Beqanna - Forest

is it still grave robbing if you only take bones?

Thu, 19 Mar 2026 03:17:06 +0000

ABRUS

Abrus allowed time to continue to pass by him as he cycled between the now-familiar woods of the Forest and Chamber. He was still trying to learn how things worked here in Beqanna and the environment had been a much easier puzzle to solve, thanks to his affinities, than that of the population. It seemed peaceful enough, though he suspected that meant there was a bloody past.

He doesn't remember if there was a time where he had been good at conversation. He doesn't remember his youth, what he had been as a child, or even his parents.

Sometimes this is troublesome, but Abrus doesn't bother trying to delve into any of that. If he has forgotten something, he reasons, it was for a reason.

So any lessons on how to start a conversation have been lost, encouraging the grullo stallion to get creative.

It's late afternoon in the forest, the shadows under the trees growing cold as the sunlight begins to slip away. He finds what he is seeking by the base of a cluster of pines, the needle-litter sending up wafts of fragrant air as he disturbs it with his hooves. The branching, wooden antlers he usually sports are small today — and they twist and bend to avoid getting tangled with any branches as he moves about. His companion rests on a low, dead and broken branch of one of the pines — their eyes a matching glowing white as they share their vision.

Abrus does not need to see for this but he finds he wants to anyway.

He is not too deep into the forest, and finds that he is hoping someone will come along and wonder what he is up to as he reaches down into the soil with his magic and begins to tug on the bones he finds there, bringing them up to the surface.

who am i to complain, sleaze

Sat, 14 Mar 2026 22:43:49 +0000

i finally got sewed up
Set a time and i showed up

Years have passed.
Decades, perhaps.

And yet Isakov remains, has always remained, quiet in the way he has lurked. A thing made for love, not from it, he has understood that his place is in the shadows. He’s known it in the way he has only hurt the things he himself loved. Sigrid, darling girl, has gone. She had always been more fond of Sleaze, as though she’d understood that there had been something dark about Isakov.

Has he changed all that much? He has not fashioned himself into anything more fanciful than a star-touched bastard in so long he is not certain he’d be able to if he tried. The illusion had come so naturally to him, once.

But it had not all been an illusion, had it? No, he had known what it felt like to love something honestly. It had not all been for show. It couldn’t have. He’d loved desperately and he’d let it destroy him. He’d let it chase him into the shadows.

He emerges now only because that color, that deep purple, it is as familiar to him as his own skin. He catches only a glimpse at first and thinks it must be Sigrid. But it is not Sigrid.

It is Sleaze.

And Isakov, old Isakov, he smiles, relieved. Sleaze, he calls, only to find that no sound has left his mouth. He has only thought it. He does not rush in his approach, only walks purposefully until their strides match and he settles into an amble.

“Sleaze,” he finally says and the shape of the name on his tongue alone is enough to relax muscles that have been tensed for decades.

isakov

I've lost the foreground watching the horizon; any

Sun, 08 Mar 2026 22:14:14 +0000

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies
tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife

He longs for quiet, but not this kind of quiet.
He wants a quiet of the mind, of the soul – not of the world around him. It is not the stink of abandonment, but the gentle pressure of the quiet
(the dark)
inside.
Instead, he has this – a forest that feels bereft of life. Some things stir, sure – the susurrus of birds’ wings, the subtle shifting of leaves under a beetle’s foot. But mostly, it feels so goddamn quiet.

He does not know what is becoming – or has become – of him. He knows he is different, now, that something thrums under his veins. But he is so used to changing, see! His body has never truly been his, not for a long time. His body has too long been distorted at the whim of the dozen strange worlds he has been thrust into.
So how is this any different?
So what if the world seems to be falling apart?
(He never knows if the things he’s witnessed were his doing, or if they were even real at all. Things burst into flame, sometime. The rocks turn into tigers. A cackle screeches out into the darkness, emanating from nothing and everything at once.
But there is never anyone else around to react. And Sleaze does not trust his mind. He does not trust anything.)

He is hopeless in his movement, trudging along a path that has begun to disappear back to the forest. He feels a strange pang of sadness, then, and whether it is for the disappearance of a once-loved trail or for the new growth he crushes beneath his feet, I could not tell you.
(He must not be entirely hopeless, then – for he moves still. He moves still.)

