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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]  then sang to the sea for feelings deep blue // any
    #1

    The weight of the water kept him grounded. On his knees, in between his feathers, sinking into his mouth; he beseeched the river with his presence. Like his mother before him, Rhaegor felt the most connected to reality in this place, as though it represented the halfway house for unhinged souls. The dark cover of the close trees and the sting of the cool water reminded him of his finite nature, of the ways that he could still choose forward. How often he chose that, however, remained slim to none.

    Grief kept him stagnant; a permanent fixture in the ever-flowing waters.

    Chryseis. The name of the woman he claimed to love, ravaged and dead now according to what little he could find out in the weeks after her disappearance. The thought of her name felt like betrayal, for no matter how far he cast his mind, he could not find hers; what once felt eternal had been cut short. On his own behalf? His head swung, sharp and fast as though to dodge a blow. Grief alone plagued him enough; he refused (as best he could) to entertain the other thoughts, the ones of muddled hearts and unfaithful feelings where an abyss of what ifs grew like unkempt roses. More thorn than petal.

    Dawn. Some days, the thoughts crept in no matter how deep he sunk into the river's cool, silencing embrace. Along with the song of her name came the image of her body, simultaneously the young girl who became his best friend and the mothering woman who caused his heart to swell those many years later. A part of him recognized her apparation as a figment of his dreams (the same part that allowed it to continue, that felt a strange eroticism at seeing her here that left him in more pain than he'd been in before). As a myriad of Dawn's words provided the sound track for his daze, an image of Chryseis appeared, too. The blue-and-gold mare came alongside Dawn and the two began to gallivant and hum. They danced in his minds eye like lovers themselves, a gradual waltz that ended with them reaching, touching, begging --

    A bright blue light pierced the night's darkness as Rhae emitted a beam from his mouth down on to his chest. His body splashed into the river, the scent of charred flesh sifting through the air until it dissipated completely. Fuck, he thought, not caring to limit the thought to his own mind. With a groan, he rose, the autumn river dripping from his skin in tinkles and glimmers, an innocent sound to the guilt of his conscience. His throat clenched, ashamed of the reactivity he exhibited on behalf of a dream (on behalf of the feelings he refused to engage with). Yet the shame settled like a blanket on his mind; a comfortable simmer, white noise to drown out the cacophony of his thoughts.

    Clear-minded, then. For the first time in a long time. Rhaegor smiled; engaged his haunches and leapt up the river bank in a handful of scrambling steps, the places where his hooves met the earth glowing that same bright blue for a few moments before disappearing. With a shuddered breath and steam rising from his trembling body, the once-prince lowered his head to the ground and began to feed, able to satisfy his appetite by way of the silence of his mind. On his chest, the place he'd marked himself bled but a drop, cauterized as it was by the heat of his beam.






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    Someone pls come interact?
    [Image: rhae]
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    #2
    The sound of the river is soothing, and Celina is slow to wake. She rests beneath an overhang in the riverbank, shielded by earth overhead and to one side and running water to the other. The navy haired mare is drawn to water, a fondness that she never suspects might be primitive instinct. A sip of water invigorates her, and the fine silver scales of her mouth grow icy in the spring snow melt waters. Celina snorts, tossing her head in surprise, but lets the water run between the teeth of her wide mouth, the cold water shocking the last remnants of sleep from her mind as it splashes against her scaled chest.

    She cannot afford the luxury of a slow wakeup. Instead of savoring it, Celina does away with what’s left of last night’s meal, the back half of a brown trout that had been just a little slower than the others. Wading into the ankle deep water, the winged creature ducks beneath the overhang and climbs the steep river bank. She is surefooted and agile, reaching the more well-travelled path along the water without difficulty. There, on smooth earth, she stumbles.

    Somewhere ahead is blood. It lasts but a single breath, and though Celina raises her head in an effort to find the source, it is gone as quickly as it came.

