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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


    in hell I'll be in good company; any
    #1

    violence

     
    She grows bored, and dangerous.
    She walks quick, as if she has some purpose, some place to be. Beside her walks a thing of her own creation – a menagerie of bones, assembled from all things. It has the body of a bear, the skull of a horse (though wolf’s teeth are intermitted fixed in said skull), and a pair of stag’s antlers atop its head. It’s beautiful and horrifying, and she loves it, her sweet companion.
    Some might find it silly, for the thing occupies much of her powers, keeping it animated and held-together. Instead, she had let it waste in a pile as she controlled that boy (the possession was so much harder than the bones, it never came as naturally, as easy). But now the boy is gone, and she is bored, so all her focus turns to her bone-thing. With this focus, she makes it magnificent, and even now as they walk she sends tendrils of her power out, searching for more and unique bones.
     
    She is not quiet, walking in this walk, her own steps loud and sure, the bones rattling along besides her. But she has no reason for quiet, for caution – she finds herself above most things, and few try to engage with her. A few do  - or, she scents their weakness and forces the engagement upon them – but mostly, she is left to herself. To her bones.
     
     

    I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips

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    #2
    He was alone.

    For so long, he had been isolated, hidden in the dark caverns and corners of the world. The silence had consumed him. Slowly he disappeared and rotted away with it. The darkness protected him, letting him thrive, and keeping him from becoming nothing but a useless carcass like so many that have come to pass.

    He has a purpose though, a message from the very fiery depths of hell itself.

    He was carved and manipulated by the very essence of evil. Fed by the lies of the devil himself to whisper into the innocent ears. A wickedness planted within the very black, hollowed heart of his. He is a servant to his master, bent to serve to his will alone, and driven to bring anarchy and devastation.

    A purpose had already been driven into him since birth. It had grown like wildfire in him, driven by his own internal instinct. He had never been innocent, already was he tainted by sin itself since birth.

    Sinner is what they have called him.

    He came as an omen, a force that would not be reckon with.

    ----

    It calls to him nowthe beast within.

    The hunger that is selfish and manipulative. He answers to it without question. The adrenaline is more than he can handle. It pushes and flows through his veins, shaping and shifting his form, answering to the craving so eagerly and ready.

    He is a slave.

    A salve to masters that harbor darkness and destruction.

    He is chained to the core. Hurdling and fleeing to escape is not a thought that crosses his mind.

    He simply answers the call, lifting from a long slumber in the depths of the deepest cavern.

    ----

    The instinct is natural when he shifted and shapes into a wild beast. He is black as the night, fur and scales, with red and yellow glowing eyes. A hound on the loose—crying out for blood, craving flesh and bone.

    He follows the scent, mouth drooling wildly. The hound moves over the frosted grass. Paws carrying him easily over the winter worn ground. His pace is quick and precise. Carefully, he moves through the wide-open land.

    Cling, clong, clank.

    The rattling of bones against one another quickly draw his attention. Eager red and golden eyes searching. His mouth drips with saliva at the edges as he finds the source of the sound.

    The girl and her bones.

    He is curious, and so he makes his way to her. There is nothing to fear of this girl and her bone-thing. He only finds something familiarity in what she is, what she possesses and does.

    Is she the one that had called? He thinks to himself. It only made sense the way he had stumbled upon her and the bone-thing she kept at her side, manipulating and giving life to it.

    As he comes closer, he does not care to make his presence known to her. She, as he guesses, had already noticed someone coming her way. Curiosity would bring strangers or friends her way.

    “Who are you,” he growls as he draws to a stop near her. It is more of a statement than a question.
    character info: here | character reference: here
    Profile | Detailed Bio | Character Reference
    Most likely always in his hellhound form
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    #3

    violence


    She is no stranger to monsters.
    Her own mother is not quite a monster – in form, at least – though she used her night-bound magic to give herself odd and unusual shapes, to form herself into something more, a thing that hurts the eye even as it draws it in, all sharp angles and strangeness. It’s the kind of transformation Violence begged for, as a child, the kind her mother refused.
    Her father, though – there is a monster. A creature with its alien clicking language, its barbed tongue and scaled body, who hunted and knew so little of their language. She’d envied him, too, and the sister who came after – the one who inherited father’s more monstrous qualities.
    Violence is far too plain. Black, and beautiful enough, but so idly equine in her form. The bones are all she has, and she makes creatures – not monsters, though, alas – from them, makes do with what she has.

