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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]  always going to be some kind of escape
    #1
    The years bleed together for this mare, just as they once had when she lived another life. The yearly cycle, and even the day-night cycle, mattered so little when she was a hunter - she had been built to hunt in shadows but even in daylight she was lethal. Whether she was being kept hungry by a master to fuel her rage, or with the freedom to fill her own belly or satisfy her own boredom.

    Now these natural cycles fail to matter to her because there is nothing in her day or her season to break the monotony. Even the changing of the landscape fails to register with her - she adapts, she finds land, and the rest falls away. What does it matter whether she hides within one forest or another, whether the lights float alongside her through the meadow or when she swims far out into the ocean-that-was-land to see if it will pull her under.

    When she washes up back on shore, alive and aching, she stays there until something compels her to move.

    Thoughts have become easier, days spent eavesdropping on the other inhabitants has tightened her tenuous grasp on language (though she does not know it is rude to listen in where she had not been invited).

    Someone told her the lights that orbit her are stars, not the souls of those she murdered (ate), but what do they know?

    They are faint now, beneath the grey sky of late autumn as this black mare follows the bank of the river. She is thinking about how she has eaten fish before, out of a strange sense of curiosity, but she did not remember liking the taste even remotely. Were those fish among the souls that floated around her, were any of the deer or lions or wolves? Sometimes she tries to count the lights, to see just how heavy she is supposed to feel, but they move far too much to ever get an accurate count.

    She is certain they move faster when she is trying to count them, too.

    Behind her trails a rickety thing, sticks and leaves and pieces of things pulled together. She tries not to look at it, not even think about it. She will do anything but acknowledge the makeshift creature that almost, with a curving piece of bark, looks like the monster she used to be.
    nostromo
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    #2
    I don't mind all the chaos, it keeps me alive

    There is mud to her knees, but that does not bother her in the slightest. It is a rare day to find her clean and free of debris. She cannot seem to help herself. Not when the most interesting things linger in the places most guaranteed to leave her sticky, smelly, or dirty. Though she had quickly learned that perhaps sticky is best avoided. Honey might be sweet, but bees most certainly are not.

    Her hoof makes a squelching sound as she pulls it from the mud. Autumn had left the riverbanks more exposed than normal, revealing much that had been hidden under water when rain kept it full. Iska was, of course, intrigued by this discovery. The mud-caked appendage makes a splat against the soupy surface as she digs it into the muck. Her vigorous pawing quickly forms a channel, though murky water seeps in to fill it almost as quickly as she uncovers it.

    Iska jerks back with a yelp when an eel slithers out, sinuous body shooting across the swampy muck. Her wide-eyed gaze follows its progress until it disappears into the river. Relieving her tension with a snort, she turns back to resume digging only to be halted by the sound footsteps and… shuffling.

    Shadow-wreathed head jerking up, her eyes skate over the mare until they catch on the creature stumbling behind her. With another snort, she takes a few squelching steps backwards until the shadows of the river reach up to swallow her.

    A heartbeat later, she steps almost gingerly from a tree behind the thing. Head tilted, ears pricked, and muscles tensed to disappear once more if it became necessary. She stares at it for a long moment before her gaze skitters to the woman leading it. There is cautious curiosity resonating in her voice when she finally asks, “What is it?”

    iska



    @Nostromo
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    #3
    When there is relief at hearing another voice, the black mare realizes that she is beginning to understand what loneliness feels like. It is such a strange feeling, to long for the company of those she had once tried to devour. But she feels it every time she is eavesdropping on conversations, every time she witnesses pairs or groups or families communicating or simply enjoying each other’s presence.

    And she feels it now, when the mud-covered mare speaks. It gives her a break from her own thoughts, from her own hauntings. She hadn’t noticed her there (a bitterness about that, from someone who had once always been able to clock where nearby warm flesh existed).

    ’What is it?’ The stranger asks and this mare searches her mind for an accurate description. She does not look at it, does not need to or want to. She can picture it clearly enough in her mind (except there it is not a jumbled mess of muddy sticks and leaves and bark, it has a gleaming black exoskeleton and sharp silver teeth. It has bottomless, emotionless black eyes.

    It wishes her harm, because she is just prey now.)

    When she stops, so does it - though tremors run through it continuously and cause all its various parts to shake.

    “A ghost.” She focuses on the dark halo of this stranger, fascinated by it, and happily latching on to anything that she can use as an anchor for her attention. “It changes shape now and then but… but it is always there.”

    And then, she practices her art of conversation - gesturing to the muddy leg even though her eyes remain on the halo, where it is safe. “Did you fall?”

    nostromo
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    #4
    I don't mind all the chaos, it keeps me alive

    Safety isn’t a concept she is fully aware of. Oh, she is wary enough, having learned the hard way why she must be. She might stand on skittish limbs, prepared to leap into the safety of her shadows. But never once had it occurred to her to seek safety by never investigating that which might prove dangerous.

    Though the ramshackle creature of stick and stone might appear fragile enough, Iska has learned better than to believe it might be. Yet she does not consider leaving well enough alone. The thought doesn’t even cross her mind.

    When it jerks to a halt with a shivering rattle, Iska flinches, though her avid gaze remains fixed on the creature. The woman’s answer draws a curious flick of her dark eyes, but they are just as quickly back on the ghost. It’s an unsatisfactory answer, she thinks. An answer that makes a not insignificant part of her wish to touch it, if for no other reason than to determine the truth of it.

    In fact, she has begun to inch towards it when the woman’s question freezes her cautious momentum. Her eyes shift back to the star-cloaked mare as the corners of her lips dip in a confused frown. She can’t quite place what the woman is talking about until a faint gesture at her muddied legs clarifies the question.

    Immediately her features brighten. “No,” she replies easily, a quick grin flashing across her expressive face. “I was digging in the mud.”

    With that cleared up, her gaze returns to the creature. Ghost. Whatever it is. It doesn’t occur to her that her brief answer might be just as unsatisfactory as the one she had received about this creature. She is already too distracted by it, her feet inching forward, nose stretching towards it as she exhales a tension-laced breath.

    She stills again, closer now than she was before. This time when she speaks, her eyes never leave the object of her curiosity. “If it’s a ghost, will I go through it if I touch it?”

    iska



    @Nostromo
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