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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


    wanna sip this smooth air, kick it in the sand -- crowns
    #1
    eight
    He had left him in the dark - the barren lightbulb of magic glowing dim, the little thing fading in the darkening of the night. The magician could grow attached to things, should time let him. He preferred not to let it be so. Small moments of manipulation, snippets of snark, times of torture: these were what he knew best. Lure the lad away and feel the might of magic flow through him - but any more and he would be lost. Eight left the iced child to be in his own euphoric comedown. Some things are better meant to realize alone.
    Time can change things. Even more so, magic can change things (change you, yourself, your surroundings, your everything and anything). Eight cannot remember time anymore - it is a construct unknown - it is why he blinks himself into the cosmos to spend eons away. There is too much in knowing you will live forever, it is a heavy taste in knowing you will never meet soil; you will only make a mark on souls. Perhaps time was making him soft - but the magician did not want to be the one to tell the boy that the only thing before him would be loss, leftovers, and the unending life before him.
    He appears quiet in the soundless snow that stretches across the sand - it aches with want, the sullen, and untouched land around them. His tentacles reach out, beckoning and calling - drawing on the skin of the little thing. Coime, come, come. He calls him to the dashed beach, the land of bones and rot - the decayed and dying. The boy would hear it - Eight knows this much, his magic cannot be pushed off so easily. But how would he get here?
    He wait. And he offers no greeting when the boy shows- no kind regards - simply:
    “What do you say now, boy? Are you still you?”
    He had watched from afar - the maneuvering through this new marrow magic. He had forgotten the intricacies - the fight to survive, the struggle to strongarm each new tactic and trait. His magic was a part of him now, he could not fathom feeling the thrumming through him, the ability for every whim to be his. What was it like to be fumbling and foolish in the might of magic?



    mind my wicked words and tipsy topsy smirk



    @[crowns]
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    #2
    CrownS
    He is happy to play in the streams that slither in serpentine curves across the jungle floor. His mother hasn’t left the den in several days and she seems irritable as winter spreads across the country. The boy is too young to understand, so he leaves to entertain himself with whatever games he imagines. It doesn’t occur to him how tall he’s grown in his one year of life or how his shoulders have begun to broaden. Crowns maintains the same ocean blue eyes, however - full of intrigue and that dark fascination.

    So when he feels Eight prodding at him, he grins and is eager to answer the call. A plume of wild blue flame devours him and he appears on that forlorn beach. It stinks of death and the energy here is thick with rampant emotions. Once the sun sets, what sort of creatures would come to roam the shore? His bright gaze scans the sands for a while before his friend’s voice gathers his attention.

    Of course I’m still me!” he declares with a puffed chest and that eager grin. The ancient familiar curse had done little to dampen the burning star of his heart, but not for lack of trying. “I learned to swim and play tricks. Did you see?

    And he watches him closely, then, starved for someone to recognize his strength. Crowns even flings the memory of terrorizing Rosebay into Eight’s thoughts along with the dark depths of the sea that he explored. It had made him so desperately tired to be underwater, but he did it anyway, didn’t he?

    His wings settle and then resettle again as he waits. Inevitably, his gaze drifts to the sun-bleached bones and the musky-sweet-smelling clumps of blood long dried in the sand. Had Eight brought him here to teach him some dark new lesson? Would he finally know what it was to be the thing that lives beneath the bed?
    @[Eight]
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