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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


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    [open]  Any;
    #1

    this time I’m torn, please wake me if I lose that face
    search in these eyes: there’s still fire in the darkness

    She was cold, so cold.

    Although healed, the dried blood was still itchy on her cheek where her wound had been, and on her knees and shoulder. All the bruises were gone, and yet there remained a deep ache and weariness she just couldn't seem to shake. She wasn't even aware enough to be sure if anyone else had lagged behind or if they'd all gone home. She wanted to go home too.

    But later. She was too damn tired. There was no more snow and ice and freezing wind, and yet it seemed to be soaked into her. It lingered in her hair in little bursts of crystal, glittering in flakes that clung to her lashes. Even a little snow capped the slope of her hip as she lay curled in on herself and shivering in some place dark - a cave carved into the side of the mountain, perhaps. She wasn't sure and couldn't muster up enough energy to care.

    It was just so cold, all the way to her bones and back out until it overflowed to her skin and hair.

    And alone. She might be alone.

    Her breath fogged with a soft sigh and disturbed the dust as she shifted subtly, her cheek pressed to the cool earth and her brown-on-brown figure was nearly blending into the terrain and darkness. She would find her way home after a while. Sometime. But for now, she just wanted to rest. She just wanted this lingering chill to shiver itself right out of her as she trembled and curled tighter in on herself.

    They probably hadn't even noticed she was gone anyway.

    Wallace
    Reply
    #2

    bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
    if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

    He likes coming back here. Likes the flow of power beneath the mountain, like streaks of gold in rock formations. He can feel it buzzing, the air nearly electric all around him, and he closes his eyes on a deep breath, drinking it in—his skin nearly going numb with the primal pleasure of it. The last time he had been here, he had been called by his sister’s greedy fingers dipping into his own power; he had stood with her to break open the cage of the ice wielder, setting the feral wolf free from his own prison.

    Today though—today he was here for simply himself.

    Or, he was.

    She exists on the outside of his consciousness, barely grazing his mind, but she is loud enough that he tilts his head in thought. There is something about her—has always been something about her—that draws his thoughts to rest upon the plateau of the memory with her. It had been such a brief encounter. Such a flash of time but it had left an impression, a rare flow of emotion flooding through him, carving canyons.

    He wasn’t used to feeling emotion and she felt all of it.

    And he had, in return, felt it too.

    Were he different, he may have craved it, may have sought out other ways to hunt it down, but instead, he merely took the memory and tucked it away—pulling it out and contemplating it when all was quiet around him. For a long time, he assumed that was all it was, but his dreams lately had come back to her.

    And he isn’t sure what to make of that at all.

    For a second, he considers leaving—letting the distance between them lie—but the gravity of her, of her sorrow sings through the arrow and he finds himself trudging up the mountain, relying on his considerable physical strength instead of the magic that curls like a viper beneath his flesh.

    He walks slowly, giving her a chance to hear him coming, walking into the darkness of her cave as if he belongs there. “Wallace,” her voice shows no fear for her condition, no irrational concern as his emerald eyes study her, taking in the new changes. He slips into the current of her thoughts, of her memories, picking through the last few days and weeks and retreating without leaving a trace.

    He remains silent for a few seconds longer, standing over her, handsome face impassive.

    “You look cold,” he deadpans, one corner of his mouth quirking upward.

    woolf

    I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste



    he insisted :|
    Reply
    #3

    this time I’m torn, please wake me if I lose that face
    search in these eyes: there’s still fire in the darkness

    She could hear the steps, so deliberately placed with no intention of obscuring them as they drew casually nearer. Her breath drew in nearly as slowly, deep and cold, and on a soft hum she released it. The steps entered her temporary refuge, as if he belonged there. Her exhaustion wouldn't allow her to lift her head and look, but even having seen him just once, she'd know that voice anywhere.

    "Wallace."

    Her heart was not too tired to race for him, it would seem, surprised that they have crossed paths once a second time. She had been so certain she'd never see him again. Except in her dreams where Sabrael has lived.

    "You look cold." Well, he was observant, wasn't he? As if on cue, another bout of shivering overcame her, powdery snow displaced from her shoulder and hip. She clamped her teeth together tightly to keep from chattering and sniffed. Why did he have to be so attractive? What the hell was it about him that captured her this way?

    "Make.. yourself. Useful," she stammered in a whisper, convinced she was only allowing him to because she was damn cold and he was really damn hot.