Sleaze

I haven't written in a million years

hate me today, hate me tomorrow

Tue, 30 Dec 2025 19:12:02 +0000

dropping little reels of tape to remind me that i'm alone

playing movies in my head that make a porno feel like home

He creeps through the overgrown trees quietly. Branches and leaves catch in the ratted tendrils of his mane and tail, pulling and tugging as he pushes on. The glow from his skin momentarily lights up the bark of each tree as he passes by. It has been some time since his mother abandoned him along a creek in some strange, seemingly abandoned land. He wasn't sure what he had done wrong in the short time he had spent with her. He fell asleep as a newborn, awoke suddenly older and watched her walk away. Ghoulish. was the only thing he had heard her say.

Unfortunately for him, he drew a short straw in the game of life. A dark god as a father and a narcissistic leech of a mother left him with nothing and no one. Life is not kind to everyone, it is a hard, painful lesson learned young when dealt those cards.

The young creature stopped when he came across a small clearing. He leaned against a tree, scratching his glowing yellow green skin against the rough bark. Slivers of daylight speckled the ground through small openings in the tree cover. He turned his orange eyes towards the sky, wondering exactly what time of the day it was. He lost track in the depths of the forest where no sun shone through. It was quite apparent when night did fall, though, as his skin would rot away to leave patches of death and decay only to knit itself back together like nothing had ever happened when morning returned.

Perhaps that's why his mother didn't want him. A rotten, radioactive looking child with a skeleton painted across his body. Who could blame her?

He hears a rustle and crackling of twigs and flinches. Ears pricked up as he turned his head to watch with glowing orange eyes. Was his mother returning for him?

ghoulish

Image Credit

nightmares are our memories

Sun, 21 Dec 2025 05:36:27 +0000

harrowed

Harrowed had woken to the sound of a scream in a copse of trees that he did not remember stumbling into. By the time his red eyes open there's no one around and an unsettled feeling rises up, coating his body in an uncomfortable coolness that cannot be shaken.

It remains as he stands. His body feels… different. Like he is still inhabiting another shape that isn't his own.

When he tries to shape shift into the canine beast, nothing happens. There isn't even an emptiness, really, and he would have expected there to be one if he were somehow no longer a bodach. That was who he was — who he had always been. It was part of his identity. He was a bodach.

Perhaps he is just too weary? Even that short nap hasn't made up for the hell his body and mind have gone through in… well, he no longer knows how many days it has been or for how long he was trapped inside that other world.

There is enough energy, at least, for his brain to remind him of all his worries about his family. He needed to know if those were just echoes of them used to torment him or if they were trapped somewhere too. So he makes his way to the forest, knowing Torryn can often be found haunting here. It's as familiar to him as the Dale and the comfort of the shadows does a little to soothe that chill clinging to him.

It feels foolish to call out loud when just wandering will do the trick. Either he'll pick up Torryn's scent or his dad will pick up Harrowed's. The white stallion is trailed by a bank of shadows, though this is not entirely out of the ordinary for him, and his expression is sour with exhaustion and anxiety.

Chaos and Whimsy; Squirt pony

Sun, 16 Nov 2025 20:48:22 +0000

The forest is quiet enough that she can hear her own heartbeat. Cold light filters through the bare branches, thin and silver, and Tipsy steps into it like she is stepping into a dream. Frost gathers on the water lilies blooming from her chest. Fox-fire drifts around her in soft green flickers. Her antenna twitch at every shift of the wind. Her neon wings glow faintly in the pale snowlight, and her elongated ears catch every faraway creak of frozen wood.

Something inside her has been stirring for days. A tight, restless feeling, as if her mind is unconsciously pulling her in every which way. It’s strange, and yet it compels her to act, as an unearthly voice rises inside her chest, low and echoing, as if whispered from somewhere deep beneath the earth. Try it. Twist the words. Make a rhyme. Speak and see what follows.

Tipsy stiffens. She looks around, but no one stands near her. The voice is inside her. She knows it. She feels it.

“I do not rhyme,” she says under her breath. ”I do not even know how.” But her attention is drawn upward to a squirrel on a tall pine tree, clinging to the bark, watching her with wide winter eyes.

“Come down,” she calls softly. The squirrel does not move, of course this wouldn’t work. But the strange voice hums again, airy and layered, impossible to place. Not like that. A riddle. A rhyme. Small and simple.

