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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


    The dark Dream of conquest - Sinew
    #1
    I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
    I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
    And now I call you to pray


    She has never been his. From the moment he met Sinew – deigned to wade, for the first and last time, through the unwashed filth and cloying longing of the field – he knew she was wild. He knew she was subservient to something that could never be him, entirely – herself, perhaps? He own pursuit of pleasure? That which does not revolve around him; which does not always include his appetite.

    And that drives him crazy;

    (How many times has he imagined peeling back that hideous, taunting patch of smooth, pink scar? Letting the flesh that knit and healed together be his own signet – the precise and divine shape of them, and not of some other monster’s indelible shade.
    Some other man’s unignorable claims.)

    But she had come to him, when he was most in need of her glory. Her devotion. When he was divested of his godliness – made to belly-crawl in the mud with the other worms, once again – she found him, vulnerable like she had never been before, stripped of everlastingness.

    (‘Now, we build.’ 
    So he commanded, so they did.
    They had made small mountains of flesh – angry, fanged, diseased little things that he knew she quite cherished and so he could let live, for her sake. 
    They made soft, sweatiness and harder, bruised explorations.

    Savage things.)

    When she leaves, she leaves. 
    He does not pursue her (though he could). She moves like wind, or water, and even he accepts that these are not things he can keep contained. Not unless he wants to change them irreversibly – their very anatomy and substance. He could, perhaps, break her. Perhaps. Make her needful of him, like a child might be; he could rend the abandon from her – the wind and the water – and make her a motionless thing.

    But then, she would be no fun. She would be bloodless and pallid and toothless.

    He lets Sinew leave, but he does so begrudgingly. He paces, impatient and growing ever more ravenous. He dreams of her and they are deviant, vile dreams. He waits for her – it is a state of being that precious few can put him in – scouring small calling-cards on trees with his horns, like breadcrumb trails to his many dens. (Come to me again.

    He waits, roiling and swinish, his pinned ears warning everyone thick enough to approach him away.
    He is single-minded. She is invited.


    POLLOCK
    Lone Artist and Phina’s

    okay, this took too long and soon there is babby, so i mean, this is here whenever you are ready <3
    @[Kristin] @[sinew]
    [Image: kkN1kfc.png]
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