    These days she cannot be too careful. She steps off the path, continuing as she had been until a grassy patch comes into sight. There a pegasus grazes. He is as golden as the pampas grasses, with a pale face that reminds her of Neverwhere. He is the source of the blood smell, she is sure of it. Yet he moves with ease, no sign of injury. Had he been the aggressor, then? The possibility intrigues her, and she steps out into the clearing.

    In the dim light, the yellow green glow of her fireflies shine prettily, resting in a ring around her neck, a few floating about her head. The face they illuminate is decidedly not pretty, not with those teeth and the intent look in her long-lashed eyes. The iridescence of her coat is barely visible, though it shimmers as she continues to move forward, her head tilted at a curious angle. She doesn’t say anything, just moves ever nearer, circling him to get a better look. There’s a spot on his chest, but she’s never seen a wound like it. It is not from hoof or tooth or claw. Too neat for dragon fire. A puzzle.

    Celina does not like puzzles.
    She growls thoughtfully, low in her throat, and the sound emerges as a soft hiss between the teeth that protrude from her wide mouth.

    “Who are you?” She asks, the words slurred. In the time since her mother’s departure, Celina has abandoned efforts to ‘speak clearly’. She rarely speaks at all, in truth, but she knows that she can still be understood. Most of the time.

    @[Rhaegor]



    celina
    i'm that bad type, make-your-mama-sad type
    make-your-girlfriend-mad type, might-seduce-your-dad type


    Reply
    #3

    Though her approach caused auditory vibrations, the stallion heard nothing. The grass he'd neglected to consume as of late engrossed him to a degree he hadn't anticipated. Her scent (cloaked by the river's waters), too, evaded him. Only when the mare reached a distance of two meters from him did Rhaegor notice her, and by then, she'd already begun her circling.

    He took a private, instantaneous inventory of her.
    Female. My height. White and blue with wings like mine. Sharp teeth... Long jaw. Analyzing my -- wounds.

    With the last of his hasty meal making its way towards his stomach, Rhaegor lifted his skull and snapped his ears backwards and then towards the mare, one tilted sideways. Veiled curiosity. Her circles continued for half a minute and during that time the stallion considered interrupting them, breaking the formation of their unspoken and spontaneous dance. But he did not move. Instead, he watched with one ear trained on the mare and with a gentle swish of his tail about his ankles.

    His throat clenched at her words.
    Who are you?
    The sound of them warbled with the uncertainty of one who spoke little. Slurred, careless.

    The shame he felt at hoping she might be a mute like him outweighed his excitement.
    I've never met another like me.

    His jaw clenched, reminding him that he needed to respond to the mare in front of him instead of just staring at her with the hard brown of his eyes. At first he moved to utilize his telepathy -- but....

    Something about her begged of him his best effort.

    Willing himself to speak, he parted his lips and felt his ears bending towards his skull. As the river flowed next to them, he knew it would drown out what he had to say. But he couldn't manage to say anything at all.

    All that came were dry, insect-like clicks. The spasming of the back of his throat.

    "Qke-qke-qke-qke."

    What else did you expect.
    It doesn't matter who you are, anyway.


    Beside them, the river continued within its well-worn groove.






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    [Image: rhae]
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    #4
    Though she observes him with a suitable amount of caution and from an appropriate distance away, she makes no effort to disguise her reaction. She wears her satisfaction on her angular face, though she’d have preferred him wearing a leopard’s claws to its spots. He remains quiet and still, much the way she’d have responded had Rhaegor done the same.

    That he doesn’t flinch away is appealing as well, though in a different way. Celina enjoy frequent reminders that she is dangerous, though as she has grown older and more aware of relationships beyond those of a child, she’s found she likes other reminders too. The scaled woman is aware that she is not beautiful, but that has not precluded her exploration. Perhaps this is an unexpected chance at an entertaining morning in an otherwise chaotic world. Celina has always followed her father’s advice to live in the moment, and as she takes another step nearer that is exemplified.