Tipsy feels her heart jump. She does not understand this power. She only knows she is being nudged toward something new. She licks her lips and tries, her mind beginning to weave words together upon her own mental loom. She doesn’t know what she’s doing until the words slip out a hint of uncertainty laced into each syllable, “Cold on the tree, warm by me. Come down and see.”

The rhyme is small. Childish. She winces at how silly it sounds. Nothing happens. “See?” she mutters. “It does not even—”

The squirrel climbs down.

Slow, careful, tail twitching, it inches its way toward her along the pine trunk. Tipsy’s breath catches in shock. “I… did not mean for you to actually…”

She steps back quickly as the squirrel ventures close enough to touch. The fox-fire around her hooves brightens in a startled glow. Inside her chest, the unearthly voice falls quiet, heavy and satisfied.

Tipsy trembles. She does not know what she has awakened in herself. She only knows she did not have this gift before. Not like this.

OOC: Wrote this on my phone so sorry if there are any typos eeek

change is terrifying

Sun, 16 Nov 2025 05:22:13 +0000

The residue of the nightmare she had been sucked into still clings to her. Reptilian scales now line her legs and she can feel the sharp teeth in her mouth. Her tongue is not yet used to them and she tastes her own blood from where they cut into it.

When she swallows, the taste of the blood makes her hungry, so she lets the blood seep out of her mouth instead.

Only it is easier to smell as it drips down her chin and that is worse. Like she's following the trail of some wounded animal.

Her ears constantly twitch with the forest's sounds, loud and wretched in her ears. So loud. Every little thing is magnified. She shakes her head as if that will help lessen anything but there's no use. Everything is Loud. Every sound, every scent, everything she sees.

The blood bothers her so much, hindsight letting her know how stupid it was to let herself drip with it. She has no idea what she has become, only that unlike in the dream this body does feel like her own. It has amalgamated itself into her being.

Risa wanders until she finds a pond and she approaches it to wash the blood off her face.

There's no hesitation upon approaching it — why would there be? She's drank from water thousands of times.

This time, though, as she lowers her head a flash of red catches her attention and she balks when she sees her eyes. Only, they aren't her eyes at all. Not the same deep blue she has had through her lifetimes. They are bright red, just like those of the stallion who had somehow turned her into this. And they are glowing.

The horror and the fear build up again until there's only one thing to do — she screams.

I will probably ghost this thread

Mon, 10 Nov 2025 02:36:11 +0000

There is a place in the forest where tree and shadow cede to the unknown, and maybe that seems like nothing so very special in a place like Beqanna, a place where myth and monsters have been known for centuries. Maybe that is why it seems so forgotten, so ignored – so much the better. There is no one to see when she steps into the weak godfingers of light that reach down between the empty canopy above, curling around the sharp cut of her jaw, cutting themselves on the points of long canines. The light bleeds down her chin, dappling her golden chest as she weaves out of shadow and darkness. Her path suggests she’s come from an impossible place - there is no way to know, not really.

The place that was once her home is fractured and broken, full of winter’s deadly hush. Nothing around her seems to stir, but she pauses, listening anyway. Cold silence presses down upon her back with its leaden weight, filling her ears with a noiseless roar, plucking at her heart and her belly with its whispers of death, of despair, of withering. All the lively green things are black under its touch, are waiting only for the warmth of spring to rot and fall away. And yet, and yet…

Not even winter can stop the squirrels. The sungold mare turns her head to the noisome rattling of a squirrel among the frost-blasted weeds, tail bent forward across its back against the biting air. Her own pale tail flicks lazily against her haunches as the little beast digs through leaf litter and loam for its hidden stores. Her breath rolls from her nostrils in great white clouds. It makes her think of dragons. It makes her bristle, makes her sneer, as she turns her attention up the path to something larger than the rooting squirrels. For a moment, she considers evading it, you can see it in the shift of her haunches, the twitch of her ear, but then-- no.

Why should she be the one who yields?

Beryl

This is the table equivalent of pajamas

in unforgiving night god came; ryatah

Tue, 04 Nov 2025 17:46:03 +0000

tw death/gore/their entire relationship I guess

lord, I fashion dark gods too;

He wears her eyes, still. Dark brown things turned to glass in his skin, a small break on the expanse of dark gray flesh. It’s their own private joke, back to the first time he tasted her – the jarring crash of bone and the giving way of flesh, a most intimate meeting.
He is still thrumming from his playthings; the small group so tenderly ushered through a carnival of horror. He is not sure he will see them again, but it doesn’t matter – they will think of him until they die, his memory carved into mind and skin, their bodies changed by his doings.
It would be a shame to waste this energy, this motivation - and so he finds her.

