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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


    [private]  Wishbone, dear
    #1



    The story repeats, is always the same: this place, that. A holy jackal with a feather says Go or Stay. In this case, Go.

    Behind the wreck of a familiar body, alive with the slow thickness of bitter ruin, slid a flat companion that had kept its blackness, that should have soaked the earth in a streak of pitchblende and left a long trail of shadow behind the terrible, inexhaustible source of that motive power. The body moved with a strange, measured evenness, as if through deep water. The thick ropes of athletic muscle taut only with the long struggle to pull the shadow to which the body was harnessed.

    Still, a conspiracy of grace and youthful power survived in the elegant, weathered form, as fickle and enduring as epic poetry: runic scars, the ceremony of time passed, the ritual erosion of winters wearing smooth the curve of a cliff-like, expressive lip the color of liquid gold, from which long whiskers splintered in a delicate profusion and caught a slant of cold light. The feet lifted and fell with the clean, rhythmic precision of a gazelle’s. The intricate work of the body as a whole was a flawless function despite the slow madness that had long since begun to poison the marrow. Even here; in the face of exile – he walked without pause or stumble.

    It is the plangent note of her scent that has brought him here – that scent of courage and untamed wilderness he remembers so well; it is the memory of warm skin against cold lips, of the whisper-soft syllables of a name he has kept repeating in his sleep. Khaedrik wonders if she remembers him – if her eyes stray for the darkness and shadows at night the way his eyes seek the fair faces of wildflowers in spring. He wonders if she has stayed the same; mud-footed and intrepid, smart-mouthed and wise beyond her years or if time has marred her the way it has him.

    Khaedrik does not fear the prying eyes of the Nerinian people – he does not fear their hoarse and whispered voices, for while he has no business here – he carries himself with the dauntless ease of a predator. For what has he – master of shadow and ruin to fear from anyone? No, Khaedrik, flagrant trespasser fears no-one but his own volatile mind. And that is what makes him a coward.
    ”Wishbone” he whispers – and her name is smoke and shadow on his lips. He closes his bitter-black eyes against the sound – wondering if she will come.


    @[Wishbone]


    Messages In This Thread
    Wishbone, dear - by Khaedrik - 05-22-2018, 02:12 PM
    RE: Wishbone, dear - by Wishbone - 05-25-2018, 06:48 PM
    RE: Wishbone, dear - by Khaedrik - 05-28-2018, 02:12 PM
    RE: Wishbone, dear - by Wishbone - 06-04-2018, 11:48 PM
    RE: Wishbone, dear - by Khaedrik - 06-20-2018, 08:52 AM
    RE: Wishbone, dear - by Wishbone - 06-23-2018, 11:38 PM
    RE: Wishbone, dear - by Khaedrik - 06-28-2018, 07:56 AM
    RE: Wishbone, dear - by Wishbone - 07-08-2018, 09:41 PM
    RE: Wishbone, dear - by Khaedrik - 07-26-2018, 10:06 AM
    RE: Wishbone, dear - by Wishbone - 07-27-2018, 12:26 PM



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