• Logout
  • 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


    [mature]  you just shoot to thrill // deimos
    #1
    As Sylva becomes overrun with the do-gooders of Beqanna (those who feel love, those who wish for peace, those who seek comfort), he takes his leave. At first he travels to the more social corners of their world, keen on finding out if there are anymore chaos-followers like himself. However, the Meadow and its associating planes of wanderers hold no information about dangerous leaders and so the trickster seeks the quieter, cobwebby crevices of Beqanna.

    He will form chaos out of their peace eventually (he always does) but for now he is content to explore.

    Long, sauntering legs bring him to Taiga. There is a thick carpet of fallen pine needles underfoot and the monstrous trunks stretch so high the trickster must crane his neck back. The roiling gray of fog moves through the redwood forest (it reminds him of the Valley, and a fleeting thought of comfort dwells in his chest) and cloaks him well from those who might also be weaving through the undergrowth.

    He likes it here.

    An unlucky badger crosses paths with the trickster (snuffing along among the fog and pine needle, most likely looking for a day’s worth of a meal). His tricks immediately sprout from where they’ve been hiding (for too long, as the box creaks when it’s opened) and his metaphorical fingers wisp their way into the badger’s mind. For a moment, all is quite.

    Suddenly, the badger is screaming. It echoes through the silent forest, startling a few nearby deer (the sound is harsh and petrifying, a noise made purely out of an attempt to release the intense agony that grips the creature) and the trickster’s mouth slowly creeps into a mischievous smile. The badger is writhing, although there is nothing to hurt nor touch it. His bony fingers tighten around the animal, only further increasing the agonized screech that rattles out of its gaping mouth.

    With a slight jerk of his head, the trickster silences the badger (there is the release of his tricks from its mind, the torment ending as suddenly as it began). Before the woodland creature can race away, one foot is placed firmly on its tail. There is real pain now, but the sound that comes from the badger is less agonized. The trickster leans down, his teeth nibbling along the badger’s neck in a show of dominance (of control over life and death and over chaos), delighting in the way the creature lets out small squeals of terror.

    His nose trails away from the badger’s neck only to flip it over (the tail crunches in the process, bones breaking from the tension — there is another pained screech) to reveal the creature’s soft underbelly. The trickster knows his teeth are dull, cursed to a life of ripping at blades of grass instead of flesh and blood vessels. So he uses his other foreleg to slice down the middle of the badger’s belly, delighting the way the blood pools and then squirts from the opening.

    His nose dives into the warmth of the creature (as its life wanes away slowly, but then all at once) to chew on the innards and delight in the bath of red that follows. He will regret gnawing on the liver and the heart, but his tricks will lessen the pain of the meat sitting in his herbivorous belly. For now, he enjoys himself.
    LOKII


    @[Deimos]
    Reply
    #2

    He has not been back here since creation of his wall - which is now in shambles. The Taiga forest has reclaimed the land as its own and it is now full and thriving and green, even in this time of the year. But it is enclosed - secluded. A place where a body can go to disappear if they so wished. Where, for all intents and purposes, everyone was equal - because everyone wants to run from something, even if they never admit it to themselves.

    Deimos had nothing to hide, except himself from the rest of the world. He had recently had word of Thana and had gone to see her - and then had seen two new rulers hot on his tails. Not one particularly upset to the reign of the weak white wraith fade into nothingness, he had faded back into shadow, content with a nameless mare or two, and several prominent mares through the breeding season. His loins were thick and full - he wanted more, but he needed to return to the quiet respite of the forest.

    And then he heard the scream.

    Deimos' ears flitted and tilted back towards the direction of what sounded like a badger... and he lifted his wings and faded into nothingness. Nary a beat occurs and he appears again. What he sees both pleases him and makes him angry

    Lokii.

    And yet, the wanna-be magician's little tricks was causing the absolute torture of a badger, - as thought - until Lokii had practically ripped it n two, disembowling it and taking his fill. The smell of blood reached his nostrils and Deimos shutters. "Have some decorum, will you?"