    There is a cry, and the sound of running. Violence thinks of hunts – she’d been in her sister’s body and made it hunt, took great pleasure in the body’s instincts as prey came into view. She wonders what is being hunted. She goes still, and listens – for the scream of prey, or the victory cry of the predator. But there is nothing.
    No, not nothing --
    A flicker at the corner of her vision, a growling voice, and oh--
    She beholds a hideous and brilliant thing, a monster of a different sort, slick and strange and god, she wants it, she wants it. Her bone-creature buckles at the knees as her distraction wanes from it, and the clattering causes her to turn back for a moment, to set it right. And then, she looks at the creature again, a sweet smile on her dark and hungry lips.
    “My name is Violence,” she says, then flips her head at her bone-creature, who ducks its own head in a mechanical bow, “and this is my companion.”
    She takes a step closer. She is unafraid of monsters – in fact, she covets them.
    “And who,” she says, voice practically a coo, “are you?”

    I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips

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    #4
    He has only known the hunger.

    A hunger that that carves ever little piece of sustenance it requires. It is selfish and arduous for anything that it desires for. He gives in to the demands, easily, but also because it is all that he knows and understands.

    The hunger within him feeds upon the weak, the sickly, and those that may cross the darkness. He is at the bend and will, values and moral codes do not apply to him and never will.

    He finds silence in the hunger as he stands before her, watching carefully with red and yellow glowing eyes. There is somewhat satisfaction he feels coming from the hunger, almost as if he can relax around this strange—yet familiar individual before him.

    A clash and a clatter draw his attention to the bone-creature. He is consumed by the bone-creature, curious as to what exactly she is as well. His lips turn into a soft, curious smile at her then as she turns back after setting her bones back together.

    The girl and her bones.

    “Violence,” he tastes the name after she introduces herself. “Violence and her bones,” he clicks his tongue softly, saliva filling his mouth as his taste the name again. It is filled with malice and chaos. He likes it.

    She takes a step forward. He already can sense the braveness in her. The way she freely moved about in the meadow with her bones told him a story of one that had strength and control. Perhaps he is so easily drawn to distinct creatures, a heart of a servant always looking to serve a master.

    He does not draw away as she comes forward, closer, not afraid of him snapping out and tearing her apart. No, she takes a risk—god knows he probably is already wrapped around her, the way she controls her bone so easily he probably is already under her spell.

    “Some say I am the devil, some say I am angel,” he says as his soft smirk grows fuller now across his muzzle, “but he named me Sinner.” A fitting name for many of the tasks he was meant to complete. A message, an omen, a savior. He was all of it.
    character info: here | character reference: here
    Profile | Detailed Bio | Character Reference
    Most likely always in his hellhound form
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    #5

    violence


    She is often alone but never lonely, she keeps her bone-thing by her side, and it is company aplenty. She is not a particularly convivial woman, and few approach her. She approaches some, of course – there has been a delicious courtship with a broken man. Not the romantic kind (she has no desire for that, nor does she understand it, her own heart has stayed granite in her chest), but it had been a sweet intimacy as he gave her control of his body, as she piloted him into any number of sins. The boy had left, eventually, gone from her clutches, and though she’d been bored of him, by then, she still misses him sometimes. He’d been easy, and a companion in his own way, if an unwitting one.
    But such thoughts fall away as she continues to regard the thing before her. It is strange and exquisite thing, this slavering monster, and she isn’t sure if she wants it or wants to be it.

    Violence and her bones, the thing says, and she laughs. He’s coy in his response, but gives a fitting name - Sinner - and a shiver runs through her.
    “Sinner,” she repeats, “a fitting name, no doubt.”
    She wonders what sins he’s committed. What’s he’s seen, or done.
    (She realizes she’d stopped thinking of the monster as it and started thinking of it as he. Curious.)
    “And who is this he, who named you?”

    I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips

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