"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
10-04-2020, 03:18 PM (This post was last modified: 10-04-2020, 03:19 PM by boheme.)
The last time she had laid eyes on the pale mare had been during the pandemic. She remembers the cough and the flecks of blood on those lips, and how she hadn’t cared. Bo would share in that sickness, delighting in the moments that saw them together again.
Like night, she comes.
Bo is always there, somewhere. Never far, even if she’s not quite always near. She always looks for the pale skin, like moonlight and snow. Her plum gaze searches, finds, and fills with a familiar heat that has always held the weight of love and lust - the two nearly indistinguishable as far as Bo is concerned.
The Dimension made certain that Bo felt both; responded to both and did not lash out at her suitors, male or female. She had been taught well, a jungle-whore with alluring eyes and hips. It made her smile just to think of it! Now she’d been reduced to nothing but a name that her children said sometimes, and a name that her oldest and dearest friend still remembered.
“Miss me?” she murmurs, ever the coy sort as she sidles around Ryatah and nips at her haunch in a kind fashion. Her plum eyes come to rest on that well-loved face. “Been too long again.”
10-09-2020, 02:59 AM (This post was last modified: 10-09-2020, 03:00 AM by Ryatah.)
── and i was never sure whether you were the lighthouse or the storm ──
Most days, that jungle-home that she had been shaped in felt like several lifetimes ago. And in a way, it was. She has lived and died so many times in Beqanna, and each life was brimming with heartache and twisted romances and events that she could have never possibly predicted. The idea that the girl raised in Amazonhollow ever existed was impossible even for her to believe.
Boheme was now the only one left that had ever known that girl. The one that was porcelain-smooth and unscarred, the one that was still learning the art of being compliant and obedient and yet interesting enough not to be cast aside.
The foundation that turned her into the wayward, fragmented creature she has become.
That naive, doe-eyed girl was nothing at all like the broken and remade woman that stood alongside the river now. She teems with all of her histories, all of her stories etched into her bones and scarred across her skin like a map. Angel wings now rest easily at her sides, trimmed in gold and radiating that ethereal glow that emanates from the rest of her. When she hears a familiar voice, she turns her delicate head, the gray stones that rest uneasily in her sockets alight by the glow of a misleading halo.
“Boheme,” she breathes the mare’s name into her neck, pressing her pale lips to the black of her skin. She laughs, silver and lilting when she traces the familiar shape of her face. “I always miss you,” she says as her teeth pull gently at the tangled strands of her wild mane. “Where do you disappear to?”
ryatah
@[boheme]
if it's not clear, she doesn't have eyes (again) and carnage put rocks in her sockets as placeholders because he's a gentleman.
10-09-2020, 05:15 PM (This post was last modified: 10-09-2020, 05:17 PM by boheme.)
Amazonhollow; it felt like a thousand lifetimes away for both of them. By rights, Bo ought to be dead. She’s outlasted in a manner that is unnatural and somehow not aided by magic and yet, it must be magic that makes her keep on going. She should be piecemeal for the crows and the worms, with grass poking up through the eye sockets of a grinning skull bleached by countless hours under the sun.
She’s not any of that, clearly.
But also not like how Ryatah is now - aglow and angelic, touched by so many tales of triumph and tragedy. Bo can read them in that pale skin, but it only reminds her of the beginning, smooth and unblemished for both of them. “My, my!” she breathes aloud, in blatant awe of her oldest and dearest friend.
Stones for eyes now, and angel wings? Ryatah always led such an interesting life in the times that Bo skipped out and off to wherever it was that she went. She thinks the halo is darling, if a bit tilted askew like it can’t quite be perfect because neither of them were perfect. Ryatah would somehow be the most beautiful but most down to earth angel ever. That’s just how it would be, and she nearly chuckled to think so.
But the press of those pale lips to her dark skin made her go silent and still, like only Ryatah could do to her. It might be from a mixed up place of more than just sisterly love but the Hollow had seen to that, made them sisters in the training they shared and the tasks they performed. Bonds like that just seemed to be lasting and had been for them. Forged in the grunts and heat of passions heaped on them.
She loves to hear her friend’s laughter; it sounds free and girlish, something that neither of them had been in quite some time. But there lurked in them, in the underpinnings of skin and bone, remnants of the innocent-eyed girls that they used to be. Bo laughs too, as her friend tugs at the tangled in her hair, always wild and messy like their lives had been. “Good, I always miss you too.”
And she does for how could she not? They’ll probably end up dead together somewhere, their skulls next to each other, grinning and laughing even in death as the world goes on without them. It’s a comforting thought held near and dear to her bosom, as she nuzzles that pale angelic neck. “I’m not really sure, it has no name but it’s where I always go. It’s become home in a way that few other places have.”
Like the Hollow, but she doesn’t have to say that. Ryatah will know, they both know even though this place in which they stand has become a close second. “But look at you! Like an angel, prettier than before.” It is easy to compliment her friend, because no matter what befalls the pale mare, she comes out of it looking like a queen. Like an Amazon. Funny to think that somehow neither of them ever ended up as such in this place, back in the day, when they were glorified.
“What have you been up to my friend?”
She settles in beside Ryatah, knowing the tale will be as good as the telling.
