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  • Beqanna


    None -- Year 218


    "He watches her, noticing first the way she moves beneath moonlight, and he is reminded of a time before magic ran rampant as it does now. How back then there were some that simply seemed to be magic without actually having it, the kind that could capture your attention and keep it." --Eadoin, written by Colby

    [open quest]  violence for violence is the rule of beasts; ROUND II
    It aches in your belly how like your father the illusion’s last words sounded. It mimicked the exhaustion you grew up hearing in his voice so well that you almost turn back, that childish guilt telling you something is wrong that only you can feel.

    You’re barely listening to the god as he speaks. The Mountain has never interested you; and the shivering fear covering your body is so violent that your ears start to ring. You close your eyes. You see the three cats blinking placidly in front of you. You tear your gaze back open.


    One word is all that you truly comprehend as you stare down at the gray creature’s task. Your eyes are darkly golden as they flit around to your companions, watching as each one of them processes their options. You’re hardly thinking about anything, though. The emptiness in your brain is only filled with the echoing ring in your ears.

    “We were never going to stop you.”

    The wild look in your eyes fades to a dimmed glaze as you take one single step into the deep impression. The feline illusions break through the bright ringing in your mind. They tell you how limited your options are—that truly, for your own good, you should turn back.

    “Fire doesn’t burn damp earth, Brunny,” Draco croons, a sickening whisper in your ear. You can picture him perfectly: the loveliest image of poise and grace, lion’s tail tucked politely over his front paws. You look up, swearing you catch a glimmer of his red eyes over the edge of the hole. In the freezing depths of your fear, you forgot about the fire in your belly. It angrily, hungrily, painfully roars to life.

    Your madness is so ready to feast on you once again.

    But you look down, you darling and fierce creature. You tear your gaze from your imagined brother and stare down at the dark soil beneath your hooves. You’ve only one option: your hooves that were never meant for digging, your physique that was never meant for labor, and your mind so keen to slip away from reality.

    Your only option is you, stripped and bare.

    One scrape. You blink away tears. Two scrapes. You sniffle. Three scrapes. Your loved ones whisper.

    “We were never going to stop you.”

    You hear it again as you dig. What did your father mean by that? That the real versions of them believe in you, or that the fakes ones know you will never come out of this task whole? Your thoughts eddy and swirl into a vicious whirlpool. You do not realize the pace of your digging matches the racing of your mind until your front legs collapse and your breath heaves.

    The dirt has not moved.

    You know how truly impossible this order is. Wherever you dig, the earth simply falls back into place. You hear your lover’s laugh above, the once pleasant melody now twisted and cruel.

    You do not look up, you beast of fire and burden. You let tears pool in your eyes and press your head to the ground.

    You will go mad, you think—just as the earth opens up and swallows you into black jaws. You do not scream or beg or bargain. You hold your breath. You wait.

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