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    Assailant -- Year 226


    "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]  open hand or closed fist would be fine
    i could be your favorite monster.

    He learned very quickly what being near him did to others. They all began to wither just as his mother had - weeping, ravenous for the warmth of summer and joy. So he also learned to stay away and keep to the edges of the world where he couldn’t hurt anyone at all. Desire had extended her beautiful hand and he had been terrified by the simple gesture. What if he managed to cripple even beauty like hers?

    And so he left Pangea, tail tucked and head low. And he’s gotten so good at playing the role of the stray dog. He licks at scraps of agony or fury and he is content to sleep alone in the snow. It comes naturally when it is all he’s ever granted himself. Of course, Nazghul notices the way his ribs protrude more than others his age and the notches of his spine can be counted easier than maybe they should. But his golden eyes shine like fire in the sun, don’t they? His claws and fangs are as sharp as he needs. What more does this body need than this?

    He assures himself he is wealthy in this way. Others have dull teeth and blunt hooves!
    (Others have a partner or a family to hold in the night. Others have lapses in their solitude.)

    The yearling boy shakes the thought from his head. No, there is no room for that self-pitying here. He snorts and picks up an easy trot on dirty paws. His thin, ink-black body slips between the trees and leaves hardly a print in the snow as he wanders. Surely a hunt will free him of these awful ideas.


    i have not written in months so this is VERY BAD but i've been listening to hozier nonstop and it makes me wanna write.
    She’d closed her eyes, just for a moment, wondering what it might be like to be the water that slipped along her kelpie fins.

    A moment later she opens them again, and finds herself lying at the edge of the river, her pale horsehide soaked through and muddy.

    “Oops.” she says, very softly. The young girl has not yet mastered shifting into shapes without minds, and in becoming water had lost the trip that carried her from the still waters of her mountain home, down between Taiga and the Mountain, and deposited her here at the edge of the River delta.

    This is not the first time she’s done this, and as she pulls herself up onto the bank and shakes the water from her hair, the girl called Myrna sighs loudly. It’s such a long walk back home, and she so desperately wishes she had wings strong enough to carry her in flight. But the dragon like limbs, pale like her hair, with thick supple leather the same deep blue as her eyes, cannot keep her in the air for long.

    Instead, she makes her way through the trees on round equine hooves, choosing her natural shape for the long trek back north. She is about halfway through the Forest, keeping always near the water to guide her way north toward home, when she sees something moving through the trees.

    Holding her breath,  her pale ears flicking between strands of thick white mane, and she searches for a scent. The wind is against her, and she feels her heart begin to pick up speed. She should become something small, she knows, something safe. Instead she finally takes in a long breath, breathing it out even more slowly to calm her nerves.

    With a toss of her opalescent horns, the girl continues her trek forward as though she’d not heard anything at all. She’s old enough to look like someone not to mess with, she decides. Though her looks might draw inquisitive eyes, her pointed horns and sharper scowl serves well to keep her unbothered.


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