    The answer is gives is not one she understands. The garbled noises that emerge from his mouth are not things she can make sense of. But she does recognize them; she is sure of it. They are the noises Ghaul made, that windy afternoon in Nerine. Intrigued, Celina moves forward again.

    “You don’t look much like a dragon.” She tells him, seemingly unbothered by the lack of an answer to her question about his identity. He is neither scaled nor horned, and his blue patterned sides are wingless and smooth. Soft too, Celina finds as she runs her chin along his shoulder. She pauses near the charred wound, her breath clouding it with little puffs of steam not unlike the dragons she’d spoken of earlier.

    She would like to know where it came from, but she does not expect an answer. Instead, she draws back and frowns, her own inventory of the man in front of her running through her mind. It’s far simpler than the one Rhaegor does, and ends with her deciding he is not a threat. Celina is not sure what else he is, but it is difficult to do so beyond getting him to answer questions. Does he even understand her words at all, Celina wonders? Or does he not speak because he is a primitive creature, like the trout whose scales still line her teeth? Could she eat him, she wonders, like she eats the trout? But what else is she to do with him? They are alone by the river, and doing nothing seems like looking a gift horse in the mouth.

    Live in the moment, she remembers.

    Celina looks him over a second time, and finds that while he is an appealing enough creature, he lacks that particular something that draws her to a lover. Celina likes her men quivering and her women demanding, and the buckskin in front of her is neither of those. So she can’t fuck him and she (probably) shouldn’t kill him, which leaves few other options.

    “Do you know what I’m saying?” The dark haired mare asks, leaning back as the fireflies that ringed her neck drift now instead to where her teeth protrude over her lips. The effect is rather Cheshire-like, even in the soft shadows of the trees overhead, but Celina is not thinking of that.

    @[Rhaegor]


    celina
    i'm that bad type, make-your-mama-sad type
    make-your-girlfriend-mad type, might-seduce-your-dad type


    Reply
    #5

    "You don't look much like a dragon." The mare's words comment sounded rhetorical but gave rise to a rebuttal in Rhaegor's chest. His associations with dragons left little room for affection or even tolerance and hearing himself likened to one caused a spurt of anger to form in his otherwise emotionless chest. Despite this, he debated not answering the woman -- but her mouth against his skin and so near his wound forced his hand.

    Don't touch me, he snarled into her mind, ears pinned as he struck the angular bridge of her nose with the dullness of his teeth; his wings buffeted against her side as he pushed himself away from her, snorting. The mare seemed unphased by this, continuing her analysis of Rhae with  her piercing gaze. Rhae shivered beneath it. Felt that same anger from before resurge before transforming into a kind of fear. He ignored both feelings for now.

    She asked him if he understood her in the same breath that she thought of fucking him and then killing him, in that order, though both situations appeared hypothetical. Rhae pushed his ears back further. In truth, he understood her words more by how he heard them in her thoughts than how he heard them aloud.

    He felt conflicted. A part of him wanted to run, another wanted to fight, and a last part wanted to stay, make amends, and get to know the strange, long-jawed woman before him who looked as though she could swallow him whole and still be hungry. Nothing like Chryseis, he thought, and felt at once sick for even comparing the two.

    Yes, he snapped at last. Then, he mimicked her tone and rhythm to ask her his own question. Do you treat everyone you meet like they're imbecilic prey?






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    [Image: rhae]
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    #6
    Celina knows the voice that usually whispers inside her mind, beckoning her toward unsound decisions. It is her own voice, but softer, familiar enough. Her conscious, her mother had called it. Instinct is the name her father had given it. Neither seem quite right, or perhaps there are many voices, primal desires that swirl inside a more complex mind than they are meant for. Regardless of what they are, she knows what they sound like, where they belong.

    There is suddenly another voice where none belongs, and though Celina recoils internally, her questing mouth does not hesitate, not even when his dull teeth snap against the bridge of her muzzle.

    He tells her to not touch him while violating the sanctity of her own mind to do so?
    The outrage is stronger than the fear, and though some part of her remains cautious it is not enough to make her run.