He senses immediately the foreignness in her, that old panther king’s blood growing something new in her. A child not of his line, a waste of hers. Though not unexpected, his lip still curls, and the brown glass orbs fall from his skin to the ground, a soft thump on the pine needle-carpeted earth.
“Ryatah,” he says softly, and steps forward, the glass cracking under his hoof, “you should know better.”
He doesn’t mention specifics – she will know, or she won’t – but he sighs. He crushes her face softly with his own muzzle, lets himself feel the luscious thrum of her pulse, and then he withdraws again.

He stands apart from her, turns his head back to the woods, and summons the other mare.

She stumbles out, a pale nothing of a girl, a pawn in their game. Blood has dried tacky on her face from where her eyes once were, and one can glimpse a bit of bone, beneath the butchery. She is shaking, held upright by magic and little else. She is dying, and he is merciful in how he hastens that end.
He is merciful, in that he does it by magic, and not teeth.
It’s with the magic that he grips her heart, still beating uselessly – the way a bird will beat its wings against a cage – and yanks it free. The pawn of a mare collapses silently, and the heart, in this strange outside world, continues to beat oddly.
“For you,” he says, and the heart flops toward her feet, its movements like a dying fish, “I give you so much, Ryatah. And for what? What can you give me?”
The heart beats once more, and goes still.

c a r n a g e

Rainy daydreams - any

Tue, 28 Oct 2025 01:23:57 +0000

YOU BELONG AMONG THE WILDFLOWERS
YOU BELONG SOMEWHERE YOU FEEL FREE

The forest had softened under days of steady rain and the smell of wet earth hung thick in the air. Aeife loved it this way. She loved the thick smell of rain and the way the world seemed to come alive when it stopped. She idly flicked raindrops off her wings as she walked, mud sucking at her legs as she went.

She startled as a streak of red darted through the underbrush ahead. She narrowed her eyes as recognition struck. “You again!” She said, her voice lilting and filled with mirth. She could hear the fox’s laughter tangled in the rustling of leaves. Her emerald gaze narrowed at the hollow log that she knew was a favorite lair of the creature.

“Oh come on, the storm’s since passed,” she said, trying to coax her friend from his dry den. A soft snort was the only reply she received. All of the flora and fauna of this forest were her friend. Her family.

Undeterred, she dropped to her knees right there in the mud and ferns, sending a splatter of mud against the edge of the fox’s den. That was enough to get the fox’s attention. Finally the fox appeared, eyes bright with mischief, and with the flick of its bushy tail leapt into the ferns. Without hesitation, Aeife leapt forward in pursuit - sending mud flying and laughter both equine and canine ringing through the trees.

By the time the game had ended, she was soaked to her knees in mud. Her mane was tangled with leaves and bracken. Her wings splattered in moss and earth. The fox circled her once and disappeared back into its den. Aeife could only stand to catch her breath, smiling at the mess she’d made.

A E I F E

all these colors fade for you only; PQ/any

Sun, 26 Oct 2025 22:59:00 +0000

all these colors fade for you only

It is important to face our fears, she tells herself, toeing the edge of the Forest.

Not that she is afraid, per se, only hesitant to learn that which she does not know. Afraid of what she might find within herself, perhaps, lurking in the shadows of her young, bleeding heart. She has them, certainly. Like everyone else, I suppose. She is not alone in that, not special.

With a defiant gulp, she is swallowed into the darkness of the autumnal woods.

Crisp air emanates from within and she draws in deep breathfuls of it to steady herself. There are shadows, yes, but here and there are patches of weak sunlight filtering through. Despite their obstacles, she reminds herself. Despite the odds, they make it through. The smile that finds Golde’s face is winsome when the light passes over her. It is home, that light. Her sanctuary. Her birthright. All she has ever known.

Until now, with the shadows stretching deeper and darker the further in she ventures.

She wagers that life has been too easy. Maybe that is why she has never picked at the scab of her family’s past, never delved into the history that she knows was often a sinking stone. Childhood had passed like a spring shower. Like soft, gentle rain growing blossoms in a riot of color. She had seen the faces of her mother, her father, and her twin. She had been allowed to commit them to memory (sweet, sugary memory) before time cut in as it so often did for others less fortunate. It had been all anyone could hope for, her upbringing.

