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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


    Mother tells them of the two gods - any
    #1
    In her dreams she hears that shrill anthem cutting through the night like a spear through fat and hide—

    She wakes up with it echoing in her ears, passing down in forlorn verses to the tip of her curious tail, ‘AHHHHHHOoooo—’. It quaves at its end, rising to such disquiet that it could be mistaken for the discordant chatter of a banshee fête.

    It is something she cannot mimic, really, with her horse’s mouth – those flat, grinding teeth and the wild, fearful brain.

    (It is like losing a language.)

    In her dreams, she is chasing!
    She is pursuing. She is scenting things in the air – fur and meat; sweat and musk – that, in the waking world, never give her pause. Taboo things.

    Horse. Prey. Thing of flight that grazes under wide, open skies.


    (It is like feeling a phantom in her own skin. A splinter with whom she shares a blood supply.)

    She watches mother dig a small hole under a thick, pink-flowered bush. She lays in it, flattening herself into the cool, damp soil.
    The heat is oppressive, but she loves her waterlocked country. She loves the dark folded rock against the violent brightness of hibiscus clusters; she loves the pale, sandy beaches that separate the island from the mainland, and the swim across that channel.

    When they are getting ready for bed, mother tells them of the two gods:
    Of the Mother, whose made of everything and more – of earth and seeds and branches and hibiscus flowers – and she guides nature with her hands. Nature, and the nature of things.
    Of the Trickster. Canid spirit, alive on a breeze that says, ‘AHHHHHHOoooo—’. Made of clay and paint and fur, whose laughter breaths rivers into gullies and mischievousness into little girls like them.


    Mothers eyes are closed, but her ears are always awake. “Be safe,” she says, when Mauve turns to leave her in her shaded place. 
    “Always,” she replies, in a tone that says it cannot promise anything. Mother knows her grasp is tenuous and growing weaker by the second. Her girl has always been willful. They were always impish and feral-hearted, Gardenia and Mauve. Now they are parting from her for the second time. First from her body. Now in the independent spirit that crawls across their skin and tickles the adventurous bones in their limbs.

    She runs. She runs past purple-skinned ferns and large, fire-wrought boulders. She examines jewel-toned beetles carrying twigs to unknown locations, deep to the heart of a hollow, rotty log. 
    She follows these things – whimsy that take iron-footholds in her imagination and curiosity – away from the roiling heart of the island to the long, slim band of sand and volcanic rock that means the end is nigh. She stops, her hooves sinking a bit as she settles into the earth, sweat lathering her neck like the foam that spits up from the ocean's tongue as it licks out to the shore and pulls a meal of sand back into its mouth. 


    @[magnus]? @[Canaan]? whoever.
    [Image: a0vZ3zy.png]
    #2


    Hawke is too young, too full of the spirit of youthful, wild things, to stay long by her mother’s side.

    She does not dislike nor distrust her mother, but she does not feel the eternal pull to remain rooted there, to sink her roots into the soil and anchor by her side like a weed. Instead, she is a pretty, feral thing with her nose always lifted into the wind, doing her best to discern the scents that carry along it buried amongst the sulfur and the ocean salt that twines around her. Often, her wanderings carry her far and deep into the land, her coltish legs traversing the volcanic soil until she lifts her skull and cannot place herself at all.

    The first time she had found herself in such a predicament, she had sunk to the ground in thought. While she had considered crying, she had remained silent, her stubborn streak taking hold so that she frowned so hard she feared her mouth would fall off. Finally, she had lifted herself dry-eyed from the ground and wandered deeper into the night. When her father had found her, she had been near the foot of the volcano at dusk; she had been so enamored with the blackened rock, she had not even heard him coming.

    Today, she knows the terrain better—enough that she can find herself home—but that does not stop herself from wishing herself lost. With nose buried in the grass, she wanders away from the place of sleep, following the trails of animals long since gone. That is until she hears the thundering of hooves. Her skull whips upward, hazel eyes wide and nostrils flaring as she hunts for the source of the sound.

    Before she knows what she is doing, she is throwing her head back and taking chase after the streak of white-speckled filly, her fluffy tail streaking behind her, her gait all knees and tangled limbs. When they finally come to a stop along the banks of the sand and the water, her thin chest heaves and her breath comes in short bursts, but her eyes are fever-bright with joy. “What were you running from?” she questions in between gasps, unable to hide the excitement pounding in her veins. “Or was it to?”

    hawke

    I’m a princess cut from marble

    { smoother than a storm }





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