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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


    [open]  our gospel is living flesh sprawled in dust
    #2


    His mythical animal wardrobes are only limited to his education; he can be the wild and mystic creatures he’s seen or knows of. Luckily for him he has a varied arsenal because he can draw from the well of the dead. His relatives, old friends, even dead strangers, they follow the pull when he calls for them and they come and chat, or tell tales, or laugh, play tricks, tell riddles or sometimes literally do nothing at all but be creepy. It’s an interesting array of talents he’s collected over the broken decades of his life.

    The Winged Lion of Saint Mark. What an interesting series of stories brought this particular creature to his mental library. He often remembers the odd angelic creatures that came forward one eerie night, drunk with glee and fat with their stories, ready to tell.

    On days like today, when he takes the lion’s form, his wings full feathered and jet black with white speckled feathers at its edges; he remembers the stories, a crooked grin on his face while he mulls the details of the encounter. It’s certain the original creature isn’t colored the same, but as most of his outfits, the colors are always his own. An enormous lion with a white splashed face and chest, his mane lush and mostly black (some white). His eyes the shining teal they always are. Black smoke curls off of him as he flies, fading quickly in his wake. The sun is warm and bright up in the sky, the thermal currents grabbing and releasing him as he plays back and forth through the cloud tops. He’s playful and unaware there is another flying through, he’s got no agenda or plan in mind as he usually does when he spots someone. His mind is fairly blank as he’s tipped on his back and just floating with his wings extended. As he’s looking up he can see her flying above. The polite and not weird thing to do would be to look away and fly on – he’s not usually either of these things, so he stares on. Looking up to see her wings glint like those of a dragonfly, her reddish, white and pink swirl of colors, the dance of her hair.

    Creeper.







    @"Xi" <3 hi
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    RE: our gospel is living flesh sprawled in dust - by Chemdog - 10-31-2021, 11:21 AM



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