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  • Beqanna

    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


    the day is gone, the world spins madly on [march babies]
    #11

    go to hell for heaven's sake

    All of them stick out like a sore thumb—unique and brightly colored.

    He doesn’t sulk and whimper away despite their uniquely array of shiny bright colors like some other foals might. Perhaps some would be jealous the way they look, and come together already making friends.

    However, he sees something entirely different here. Something that involves opportunity, but is completely distorted by earthly childish thinking. He is simply narrow-minded, but still intellectual of worlds beyond this that anyone of them would truly know about. His story is already written to, purposed and fashioned by fires of hell.

    The dark bay boy pushes forward, pass the bushes he lurked in while they all looked at the brightly colored butterfly with astonishment. “Maybe I should just eat it!” He suggests with a mischief grin growing wide across his dark lips. Eating a butterfly truly didn’t wrap around his mind—the taste might be horrible and rather mushy. Then again, Sinner only fed upon flesh and bones while other foals normally drank their mother’s milk or ate the greenery that grows beneath him.

    “It’s ugly anyway,” he comments again. His nutmeg eyes peer at the instinct with colorful wings. “Useless and ugly,” he adds with a soft chuckle.

    S
    inner
    Profile | Detailed Bio | Character Reference
    Most likely always in his hellhound form
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    #12
    He likes the warmth in Knight's smile; it makes him feel less like an outsider. The mulberry colt asks if he wants to help catch the butterfly, and Ivar nods. He's not really sure that he wants to, but it seems like the others do, and he wants to be included. He's seen butterflies from a distance before, but they seem so delicate and fragile. If catching it will hurt it, he decides, he'll change his mind. For now though, he's content to be pulled along the stream of popular opinion.

    The painted colt barely notices Ana leaving - he is caught up in what the blue colt is saying. Rapture seems as reluctant as Ivar had silently been to hurt the butterfly, and Ivar is glad. The tobiano colt boss agreeably and circles around, putting himself between the butterfly and the woods in the hopes that it will flutter back towards them.

    Ivar is all but cross-eyed when the butterfly hovers in front of his face, but he remains utterly still. It wavers, hesitating, and then brushes his pale nose with one bright wing before if flits away again. With his field of vision expanded, he notices the roan filly that has joined their company and smiles brightly at her.

    He is about to warn her that the butterfly is heading her way when he's distracted by the arrival of yet another foal. This one lacks the jewel-bright colors of most of their company, but it's not his coloring that makes him stand out. Ivar doesn't like the way he interrupts their game, but it's not the interruption that gives him the bit of courage to step between the butterfly (which has just landed on a dandelion) and the bay colt.

    "You won't hurt it." Ivar tells him, the firmness in his voice matched by the expression in his formerly soft eyes. "It didn't do anything to you."

    He teeters on saying something else, on trusting the part of himself that loves the water, but he recenters, pauses, and smiles.

    "You can help us chase it though. You can play...but you can't hurt it." Maybe the new colt just doesn't like butterflies, Ivar thinks. "Or we could pick a new game to play, since the butterfly is gone." He adds the last as he watches the small insect being carried away in a summer breeze, soaring high over their heads into the blue sky.
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    #13
    She hatched.
    Who hatches from an egg?
    She did.

    There had been more than she thought necessary at her hatching, and they had stared at her with greedy hungering eyes as if they expected something more fantastical than her. That was the first time she laid eyes on disappointment so plainly etched upon someone’s face as it had been on the older colt’s sneering disdainful veneer. But then, the mare had bid her to come and shunted her forth rather unceremoniously and brooked no balking from the hatchling. Most of the eggshell had been licked clean off her by the mare and she had been shoved back towards an inviting and sagging teat that gave her delicious milk to guzzle long and deep of.

    She took a long nap afterwards, at the mare’s feet. Napped and dreamt, and thought nothing more of her strange beginning - who hatches? She heard the murmurs but made little sense of them because to her, she’d been an egg a lot longer than she’d been a horse. But the mare grew crabby and sore, her own foal still sitting thick and heavy in her girth but not dropping further into place and eventually the mare shooed the little hatchling off. “Go explore,” she barked, furious at only herself and her lingering pregnant state and gave nothing more to the hatchling then a warning to be back before dark and a word that she took to be her name, Spavin.