    It is better to run than be caught, her father has said, but Celina is sure she has done nothing wrong. There is no need to flee, not when the worst thing she has done is make this stranger fluff up his wings. She hasn’t even hurt him!

    The answer to her question seems clear enough, and it seems that the buckskin would like her to move away. Or so his stance says. Instead, her own wings flare out as well, lower than his own but an equal pose. She has wings too, it seems to say, but she is not using them against him. She doesn’t have to, not when she is this close, not when she can see the way his pulse beats beneath his throat with how near they stand. She could reach it, Celina thinks. She could rip it out before he had time to pry any deeper into her own mind.

    “Yes,” she replies, wondering if perhaps this stranger is simple after all, for all that he is able to speak clearly within her mind. Everyone is prey, or at least something to be used. Hasn’t her father taught her this? There are some exceptions, of course, but Rhaegor is not one of them. “I would prefer it if you were,” Celina adds truthfully, the words soft and low, just loud enough to reach across the little distance she has allowed between them. She is not sure how to kill a mind-reader, but surely he must die. He has the bad magic, the kind that will inevitably endanger her and those she cares for. Hasn’t her father taught her this too?

    Mind readers cannot be trusted, and those with the ability to place their thoughts inside your own head are the worst of all.

    But what is she to do with him? Father would be furious if she left him alive. But how does one kill a creature that might know everything she knows? This is exactly why they are so dangerous, she thinks, and not for the first time curses her curiosity. He had not wanted her to touch him, she thinks, so she touches him. Perhaps he will act out, a moment of instinct giving her the chance for an unexpected bite or slash. There is danger here, and a quiet whisper in her own mind has grown louder, daring her, pushing her farther. I will bite when he flinches, Celina tells herself, and trails her silver mouth along the curve of his shoulder and up his throat, waiting for what she is sure is inevitable.

    @[Rhaegor]


    celina
    i'm that bad type, make-your-mama-sad type
    make-your-girlfriend-mad type, might-seduce-your-dad type


    Reply
    #7

    I could reach it, the woman thinks. I could rip it out before he has time to pry any deeper into my own mind.

    The magnitude of Rhaegor's alarm intensifies tenfold when he realizes that she thinks of his throat. He becomes aware of his pulse and hates the blood rushing there for putting him in danger; yet his need to escape overrides his self-hatred. Somehow, despite his eagerness to inflict harm upon himself, he found himself acting in self-defense in front of this long-jawed creature. When he reflected upon this notion later, safe in a far-away forest, he cried to know that some part of him still fought to live.

    For now, that part had its work cut out for it.

    I will bite when he flinches.

    Though he flinches, a flash of dangerous bright light accompanies the movement. A blast of his lasers. They pour out in tiny jets from every point of his body towards hers, strong enough to cause severe pain and to send her stumbling back but not strong enough to kill, maim, or scar her. The stallion planned to increase the diameter of his lasers should the mare yet approach.

    With the light beams yet emitting from his figure, Rhaegor wasted no time in land-based movements and instead leapt forward with his already-unfurled wings, taking to the sky with many well-practiced beats. The night sky above became illuminated with his beams as he continue to spread them out below him, singing the forest floor and starting small blue fires where his lasers hit dry grass. When he lost sight of the place he'd been, he recalled the lights and disappeared into the darkness of the night sky.






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    [Image: rhae]
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    #8
    She reaches for his throat just as the light hits her.

    Celina snarls, drawing back without thinking. Her wings snap forward defensively, which only leaves them blackened and smoking when she pulls them back just as quickly. The golden stallion takes to the skies and Celina is entirely without desire to chase him. Let him be the one to run, she thinks. It is a balm to her wounded pride (and wings and mouth) to think this, and she glowers up into the sky for several long minutes before muttering to herself and retreating to the shadows.

    The end!

    @[Rhaegor]


    celina
    i'm that bad type, make-your-mama-sad type
    make-your-girlfriend-mad type, might-seduce-your-dad type


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