@[Ryatah] Bo wants to hear the story about the rocks for eyes and how nice of Carnage! For once lmfao
10-22-2020, 02:19 AM (This post was last modified: 10-22-2020, 10:16 AM by Ryatah.)
what have I done, with my heart on the floor,
I must be out of my mind to come back begging for more --
There is something about Boheme that always feels like coming home. There is something undeniably sweet and easy in the way she can settle in alongside of her after no matter how many years, and still, it is always the same. They had been shaped from the same mold, had endured a similar beginning, and Boheme was more of a sister–a soulmate–than most could ever be to her. No expectations, no games to be won or lost; just the easy rhythm of their hearts falling back into sync with one another.
“Fine then, I suppose you can keep your secret hideout to yourself,” she says teasingly with another pull of her soft lips against her friend’s neck. But she shakes a haloed head when she remarks on her new angelic form, and as always when someone comments on it she can feel a hint of shame begin to thread its way down into the marrow of her bones. She knows, better than anyone, that she has never been worthy of such a thing. She knows how far the shadows of her soul stretch; knows that they reach to every corner, that not even the glow that she now radiates could chase them away. “It feels like false advertising,” her tone is kept light, refusing to let her own self-doubts and self-pity to darken this reunion.
With her nose running the length of Boheme’s neck–always touching, never able to resist the temptation of a warm body so close to her own–she considers her question. There were too many things; Carnage and Atrox, Illum and Ashhal, and all the things in between. “Loving men, and making them angry,” she says with a short, quiet laugh. “The usual, I suppose.” She moves her head and her stark white forelock settles across one of the stones on her face, and there is a strange, small smile when she adds, “There are some lessons I insist on never learning.”
-- ryatah.
she's not the best at talking about herself but Bo is welcome to just ask her "why do you have rocks in your face" lmfao
10-22-2020, 06:18 PM (This post was last modified: 10-22-2020, 06:21 PM by boheme.)
She laughs aloud at the easy teasing that they fall into. Their banter has always been a rare and cherished thing, where even if serious, it is always easy between them and sometimes, not a lot has to be said to be understood. Bo sinks into the touch of those pale lips on her neck. There’s an intimacy to it - a sisterhood that they share, won through blood and sweat and sex, even if their parents are not the same. But that intimacy exists, a sisterly camaraderie that Bo delights in and has missed.
“I’ll take you there one day but you like it here so much,” she teases back. Bo can sense how hard her friend tries to keep the tone light and congenial. She knows there is darkness in that pale flesh as much as there is in hers, sable like the soft sweep of night across the sky. Just as she knows there is light beneath her dark skin and both of them at times, have trouble remembering this. “It’s not you know,” she comments idly. “You’ve always shone despite whatever darkness is cast your way or that lives inside you.”
Bo has always known too much, sensed too much. She knows Ryatah doesn’t think of herself as an angel despite how her appearance reflects it. She can’t blame her; their histories have often been entwined with blood, pain, and sacrifice. Perhaps her friend’s has more so than Bo’s; she just ran wild and basically said screw it as she kicked up her heels and decided to answer only to the wind and the stars. But Ryatah had become a queen and an angel and been so much more.
Funny how destiny works like that!
Bo leans into the nose that runs the length of her; touch has always grounded them and it grounds her now, hooves planted into this earth firmly and without a hint of wanting to leave. She laughs, a deep and hearty sound as her friend answers her. “Doing what we were taught to do best! Except for the angering part perhaps,” and there’s a slyness to her that joins the pride in her voice. Bo laughs again; “Sometimes, history bears repeating.”
That’s all she remarks on the matter, as she finally notices the stones in the eye sockets. “Well now, that’s a little unusual. Dare I ask how that happened?” She inches her nose closer to that pale face and fans a sweet grassy breath over it to lift the pale hairs out of her way so she can see the stones better.
“I do like it here,” she agrees, almost as though she is acknowledging it for the first time. “Or I must, since I’ve never left.” Beqanna has changed so much in the nearly two hundred years that she has been here. It has been dismantled to ruins and rebuilt itself into something new and unrecognizable, and she cannot deny the likeness that she shares with the land. She is, after all, someone entirely different from the girl – pale and plain, and a girl in nearly every sense – that had first arrived here. She has been torn apart and stitched back together, and the glow of her skin may as well have been light seeping through the cracks.
She would perhaps be unrecognizable to some, but for all the radiance she can display on the outside, it is still the same girlish, worn, and broken heart locked inside the darkness of her chest.
There is a weighted silence, so brief that anyone else might have not noticed it, but she has learned to read the silence just as she reads the dark. She can feel the way Boheme’s gaze has fixed itself onto her own sightless stare, and where another might have felt self-conscious or shame or anything similar, she feels almost nothing. The scarred sockets in the past seemed to garner more pity, while the stones – or diamonds or gemstones or however the magic deems itself appropriate to portray itself that day – was mostly curiosity.
She is no stranger to either one, and is not surprised when Boheme asks.
“They’re a punishment,” she explains, but the strange smile that twists her lips at the memory of his final touch against her cheek leaves the statement sounding thin. “For not doing as Carnage asked.” It is her turn for silence now, her mind loud but her tongue staying still, because she is always so reluctant to divulge in details. There was an intimacy even in the bloodshed, and selfish as she always is, she hated to share it. “I wasn’t made for killing, but I can withstand punishments. Maybe not the choice anyone else would have made in that situation, but, I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of being just like everyone else, ” she finishes with another faint laugh, the breeze toying with the golden feathers at the tips of her wings.
R y A t A h
and you can aim for my heart, go for blood
but you would still miss me in your bones
@[Boheme]
sorry for the wait, I went on hiatus/away/whatever but now I'm back lmao