    Dispatched to places of ill repute and ill regard, she traipses through the cracks and crevices of the eyesore that is the land around her. She thinks adventure shall slay the tedium but no one wants to adventure with her, not even those creepy mean colts that stared at her like she had two heads. Paused, in a most ungracious manner of splayed legs and heaving sides and tiny meaningless snorts, she realizes that no boundaries where given her - no orders to not stray outside the Pangean wastes. Tickled by this notion, she gives a little kick and darts off on a merry path of her own making and perhaps, steered by a tinier unseen hand of fairy-fate, she finds the place that all the foals have discovered.

    Luckily for her, they’ve also all gathered conveniently around in one big group.
    Normally, a bevy of bright small beings like themselves might have given her pause and cause to balk at joining them but Spavin is puffed up and high on her own proud decision to go exploring further than she ought to have. It is that sense of freedom and disobedience that renders her giddy and her golden eyes bright like two shiny new coins in her painfully plain face. She is a little hesitant at first, as she nears them because they are many and distracting in their bright colors and their loud talk - something about harm, butterflies, and something else... Oh, games! Games are fun, she thinks, or they sound fun at least because she’s only had herself to entertain well, herself. Unless they count chase-the-wind and touch-your-tail as games… she gives a quick shake of her head to break herself from her train of thought, and then the little bay hatchling walks over to them, hanging back on the periphery of their circle.
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    #14

    I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness,
    nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory

    His mother loves him.
    That is the one certainty he has so far, is that Nairne very much adores Ryan. She is all smiles and warmth and concern for her son, her only son, but he catches the way she looks when she is not focused on Ryan. There is a listlessness in her gaze, in the way she moves, and she stares at things that aren’t there.

    The gold-and-purple colt doesn’t want to leave her alone, but she insists he must at least try to make friends his own age, and sends him off to the Playground with an insistent, if gentle, shove and leaves, promising to be back before night falls. So here he stands, alone, just inside the border, and her watches the way the world moves around him, uncertain. But he remembers what she has taught him – that his other talents might make people uncomfortable – so he is in horse form, and he is his natural color. Of course, that’s not particularly helpful when your natural color is gold-tinged-mulberry but what’s a boy to do?

    But the group is just as colorful. Purples and blues and browns and blacks and whites. Ryan isn’t sure about any of this – the Playground, other children, or games – but he steps into the group anyway after listening a minute, giving a small smile and a nod. “I’m Ryan,” he introduces himself, looking at each of them. “What about hide-and-seek?” It’s one of the other games he knows, as it’s one of the only ones he and his mother can play just the two of them.

    Ryan

    ( I love only that which they defend. )

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    #15

    what makes you think I'm enjoying being led to the flood?

    He had been watching them, within his little nook in the playground. Terrified to join, to intrude on their fun. That he would ruin everything if even one of them took a look at him. He supposed they would be horrified by his rotting flesh, the visible bone, and array of visible muscle tissue. His wretched oddity, the family curse was what his momma called it. And in truth he thought his momma, was embarrassed of him, so he himself was embarrassed for his own self. 

    So here he sits, the lavender maned zombie boy, his gazed fixed upon all of them. Terror lingering in the back of his mind, of possible outcomes if he were to join them. Would they run in fear? Would they cast him out? These thoughts washed over him, engulfing the inky boy in anxiety as he slowly neared them.  

    His hesitance causing every bone within his body to quiver with anticipation, as he showed himself to the little gang. Rotting flesh, and all. This was him. His hazel iris's manage to meet every seemingly friendly face, before he expels with soft timid vocals, "I'm Puce.". He glances about in a rather fearful manner, "Mind if I join you guys?"

    we've got another thing coming undone


    I wanted to write this for so long, so here it is timid little Puce!
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