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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


    the lord will smite thee with madness; arithmetic
    #1
    my corrupt nature is empty of grace;
    bent unto sin, and only unto sin;
    and that continually.



    They say time is a flat circle. If it’s true, she’s in the center, and she’s laughing.
    It doesn’t touch her, time, not in the ways it should (the ways it should - she should be dead, god, what I’d give to have her rotting in the ground). Time slides over her, like raindrops on an oilslick. Untouched and untouchable, my corpse queen.
    Sometimes she looks dead – a glassiness to the eyes, see, and a sluggishness of the gait. She lacks grace – always has – and yes, sometimes she moves like she’s climbed out of a grave.
    (And her smile, oh - like a dead thing, a rictus on those wretched lips, yet girls and boys alike fall for – fall to – it.)
    But looks and are are not the same, no – Chantale, she persists.

    She is an erratic thing, my corpse masterpiece, she slumbers and rises again like some great old god (though she is nowhere near so formidable, even in all her maddening glory). She does not know what happened, not really, only that Beqanna shook and stumbled and cried out. She slept though most of it, she doesn’t remember it, not really – a hazy idea of a figure or two, a taste of blood, the snap of a wing.
    But now she wakes – she rises – and she moves in the meadow, gait lurching but eyes fever-bright, the madness awake and well within her. She eyes them with her own animal cunning, an intelligence that does not befit her to discuss philosophy, but something baser.

    She’s awful to look at, in a way, an endless array of perfection, curving and smooth. There is no imperfection to mar her beauty, to enhance it, what’s left is an assault of curvature and her strange, smooth
    (dead)
    skin.
    She sees him, hones into him. There is no rhyme or reason for her sudden focus, he is not special, he’s not her type.
    (Her type - a desert queen. A girl with blood on her mouth. These women, she loved, or almost loved, or would have loved, if dead, mad things could love.)
    But.
    She is bored, too long idle, and he is there. She sidles up to him, bold, making no attempts for grace.
    “Hello,” she purrs, “you look lonely.”


    chantale
    how original a sin.


    @[Arithmetic]
    Reply
    #2


    The forest had been his hiding place for far too long. The reaching of its branches grazed along his body as he strode confidently through the tangle of naked limbs. Why he had returned, he could not say. Winter time was cold and bit into him, carrying him back into the moderately warming cacoon of trees.

    Weaving through the branches he knows that he is not alone. Her scent is carried upon the breeze, urging him forward. Almost always trouble awaited him at the end of the trail, but he was happy to meet it - even if only to steal a moments flirtation.

    She saw him first, the mass of her looking to be the very image of death. By the standards of many she was not what most would consider beautiful. Freezing to examine her he felt for a moment that his mind was playing a cruel game on him. It was not often that one was granted the chance to stare directly into the face of death. Tilting his head he took a cautious step forward, attempting to make sense of the ruin of flesh and bone that compiled together to create the being before him. Spying him from a distance she does not hesitate. Confidently she approaches, almost as though unaware of the horror that was her form. It was beneath that he saw the glimmer. A beauty that was both dangerous and beautiful.

    Her purr reaches up and entwined itself within the depths of pleasure, grabbing his attention fully. Smiling, his ears followed the sound of her- his body tense with excitement.

    "Gorgeous and smart," he remarked playfully. It was a comfortable shift to be met with such immediate wit - entirely different than the forceful conversations he had been subjected to recently. "Let's say that I am, lonely, that is. Have you come to relieve me of it?"

    Arithmetic
    I Don't Make Love


    @[chantale]
    Reply
    #3
    my corrupt nature is empty of grace;
    bent unto sin, and only unto sin;
    and that continually.



    She is cold, in the winter.
    She is always at least cool to the touch, my corpse masterpiece – but in the summer, sometimes the heat will soak into her skin, and it’s almost like she’s like them. It doesn’t bother her though, the cold – she feels it, but dimly, a prickling on the skin and nothing more.
    He does not run from her – some do, a flight instinct triggered by the glassiness in her eyes. She’s glad – she has no desire to give chase. Most others are simple creatures, moldable as clay, and her hands are at the ready.

