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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


    i feel a bad moon rising - anyone
    #1

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take

    The rumors were too widespread, too plentiful.
     
    Yet Ivar had doubted until the moment he saw Taiga for himself.  
     
    The seaside land stretches before him, a rolling slope littered with downed and sodden trees and the very beginnings of regrowth. The downward slope of the land is difficult to see through the fog, but Ivar knows that the far north he travels, the closer the ocean will be.
     
    The kelpie does go north, picking his way through the land that smells of salt and sea, of rot and regrowth. Any semblance of a path has been soaked away by the sea, and Ivar does not expect to find anyone else out this far into the fog. There is not enough greenery here to sustain life; not yet. Beqanna had kept Taiga beneath the sea for a year, yet she has relinquished her hold just as promised. It contradicts what Ivar has been taught – this benevolence of the fairies – but he does not question it.
     
    Overhead, the sun is beginning to sink into the west. The fog, thick even in the afternoon, seems to draw tighter around him with each step.
     
    Ivar takes in a deep breath, inhaling the familiar smell along with the new.
     
    He releases the breath roughly, quickly – a sigh.


    kelpie mimicry | dragon scales | tactile hypnosis
    minimal grullo tobiano king of loess

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    #2

    Nyxa

    In the early Spring morning Nyxa rises for a swim.

    On the island, it’s become ritualistic. Ever since she slipped between the whitecaps and startled herself to near death, (had she been trying to die? Had she done it on purpose?) she dreams of the slow, wild curve of sharks and the flash of glinting scales beneath the quiet.

    Some days, she swears it calls to her.

    Today, though, she decided herself to meander down the pale beach and wade out into the churning waters. It was still cold despite the season; Nyxa can feel the lock of her muscles at initial contact but she dives under all the same. Down here, where the dark crushes in on all sides, she can feel unique rather than just another wolf in the pack.

    Her wings solidify and spread like a graven cape at her sides, testing the current even as she sits just below the roll of waves. Her mane, colored like the seaweed clinging to sandy shores, whips around her with the tempo and she smiles to herself at the weightlessness of it. No need for air, no need for speech: just silent reverence and new depths to explore.

    Her hind feet dig into the rippling shoreline and with a solid shove, she glides into deeper waters.

    Beat after beat her wings slice unhindered through their sister element until she’s gained the semblance of speed. She tests herself; tries to cut quick like the flashing sharks, but she’s not quite as graceful. She sinks to the floor of the ocean and turns to exploring, turning over coral and rock with a busy nose until a bit of sea glass catches her attention. Victorious, the mare grips it between spotted lips and pushes off again to build her strength.

    She must swim. She knows it from years of practising her shifts that she must swim if she ever wants to become one with this gift. So Nyxa continues through the tumbling waters until blue becomes murky grey and the temperature drops to near freezing. Not long after, the rocky bottom of land begins to jut from black depths and it’s there that she strikes out for - the odd feeling of never inhaling is still uncomfortable to her.

    She drags tired feet across land, up through the breakers capped in fog until at last, she’s spent herself and there is nothing left to give. Collapsing into the sand, eager for a late evening sunning and unaware of where she’s at, Nyxa spits the globule of blue-green glass from her mouth and turns to inspecting it. “I wonder where it comes from?” the girl muses aloud, easing onto her side as the first unhindered rays begin to peek through gray clouds.

    Perhaps it would come to her in a dream; a nap felt close at hand anyways.

    Wayward daughter of Canaan and Circinae

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    #3

    I V A R
    i'll use you as a makeshift gauge of how much to give and how much to take

    At first, he thinks the girl lying on her side is Rey. The bright pale coat and striking green mane seems like something the little chameleon would like. But as Ivar draws closer, he sees that the curiously colored points are not simply leopard patterned, but a different texture than hair entirely. Not Rey after all, the kelpie realizes, a different child. They look much the same to the scaled stallion, and they tend to blur into a single uninteresting individual; it’s surely not his fault that he was slow to catch the difference.

    The brown eyed creature has come near to the prone figure, having not realized that it was not Rey until he was too close.

    Now he backs up, but the crescent shape of his hooves on the sand make it clear he was all but looming over her a moment ago.

    “What’re you doing out here alone?” he asks, scanning the nearby area for the adult responsible for this lost child. It does not occur to him that she is probably old enough to wander without a guardian. The world is black and white for Ivar, and since the green-haired girl is not an adult she must therefore be a child, and children need someone to be responsible for them.

    “How did you get here?” The way the water clings to her sides even though she has climbed out of the sea catches Ivar’s eye. What is that? some sort of magic, and with the water?


    king of loess
    minimal smoky grullo tobiano | equus kelpus

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    #4

    Nyxa

    Ironic, almost; that Ivar would assume she was Rey.

    Neither of the girls know it (or are aware that the other even exists) but they happen to actually be related. Rey is Nyxa’s aunt, for lack of a better explanation, so it’s not uncanny that the pied stallion would sense some sort of resemblance or approach her with thoughts of familiarity.

    But Nyxa doesn’t know that, so she blinks purple eyes with the shock of his proximity after rousing from her relaxed state. He’s brutish - this odd character, asking her clipped questions in a manner she’s not quite ready to engage but something she’s noticed plenty of grown horses do. Uptight, she thinks. With the shift of her slender legs she unfurls, noticing only for the brevity of a second how her skin is beginning to mottle with darker spots around her cornets. “Am I trespassing?” She asks, because this is the only assumption she can form.

    “I swam here, believe it or not.” She replies, rising stiffly from her rest to give her sandy coat a hard shake. The pooled water about her sides, along her spine and usually in the shape of wings, sprays fine droplets with the action before disappearing altogether. This new knowledge that she could simply make her water wings disappear had come to her in a moment of frustration, but these days she was working on honing the skill. Occasionally her wings simply did what they wished - sometimes they would form, and sometimes, (much like now) they would lose their solid shape and fall to the earth as water should.

    She preferred to be without them, on land. “I suppose somewhere between Ischia and here I took a wrong turn. I thought I was in the Riverlands.” She queries, turning her own head in a slow arc so that she might gather her bearings. “Not the Riverlands, damn.” She cements when her vision fills in the spotty backdrop; there’s nothing but red-barked, towering trees for miles. “Is this Nerine?” She tries, turning her attention back to the odd elder.

    He made her feel … on edge. Despite her growing affinity for the water, the blood of the wolf still runs hot through her veins and, like a tiger meeting a lion, she can sense the predatory confidence in his mannerisms. The thrill of a shiver electrifies her nerves.

    Wayward daughter of Canaan and Circinae



    @[Ivar]
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