughts her white lips pull into a shadow of a smile, “My thoughts? How so?” He has likely already figured out why her thoughts are different; has heard her contemplating the state of being a star and the problems that have accompanied it. She assumes that is what he means, or perhaps he refers to how her thoughts are sharp and precise, that she did not wonder much about the shape of his face or the color of his eyes, that her thoughts are just as plain and matter-of-fact as she is.

    Islas


    @[Firen]
    Reply
    #5
    i don't eat i just devour,
    every one in every hour


    As her thoughts flow the outline of her story falls into his consciousness. He missed the first hints of it, only because he had never thought such a thing could exist. He had never thoughtfully observed the stars, never thought to name them, or track their journies during the long nights he spent alone. The brindle stallion never stopped to think about their origins or the sources of their light. But now he is being forced to, and he finds there is something about it that intrigues him. At least for now, something about it he likes more than picking clean the bones from his last hunt for the third time.

    "You're not... from here," he says with something close to reverence. The emphasis on the word falls in such a way as to insinuate he means more than just the river or the common-lands, farther than any coastal kingdom or even a country beyond the sea. She wasn't of this earth.

    That a star could be a girl is something he would have never thought of, not if he passed one thousand years in solitude. But it is an intriguing idea, now that it has found him, and it keeps him rooted where he stands. If he had not been able to read her memories, he would have thought she was delusional. But he can see these thoughts, and the idea that maybe she has fooled even herself doesn't cross his mind.

    His head tilts in a way distinctly canine, as he looks into her upturned face. He should ask if she misses it, something to keep her here passing the time with him, but he already knows she does. He already knows that the thought of returning to the sky is a need in her as potent as his need to hunt.

    "How," he begins, halting as he tries to string together words that hardly make sense to say. "How did you fall?" He settles on, because some long lost story of falling stars comes to mind from his weanling years, and she didn't choose to come here so there must be a story there.

    Firen
    [Image: Firen-insane.gif]
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