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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


    anyone;
    #11
    Her.
    Them.
    They are all prey.

    Each time he blinks, each time his heart beats, he loses more of his grip on reality and memories. His world is ripples at first, but soon there are tidal waves of change knocking against his consciousness. Grass and dirt churn underfoot as he clumsily steps forward, then to the side like a newborn learning to walk. His bulking mass sways, his muscles ripple. Another roar quakes the meadow, startling the birds both flying overhead and nestled on the tree branches. The porcelain enamel of his teeth – not yet stained with use – reflects the sunlight as his mouth remains slightly agape even after silence has consumed him once more. The pattern remains etched across his scales as it were horse, a beautiful contrast of smoky black and white.

    Black and white.
    Much like him now.

    The gray area is receding.

    And his eyes – they still hold their magnificent color of pewter and gold – blink with a primal thoughtfulness as he cranes his head to look at her again. She reels backwards, shifting parts of her body easily and readily enough all while her gaze remains funneled on him.

    Prey.

    The word rings again through his head and elevates his pulse in preparation, in hunger. His muscles coil as he inches closer to her, his stare intense and desperate until a thought not of his own takes precedence.

    No.

    It stops him immediately, one paw elevated briefly until he settles it quietly back on the agitated soil. The word tickles him uncomfortably like an unwanted fly. Then silence. He looks left, then right, searching for cause but finds nothing. Looking at Karaugh again, he takes another step closer as a foreboding hiss slips past his snarl. His appetite screams for her, but not as loudly as the question that suddenly drifts into the forefront of his mind.

    Can you fly, Castile?

    There is no one nearby, only the prey. Only her. His vision sweeps across the meadow confusedly, but always, he finds her again, staring at him like a spectacle. Panting breaths escape him followed by a low growl. It’s her; it must be her. She doesn’t flee like the deer or the birds. Instead, she readily watches him as though he were her own prize, her dear prodigy. Her voice leashes his thoughts, suppressing his own primitive needs by overpowering him with her words. Uncertainly, Castile takes a step back, but his mismatched gaze never leaves her. He does, however, answer with a quiet nod of his head and a ruffle of his leathery wings.
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    Messages In This Thread
    anyone; - by Castile - 10-26-2017, 01:00 PM
    RE: anyone; - by Karaugh - 10-26-2017, 08:17 PM
    RE: anyone; - by Castile - 11-03-2017, 03:48 PM
    RE: anyone; - by Karaugh - 11-04-2017, 10:05 PM
    RE: anyone; - by Castile - 11-08-2017, 07:11 PM
    RE: anyone; - by Karaugh - 11-08-2017, 09:31 PM
    RE: anyone; - by Castile - 11-21-2017, 10:43 AM
    RE: anyone; - by Karaugh - 12-02-2017, 10:10 AM
    RE: anyone; - by Castile - 12-07-2017, 09:12 PM
    RE: anyone; - by Karaugh - 12-07-2017, 10:25 PM
    RE: anyone; - by Castile - 12-08-2017, 08:20 PM
    RE: anyone; - by Karaugh - 12-09-2017, 03:13 PM



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