    I'm cold, she didn't give the effort to say. It was obvious enough with her body curled so tightly, the evidence of a distant winter clinging to her skin and her hair. She didn't realize its origin: ice magic working its way into her body. Hers was a body not meant for magic, and more than just freezing cold it was beginning to hurt.

    Icy claws pinched her spine sharply and she spasmed, her back arching with a weak cry. It held her trapped that way, her muscles locked mercilessly into place. Her eyes were slammed shut and she tasted blood in her mouth as her teeth bit into her bottom lip. Why the hell did it have to hurt so bad? She was supposed to be only cold, the Icicle Isle lingering in her bones. Or only sick. Not in this foreign pain that clutched her so aggressively.

    Her breath fogged in a sharp exhale as it finally released her, sagging against the damp earth.

    "Woolf," she breathed. Because he had been here just a minute ago. Maybe he was here to tell her she was dying. Gathering up her strength, her eyes pushed heavily open to search for him. They were another part of her that had changed. Once solid brown, they now were laced with an icy white outside ring, the centers still dark and earthy and familiar. Perhaps it was temporary, another side effect of the magic forcing its way into her.

    They slid closed again. They burned too much.
    It all hurt so much, but she wasn't going to cry. She wouldn't.

    Wallace
    Reply
    #4

    bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
    if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

    If he is concerned for the pain she experiences, the way that it rips through her like claws through paper, it doesn’t show on his impassive face. His mouth remains still and quiet, emerald eyes hard beneath the muss of his mulberry forelock. Her memories are easy enough for him to pick through, easy enough for him to discern, and he watches her trek through the different lands, through the frozen tundra, back up the mountain without comment. If he feels an unfamiliar bite of jealousy at the sight of her and her stallion companion, he says nothing and doesn’t comment further on it, instead tilting his head toward her.

    This was more than just cold from a storm.

    This was more than just a fire could fix.

    Still, he laughs slightly under his breath, obliging her request with a huff. “You’re feeling demanding,” he comments dryly before stepping forward and then lowering himself next to her. His body is massive, a body built for war and built to sustain winters such as this. His bulk curls next to her and he splits open his shoulder almost lazily, letting the blood drip down the harsh angle of his shoulder to hit the ground between them. The air around them rises several degrees in temperature and his breath blows out hot as he directs it to her, letting it ripple across her ice-bitten flesh, wondering at what changes within her.

    “I can’t counteract it completely,” he says, almost apologetic, arching his neck and letting his breath warm her neck where he reaches over her. The truth is that he doesn’t know what would happen if he was to battle the cold within her aggressively. Would she melt? Would he inadvertently attack what was now twined around her very core? He frowns, mouth pinched, as his mouth drops slightly, lingering on her shoulder. Remembering himself, he pulls back again slightly, leaving at least a little space between them.

    “I will do what I can though,” he says quietly. “Do you trust me?”

    woolf

    I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste

    Reply
    #5

    this time I’m torn, please wake me if I lose that face
    search in these eyes: there’s still fire in the darkness

    He lowered his massive body next to hers and she felt instantly a little warmer. And safer. The added warmth bathed her just as she caught the scent of blood, and she sighed softly in gratitude. He'd left space between them, and she was grateful for that too. Or would've been had she not been so cold. As it was, she shifted closer and leaned into him greedily, her teeth chattering again as she pinched her eyes shut.

    How was it that she felt so comfortable with him after only seeing him once before? Since dreams don't count.

    She blushed but kept her head tucked down beside his shoulder in exhaustion. He could hear her thoughts, she knew, and she was probably the worst at controlling them. Or not projecting them quite so loudly. His breath of more heat distracted her and settled her. Her body relaxed against him again and she sank into a numb, feeling her skin prickling as if it was thawing out under his care. Why was it so damn cold?

    "I can't counteract it completely." Counteract the winter? That should be something simple for a magician, shouldn't it? She would've frowned but she was too weary, enjoying the feel of his breath against her neck as he spoke. Typically, she would have been keeping a deliberate distance between them, between her and anyone. Exhaustion and desperation took the blame for now.

    She went still as his mouth lingered down to her shoulder, her pulse kicking up erratically. That was probably more intimate, right? Maybe. No, probably not. God, she sucked at this. She would've known so certainly at one time, yet now her doubt and broken self-confidence kept her second-guessing everything. It was all in her head, she promised herself. She was just seeing things where there was nothing to see. Why in the hell would Woolf have any interest in her? She was so plain, and he was so very not.

