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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]  slip into the sea, eventually. [any!]
    #1

    Haunt, haunt, haunty boy.

    He’s done nothing with himself; truly, he chides inwardly – literally nothing. Sure, he’s fought and won before, more importantly he’s lost. He’s laid many a mare, sired many a child, and some that don’t disgust him, even. But he’s done nothing... really. He’s seen many rise and rise, some fall, some stagnate, but they did something at least. And why is that same ache not in him, then? To constantly claw for more and more, always starving – why is he satiated and thrilled enough to haunt the black sand beaches of his Cove? Just one of the many internal ghosts breathing down his neck as he moves step by step down the dim lit beach. Should he be more ambitious? He's never really cared before. Does he now? Maybe. Probably no.

    Autumn often drags mighty and violent sea-storms to die on these dark shorse and on this early morning one has come to meet its fate. The wind whips, but not like the deadly gales they once were hundreds of miles before now, and the rain beats, but only a fraction of its peak force. The storm is half dead already, its thunder simmering and only cracking sparingly. Its boil weakens until it’s a breeze with drizzling mist, the sea now gentled underneath soft gray clouds suffocating the day’s oncoming sunlight.

    Chem stands with his bone white face and chest to the winds rolling off of the lapping waves. It’s cold, and by inland standards still quite windy, but not for anyone who knows this coast like he does. The stallion’s coat is thick and well armored against the rain and frigid autumn cold; water shedding from him like it would off a duck. His teal eyes closed, listening to the wind, the waves, his lungs, his heart until the rhythms synchronize.



    CHEMDOG
    to the window, to the wall


    hi.
    i have no idea.
    Reply
    #2
    His mother had told him that the Silver Cove was abandoned, but Malik does not arrive on an empty shore.

    He’d come to hunt a silver deer, but the hooved animal that stands beside the lapping waves is no cervid. It’s a stallion, older than the black feathered colt that Malik becomes. He’d travelled as a shark, sleek and dark, and he rises from the salt water soaked to the skin.

    Raised to believe that those beyond his kin are inconsequential, Malik must remind himself of his mother’s more recent lessons as he draws closer to the piebald horse. He tries a smile, and it fits his dark face, though some of the freindliness is shadowed by the imposing black horns and the physical discomfort he experiences.

    “You’re Chemdog,” he says to the stranger, because his father had once shown him a Vision of the short skirmish between the two men when Malik had asked about the entities. The words are sharp and short, bitten off by the series of shivers that rack his body. The winter wind is cold and he is soaked to the skin, his feathers and mane plastered to his dark skin with salt water.

    “I’m Malik,” he says. “Is there somewhere I could dry off?”

    @Chemdog
    Reply
    #3
    In the churning lace-top waves something begins to shimmer oddly, and then rise. The hairs along Chem’s spine raise, his smoke thickening and swirling, turning from black to a glowing silver around his ankles and along his back. He doesn’t react, but watches the horse emerge, a stallion, and he walks like he is quite sure no one will stop him from entering the Cove.

    He would correct to assume as much, in fact, no one will stop anyone from coming to the Cove.

    He cannot smell or see the colt’s infamous parents in his face, or in his coat, so there is no way to really why it is that the boy knows his name. He adorns deep scars from the encounter with Gale, but hasn’t a clue that he’s looking down at his son. Would it matter if he did know? Probably not.

    “I am.” His antique voice cracks from his throat and his eyes are steady on the stranger, squinting for a moment at the question. “Yes.” His ears lay back and he turns away without a word. If Malik takes the vague cue, then he would follow and Chem will show him the shallow caves hollowed into the sides of the strong walls stone lining the Cove’s beach. The small cave he slides into is enough room for both and out of the storm.





    @Gale
    Reply
    #4
    Malik’s curious eyes follow the spirals of glowing smoke, watching the way it rises and twists along the other’s sides. He’d not seen that in the vision, and wonders if it is new, or perhaps if this is not Chemdog after all. Raised in a world of mimicry, Malik has learned to expect nearly anything, but the black and white stallion confirms his identity.

    The feathered colt meets Chemdog’s squinting eyes with curiosity despite his discomforting dampness. One is electric blue, the other a brilliant orange, and both are obscured by his dark forelock when he nods gratefully at the other’s willingness to show him to shelter. He knows nothing of this man beyond his name and that he had once lived here. Still lives here, Malik reminds himself as he follows the near-stranger to a shallow cave hidden in the shadows of the cliff.

    The air is no warmer here inside the stone, but at least they are out of the wind and the drizzling rain. Malik shakes himself just before entering the shelter, ridding himself of as much water as he can.

    “I came here for the silver deer,” he tells the black and white stallion, “For a quest.”

    Intruders are expected to explain themselves in Hyaline, and while the same might not be true here in the Cove, Malik takes heed of his mother’s more recent lessons. Besides, he thinks, someone who’s lived here a while could surely point him in the direction of the elusive glowing deer. All Malik knows is the stories; where exactly to find them is a different matter entirely.
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