The years had marched on and she had left them, not with a hard, chiseled heart, but with one that remained open, earnest, gentle. Only to explore the world and share the love that she was given. To freely give it where she could.

So why risk the shadows now?

Why tempt fate?

Her breath catches and her feet still at the questions. Because the parts that make me up are more than my bright-heart. Because I am made of broken pieces, missing pieces. They are all within me. And I need to understand all of me to do any good in this life. Because she saw the occasional desperate edge to her father’s face, noted the watery gleam in her mother’s eyes at times. Like a windstorm waited to tear apart Golde’s field of wildflowers. Like the soft, spring rain would turn into a deluge and drown out their happiness at any point. Like they were waiting for it all to come crashing down.

And maybe it is that apprehension that had taken root in her sweet soul and created cracks.

For as she makes her way ever-further into the dampening gloom, she starts to tremble. Branches look like many-armed monsters reaching to grab her as they wave in the breeze. Hoots and chitters and growls sound through the negative spaces between the trees. She thinks she sees another this far out in the distance, but she finds it is only an elk, and holds her tongue. A shame, she thinks, I could have used the company.

Golde reaches tentatively towards a dark, inner corner inside her, trying to distract herself from the fears that loom all around. Here, that feeling of not belonging exists. That fear that she will never find where she really needs to be. Or worse, that she will choose the wrong place. Golde examines it closely, draws it in to understand it better. I think I am worried that nothing will compare to the security I had growing up, the joy. There was so much of it, she grins a little, remembering. And oh, how the memories almost draw her away from the journey she has put herself on!

But it is a silly fear, come to think of it. Home is where our hearts burn fiercely, not a place, but a feeling. And her heart has always been lit. She doubts anything can extinguish it, in this lifetime or the next.

Her smile grows.

She pushes at another shadow, lets it pounce at her. Here, the fear that she won’t live up to her own expectations crawls. The worry of her own high standards for herself. She reminds herself, as softly as she can, that she can only do her best at the end of every sunset. Maybe she gives it her all and maybe she doesn’t succeed - but she will always try with a warrior’s strength.

Her smile grows.

The trees pack even more tightly deep into the Forest. Roots become snaking, warped hazards that slow her pursuit down with each step. But still she goes. It is so dark now that the sun is like a strange legend she still believes in despite the evidence against it. Golde has never willingly been without its warmth on her back during the day, or at least its light. But she is no longer trembling, she finds. She is no longer afraid of what creeps around her, only what lingers within.

There is another monster in another corner of her heart she must slay. Understand, not slay, she corrects herself. Doubt, the biggest beast of all. It has claws and clamors at her like she is a thing to be feasted on. And Golde knows that it will still sneak up on her, still hunt her, at times. But she will no longer wait for it to catch up. She will instead face it. She will learn its movements and its motivations and be ready for what it tries. She will speak its name like a friend, like it will make her stronger for knowing it. Doubt, she will not destroy, but invite in to learn from it.

Her smile grows.

And now she shines with it, that smile, through the darkness even. Golde sees a slim patch of sunlight ahead, finally. She feels its magnetic pull. She feels her feet stir in answer to its promise of warmth, security, belonging, and ignores it. Instead, the black and silver mare turns back the way she came from. She starts down the path, but before she takes that first step, she dips her head towards the darkness gathered between the trees. To give thanks, to show that she understands more - that she will never forget.

And gold blossoms all across her until she is resplendent with it.

Golde

Photo by Julia Ceasar

tldr: Golde is questing for a color change to: Gold (shocking, I know)

if anyone wants to reply, this can also be an any post of her emerging from the forest

with crosses and frames hanging upside down

Sat, 25 Oct 2025 21:33:47 +0000

He does not often seek out companionship, not even in the form of brief trysts.

Solitude does not carry the weight for him that it might for others; it is not a hollowness that needs to be filled, but is in fact so inconsequential that he does not notice its existence. He does not crave company, and rarely feels lust in the way others could relate to. For him silence and seclusion could stretch across lifetimes before he might notice how much time has passed, and it is even easier to lose track of time in the lull of this land.

But here has been a stirring as of late, a tentative disturbance to the silence as something long-asleep begins to rouse. It draws him out, moth to flame, and it is not long before he sets his sights on someone.