    "I will do what I can though. Do you trust me?"

    She swallowed and fought her heart rate back down as best she could, nodded silently. It was strange to perhaps, but she did. For whatever reason. Her brows tightened in consideration. Why would she trust him? He was powerful like Kirby, could do whatever he wanted with her. She slowly grew more tense, replacing that very short distance he'd had between them when he'd first laid down with her.

    This was deja vu though. She'd thought that before in a dream. He hadn't liked it then, and she was sure he wasn't going to like it now either. Her brown eyes glanced up at him in apology, then away. Just because he'd promised in a dream that he'd never make her do anything she didn't want to didn't mean it was the same in their reality. She could very well be trapped here and his prisoner, for all she knew.

    No, wait. She trusted him. She did.

    She tried to move the conversation forward rather than dig herself deeper into more things she'd need to apologize for. "I miss my family," she said quietly after clearing her throat a little. She wouldn't say that they probably missed her too. They might if they even realized she was gone, but her absence was probably as invisible to them as she was. Except for her girls, possibly.

    "Do you know how long I've been gone? I don't think... I'm not really sure. It hadn't felt like long." But it hadn't felt like long when she'd gone with Reilly and Badden either, and they came back years later not looking a day older.

    She threw another apologetic look at him, hadn't meant to be so self-absorbed. "Sorry," she murmured. "How have you been, Woolf? It's been a while." Longer than it felt like. Dreams didn't count.

    Wallace
    Reply
    #6

    bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
    if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

    She moves closer and it causes the strangest of feelings to erupt in his chest, to remind him of a dream that felt like reality where her body pressed against his and something flared to life between them. But it was just that. Just a dream. Still, he curls around her possessively, feels something dangerous sink into his bones. Her fear of him triggers something, an instant displeasure that causes a growl low in his throat, a low sound that ripples through him, sending soft shockwaves into the dirt. He presses his eyes closed, does his best to maintain control, to get a handle on the fury that digs deep into his nerves.

    When he finally opens his eyes, his expression is softer.

    “I would never force you to do anything,” he says quietly, and he wonders at how he feels like he has said the words before—how his mouth wraps around them like they are an echo. He shakes his head though and just sighs, uncomfortable and unsure of how to pick through the alien emotions that litter through him like shattered pieces of glass. Instead, he just gives himself over to instinct and he drops his head lower, letting it rest on her, ignoring the way it kickstarts his heart, ignoring the reverberations throughout him.

    He grows slightly as he slices open his shoulder, as the blood pours more freely. He is glad that she is closer now, glad to lean slightly against her, mouth still resting. Something tightens in him and then ripples outward, like an explosion of light and warmth. He grits his teeth against the effort, the magic of her own rising up in her, twisting around his as he pushes it into her veins. He finds the parts of her that are the most frozen, the most bitterly cold and he breathes heat into it. Not enough to harm her, to counteract what is now intrinsically part of her, but enough to soothe—to soften the blows of it.

    Near them, a fire bursts into life and then floats into the air, an orb of heat that hangs above them.

    A sigh as he drops his head, exhausted. He has pulled deep from his own well of magic lately and done little to restore it—done little to care for it. Now, warm and tired, he pulls her closer into his broad chest, draping his head and rubbing his cheek softly against her. “Your children always come first,” he murmurs sleepily, eyes closing as the heat of the fire sinks into his bones. “I remember. I remember.”

    He ignores the question about him.

    Ignores everything but how it feels right to have her here.

    And wasn’t that an interesting problem to have?

    woolf

    I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste

    Reply
    #7

    this time I’m torn, please wake me if I lose that face
    search in these eyes: there’s still fire in the darkness

    She found, somewhat surprisingly, that she liked when he curled around her so possessively. Or perhaps it was not so surprising considering that for so long now she had wanted to belong to someone. Not just anyone. For years, now. If she was lucky, or smart, she might be finally letting that go.

    She had never been lucky.
    And considering how it all began, she wasn't particularly smart either.

    She was stubborn though and she was trying.

    Her fear pulled a rumbling growl from his throat, and she touched her lips softly beside his jaw in apology. It was easier to feel comfortable doing that when he was wrapped around her so securely, pressing in on her and making her feel safe and cared for. A trick of the mind, maybe. His eyes opened and he looked softer, startling her heart again as he promised the very same as he had in her dream.

    No, of course he wouldn't force her to do anything. She should've known better. Even if she didn't really know him all that well, or hardly at all, she could at least see he wasn't the type to force a girl to do anything.