    Deimos leans against a nearby tree, much like the first time they met. "The least you could do, is share."

    DEIMOS
    cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
    HTML by Call
    Reply
    #3
    There used to be a time when the trickster actually minded what others thought of him (as he stood before the pink queen and wished to be her assassin). Even in his first year the colt had a passion for chaos (to cause children to weep in the night, to force mothers to draw their young closer, to be the face that caused pain and terror to sweep through Beqanna) and he desired for all to know and feel that passion.

    As he’s grown older, he’s matured. The trickster does not covet the opinions of others, but rather spends his time doing what he enjoys.

    On this day, it happens to be disemboweling a badger. The sound of a voice causes the trickster to twist, red dripping from his mouth. His lean shoulders roll into a shrug. “I’ve never given a rat’s ass for manners.” His words are slippery, sliding out from between his teeth amid gore and still-warm blood (and it is true, he has never been one to trumpet for a ruler perched on the edge of the kingdom’s border or ask the mare if she wanted his length before putting it in or checking to make sure it was okay to play tricks before they were already performed).

    His bruised eyes take in the magician with a smirk on the cusp of his lips. He steps away from his prey in response to the other’s comment. He is wordless for a moment (the magician is familiar, but they have never exchanged names) as he conjures up his sandstorms to swirl between his heels like purring kittens. And then, “I’ve seen you around before but I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”
    LOKII


    @[Deimos]
    Reply
    #4

    When the trickster steps away from his prize, Deimos partakes - taking what was left of the viscera and sinew. The heart was already gone - Lokii had eaten it himself, but the tender bits, filled with blood and warmth, stung Deimos' throat as he slid them down into his stomach, allowing the sensation of blood to stain his lips red. His look to the other man was not one of appreciation, or respect. Instead, he quirks an eyebrow to him, as if he has any reason at all to ask for the magician's name. And yet, between chews of messy intestine and liver, Deimos spits out his name to the other, spraying bits of gut everywhere as he does so.

    Those large wings of his hang to him, clinging to his side. And as he finishes the rather paltry meal, he blinks at the sandstorms... The whirling sand dervishes that congregate at his Lokii's feet. What a cute little parlor trick. A glamor. "Can't produce anything larger than that?" Deimos laughs darkly as he finishes the last of the badger, his eyes going wild with need, and with death, his talons are seeping deep into his chest.

    "Homeless with the departure of the white nag would would be king? That seems to be what happens to all the evil louts who have designs on power in this land. Which is why you see me standing before you, instead of bent over the backsides of countless ladies."
    DEIMOS
    cry ‘havoc’ and let slip the dogs of war…
    HTML by Call
    Reply
    #5
    He is indifferent as the magician steps forward to indulge in the remains of the badger (whether a show of power or control or dominance or what-have-you; he cares not). His scarred ears quip forward to catch the name that slides between blood-soaked teeth and around pulverized intestine. The trickster wonders (for the breath of a rabbit) why he hasn’t heard of this stallion before. He chalks it up to be the length of his absence (nestled between rock and cobweb in the corners of Beqanna only the loners travel to).

    The trickster is exceptionally amused by the dark one’s judgements. He always finds interest in the ways they constantly underestimate him (pushing him down because of his angular size, because of his foggy eye, because of the way he looks like an underdog). His lips curl into a smirk mingled with a smile of humor. “Hate to break it to you, but I don’t partake in dick-sizing competitions.”

    His shoulders are rolling into a shrug when the dark one lurches closer. The trickster doesn’t flinch (he’s felt the breath of anger and blood against his face many times before and it doesn’t intimidate him now) but instead his bruised eyes lock with the other’s gaze. He is slow to reply to the biting words of the magician, almost as though he were teasing him. Finally, “Sylva was never my home, and Gryffen was surely not my king.”

    Deep inside, he honestly isn’t quite sure of this dark one’s intentions. But the trickster has always been one to roll with the punches and give zero fucks as to anything that happens, so he waits patiently.
    LOKII
    Reply




    Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)