She is made of shadow, with haunting golden eyes, and he may have not noticed her if not for the fact that her darkness left light in its wake.

The girl is not afraid of him, but that is unsurprising. He is not so strange looking; perhaps too thin, with a black coat pulled tight over a gaunt frame, and a veil of fog that snakes between his feet, but there are others in this land far more monstrous than him. She is young, too, and easy to persuade. He can be convincing, when he wants to be, and from the moment he had decided that he would have her she had no way of knowing that he would leave her with no choice.

He recognizes the look in her eye when he is finished — the slow creep of regret, the silent reassurance to herself that in a few days or weeks she will hopefully forget about the eerie man she met in the dark forest, and this will only be a memory.

He has ensured that she will not forget him so easily, though, especially come spring when she gives birth to a child that is undeniably his. He can never be sure what his children will be cursed with, only that they will carry something from him, and this one will be no exception. Perhaps it will be rail-thin like him, with black antlers and black eyes, a nearly mirror image of him to haunt her with.

Disappearing into the heart of the forest, he leaves her behind. She falls from his memory, forgetting her far faster than she could dream of forgetting him.

i n f e r n a l

this is a closed thread of Infernal IC cursing Racine with a wendigo baby, to transfer the trait that she won to the baby (Ceire) instead.

The Bats

Fri, 10 Oct 2025 16:53:39 +0000

Morning is on its way and all little bats should be tucked in safe with their colony - but children do go haywire. Two young bats are making quite the ruckus, arguing with each other as they flutter around a yellow tree within the forest. They're debating which direction to go and as the sun begins to rise they begin to get more and more nervous.

They're pretty sure they'll turn into dust when the sun fully rises, you see. Kids will believe anything.

Will you stand and watch? Or will you try to help?

Happy Spooky Season!
- this drop is open to the first two characters to reply (only one per player)
- if you replied to the last drop, you may only enter again if there's still an open spot/open spots on Thursday Oct 16
- gifts will be randomized but autumn-themed
- if you miss out, don't worry! Keep your eyes open every Friday this month for more chances.

I’m a winged insect, you’re a funeral pyre; anyone.

Tue, 19 Aug 2025 23:32:40 +0000

There is a stillness tonight, it sweeps across the Forest like mist over hallowed ground; slow, deliberate, but ethereal. The animals grow silent with purpose—it is an ancient tactic, one that has worked for them generation after generation. When a predator is in their midst, they simply keep quiet to better detect the beast among them.

Nikolas prowls between the rough, white-barked trees and slides his body low to the ground—practically slithering, his form stretching and elongating—to pass under a tree that has half-fallen but caught itself between the branches of another tree.

He does not dare look up, not even as he passes through a dappled patch of silvery moonlight. Because, he believes, if he never looks at the stars, they will forget him. Forget that he escaped and made his way to Beqanna. Forget that he is meant to be among them and not down in the dirt with the sticks and the bugs.

“Love me,” they demand.

And he simply moves on.

What follows in the black, white-marked stallion’s wake is sound. Glorious sound. A signal that danger has came and went; the crickets chirp slow, the owl ruffles its feathers, and the mice skitter around until they find their holes to hide from the owl.

In another part of the Forest, it grows quiet again.

Twin trouble

Mon, 24 Feb 2025 17:47:07 +0000

The twins were looking around the area, no home and no care.

Do you even know where we're going? the black stallion asked his sister who was several in front of him. She was the stark opposite to him being fully white, compared to him only having white legs.
Turning her head with a smirk she replied Does it really matter where we're going? she asked him back. I thought we were exploring, at least for now. she continues, her blue eyes glinting with that look she often got.

The next thing Iceblast knew his front feet were stuck to the ground but his body was still moving as he went flying head over his heals, the vines that had captured his hooves freeing him at the last moment, before he broke something.

Sitting up he glared at his sister Really? Just wait till i can retaliate he mock threatened before pulling himself up off the floor.
Shaking up he launched him at her in play, attempting to grab her leg.

Jumping out of his way she scowled at him Hey, stop it you know i don't like playing like you boys do. she said, ears pinned back.

Iceblast chuckles you mean you don't like playing when you can't win? he states, knowing the answer.
Rolling her eyes she glares at him same thing. Which only caused him to laugh.

(sorry bout the changing colour text, kept picking the wrong one lol)