    She exhaled carefully as he rest his head on her, twisting deeper into his embrace to touch the edge of her muzzle on him as soothing as she could manage. He was at it again though, taking care of her, his shoulder spilling more blood as a brighter warmth flooded her and found each vein inside her twisted with a bitter chill, entwined with it and eased some of the sharpness.

    He seemed pretty stubborn too.

    A grateful sigh sank into his skin, glowing softly from a floating fire hanging over them for more warmth. What on earth had she done to earn his concern? She could question it later.

    His head sagged and his body relaxed more, surely from exhausting himself just to warm her. She tended to him in whatever way she could manage, not that she'd ever really been all that motherly or affectionate. Her lips flipped his dark forelock off his face, brushed against his forehead. He commented on her missing her family, murmuring sleepily in that deep voice that he remembered. Her children always come first.

    She almost hadn't noticed it at first as she continued to thank him with cautious, terrifying touches. It was a response to her dream rather than a conversation they'd ever had. When she did, she frowned and pulled back, studying his handsome face as he rested. He must have seen it through her when she'd remembered it. Still odd that he would say he remembered it though. Minor thing, perhaps.

    "I remember too," she whispered back with a glinting little smirk, flakes of snow melting into the tips of her brown hair. She remembered very clearly how good it felt to have him kiss her so hungrily, to have his rough hands on her as if he desired her. Maybe one day she'd really have that, only here in this body, in this world. Even if it didn't end up being from him, though the thought sank her heart and dimmed her eyes.

    If not him, then who?
    Reilly. Tiphon.

    Had either of them noticed she was gone?

    "I should go," she murmured regretfully. Maybe she'd wake up and all this was just another dream from a pathetic lonely heart. She didn't enjoy feeling a reluctance to leave him. It made her feel edgy and vulnerable. Realizing she cared at least a little about him made her feel the same way. She was utterly hopeless. It was best not to get attached, especially seeing that they apparently last years for her regardless of reciprocation. Hopeless.

    Should she leave him to rest though or lay with him and wait for him to wake?

    She sighed to herself and settled in against him again, gingerly laying her head on him. He went through all this trouble to warm her, she should absolutely stay to enjoy it. Maybe her recent traveling companions were near and would find them, share in the warmth. Leliana and Illum. Or maybe it would be just the two of them, and that was more than fine with her too even if it did make her completely nervous and heart-racey.

    Wallace
    Reply
    #8

    bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
    if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

    In this moment, time sluggish and air thick, dreams and reality meld together in his head. It becomes impossible to pick them apart, impossible to pull apart the threads to discern. The fire warms them from above and he feels his consciousness slipping in and out, groaning slightly into her touch as he feels her press touches into his flesh, the ice and the heat of them doing nothing to ease his dreamlike state.

    She is here and they are curled beneath the flame.

    She is there and they are tangled together, mouths on one another.

    She is here and he feels the heat of her curled into his side.

    She is there and her legs are wrapped around him, his lips on her throat.

    He frowns, mouth wrinkling with thought as he shifts. When she begins to murmur that she needs to go, he groans again, pulling her back against him. “No,” he growls under his breath, although its a half-hearted attempt at best. “Don’t leave. Not yet.” His emerald eyes remain closed as his mouth touches her, tasting the sweetness of her flesh, the touch causing his face to relax once more as he slips back.

    “Not when I’ve just found you again,” he murmurs, his lips curving just slightly into a rare smile, something warm. “You promised me a date,” he reminds her, half asleep, although this doesn’t feel exactly like the kind of date he thinks he had been imagining. Hadn’t he told her a location?

    None of this made sense.

    The only thing that he could discern was that she was finally here again and he didn’t want to let her go—didn’t want to lose this feeling of her against him. Not when it felt so right. “Did you forget?” he asks under his breath, pressing a kiss into her shoulder and then letting his lips trail up the curve of her neck before his head drops low again against her, just breathing her in. “That’s not kind, Wallace.”

    woolf

    I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste

    Reply
    #9

    this time I’m torn, please wake me if I lose that face
    search in these eyes: there’s still fire in the darkness

    She was glad she would never have to admit how the sounds he made caused her heart to skip and race and panic. He seemed only semi-conscious, consumed in his exhaustion. She would scold him when he woke, perhaps, for wearing himself so thin. What would he do if she weren't here to watch over him, as useless as she may be?

    Or maybe she would pretend it never happened.

    He groaned and protested her leaving, pulling her in against him and sending wild heat scorching through her nerves along with the pleasure of being wanted, wanting her near him. That was so new, so wonderful. She never wanted to let it go. The rest of his speech was lost in her skin, his lips soft on her and feeling way too good. It didn't help at all to see how it softened his face to have his mouth against her this way.

    "Not when I've just found you again," he added with a sneaky, sexy smile. "You promised me a date."

    She grinned suddenly, her smile bright and icy-rimmed brown eyes shining. "You have been stealing memories, Woolf," she accused him. He must have been digging into her mind to find such a specific detail, and although she blushed for it, she oddly didn't feel bothered by it just then. Not especially when he stole her breath away, made her gasp softly as he left a kiss on her shoulder, along her neck. He was so damn beautiful and she hated it.

    "Did you forget? That's not kind, Wallace."

    She took a breath and swallowed, breathed, gathered control of her damn pulse as best she could. His head drooped against her again and she was too quickly getting accustomed to feeling him so near, to touching him and brushing his hair away from his handsome brow.

    "Technically," she corrected him with a clever little smiling bite to his neck, "You promised me a date." The smirk in her lips was smug, playful despite that he was hardly even conscious. Perhaps she wouldn't have been so at ease if he were lucid, but he was almost vulnerable this way and it made it easier.

    She blushed though, glanced away, her smile fading. "I hadn't meant to dream of you again. I wish I could sleep and never dream." Dreams were stupid, left her hurting or hopeful - which was worse. She dreamed of Sabrael too, and Reilly. Kerberos. Tiphon. Unfair fantasies that would never be true. Nothing as real and alive as her last dream of Woolf had been, as he'd so wickedly been stealing from her mind, the rat.

    "Shut up and rest now," she huffed at him in a soft breath, turning back to him again and tucking his dark hair precisely where it looked best. Fine, which was basically anywhere at all. Still. Away from his vivid eyes at least. "You're an impossible man," she swore at him, pushing a subtle sharpness in her voice in a pathetic attempt not to feel anything too deeply. 

    Impossible. Just like any future for her.

    Wallace
    Reply
    #10

    bitterness is thick like blood and cold as a wind sea breeze
    if you must drink of me, take of me what you please

    She is a haze, a fog—and this moment feels more dreamlike than the dream ever did. He feels the brightness of the fire on the back of his eyelids, something warm and rippling, and the pressure of her against him, and it only serves to pull him further into the undertow, into something delicious and soft and unlike anything he has ever experienced in his life. He was not a stallion particularly prone to soft, kind moments. He has never done anything to earn them. Has never sought them out. Has never enjoyed them.

    But he enjoys this.

    Perhaps more than he should.

    She accused him of stealing memories and it causes his lips to curve, a rare and hidden humor warming his features as he rubs his cheek against her. “Those are my memories,” he explains, voice husky and thick in his throat. “My dreams. Not yours.” One eye opens so he can look up at her, clearing for just a second. “Did you have it too?” It should be enough to waken him, to sharpen the edges of his consciousness, but it’s not, and he just murmurs sleepily in the back of his throat. “Strange that.”

    But it doesn’t feel strange. Not really. In a lot of ways, it feels completely expected, like he knew all along that she had been there next to him. Not his version of her. Her. Her consciousness. Forming the dream right alongside him. It didn’t make sense. Shouldn’t have been possible. But that’s how it feels, and he doesn’t question that she had indeed had the same dream. Existed in that same reality as him.

    “I did promise you that, didn’t I?” he whispers into her, feeling the soft brushes of her mane against his nose, her lips across his broad forehead. “I still plan on it.” His lips curve softly but pull into a frown that creases his face, pulling his lips down. “You didn’t want to dream of me?” He feels the other men circling her consciousness and it causes his gut to twist, even in this half-awake state. “That’s too bad.”

    A heavy sigh.

    “I wanted to dream of you. You’re probably,” he yawns, dragging the syllables out, “probably the first woman I’ve ever wanted to dream of. Isn’t that funny?” The skin beneath his neck begins to pulse with light, glowing beneath his weight, as he pushes his own memories into her, the same feelings he had shown her that night in the bar. The desire. The intrigue. The frustration. The hunger. The need.

    The jealousy that courses through him now.

    He pulls it back into him though, doesn’t let it simmer for too long.

    Just grows quiet, contemplative, walking the razor edge of consciousness beneath her touch.

    woolf

    I am loathed to say it's the devil's taste

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