    His muscles are drawn taut under her cool touch, and she sighs as some of his body heat seeps into her cool – almost cold – skin. She doesn’t need the warmth, but she enjoys it, taking a piece of them so easily. She smiles, lowers her gaze for a moment, as if she is suddenly demure.
    She isn’t smart, my girl, not really – but there’s a certain animal cunning to her, and maybe that’s worse.
    “I’ve come,” she says, not quite answering his question, “because I’m lonely, too.”
    This isn’t quite a lie – she is lonely, as much as things like her feel loneliness. She’s been gone awhile, too long since she’s felt flesh against her, under her, in her.
    “My name’s Chantale,” she says, “what’s yours?”


    chantale
    how original a sin.
    Reply
    #4
    Music 


    It feels almost a twist of fate that his path would collide so seamlessly with hers. Lost in the shade of the forest, the chill hardly seemed to touch him. Lost completely to the gentle chirp of his words he felt himself slowly slipping into the familiar game. He was ready to play and he took a step closer to her. His neck arched as his eyes drank in the curves of her. Although not outwardly beautiful he senses a beauty that was more than the unsightly curves of flesh that gathered about her. Tingles of pleasure shot through his veins as her words echoed in his conciousness.

    "We will have to find some way to remedy that," he crooned as he closed the distance between them. Brushing lightly over the curve of her back, his lips left a fiery trail across her skin. Although the very sight of death, she did not stink of decay. She was warmth and gradual seduction of her voice only pulled him further into her embrace.

    "Arithmetic," he breathed, his lips kissing along her spine. "It is an honor to meet you Chantale."

    Arithmetic
    I Don't Make Love


    @[chantale]
    Reply
    #5
    my corrupt nature is empty of grace;
    bent unto sin, and only unto sin;
    and that continually.



    Men are easy, she’s learned.
    It’s a lesson she’s learned time and time again. They were not so easy, once (once - when she was alive and Herd sent her to that man, that beast who left her bruised and pregnant, that beast who was sorry, in the end, when she took her revenge, when her lips stained red in his blood).
    That, though – that was a very long time ago.
    She’s changed – god, she’s changed – and now she knows what to do, how to move. Now, she’s half-mad (she was always half-mad, truly, but she revels in it now, she does not scrabble for normality).
    He touches her, and she feels so little as his warm lips trail over her skin. Still, she fakes a shiver, as if charged, as if this is something more than whim.
    “An honor,” she coos back, a hair short of mimicry, “I never thought myself worthy of much honor.”

    She touches him. He is warm. She imagines she can feel the beat of his pulse. It’s a rhythm she knows well, the mechanics of the living. She’s taken enough of them apart to know.
    “What’s your story, Arithmetic?” she asks. It’s a vague question. She doesn’t care. She is more interested in the imaginary pulse, the flutter of heartbeat she imagines she can make out. The mechanisms of his body.


    chantale
    how original a sin.
    Reply
    #6

    The creature before him is both life and death, fire and ice. A perfect compilation of opposites united. Any other lesser being might have found her grotesque appearance as repulsive or vile, but he found his excitement within thd folds of her decayed flesh. He could not fight the effect she had on him as her words entangled themselves around his senses. For once, he understood how it must feel to be the hunted rather than the hunter. Together they both played the game he knew almost too well, one he had twisted to his advantage on more than one occasion. As her words taunted and teased, he knew that there was no real intention behind them. Often times the game was more fun than the reward. In his nine years of life, he had done much of the same to others.

    Her call for knowledge did not go unheeded and he felt his mood suddenly sour. He had not been in Beqanna long and his time spent there had not been entirely fruitless. Still, thinking back, he did not think she would find much interest in the tale of his seduction of Hyaline's most prized diplomat. Instead he smiled an easy grin and exhaled with an air of disinterest.

    "It pains me to admit that my story would merely bore you to death," he hoped his little pun did not go unappreciated. "Suffice it to say that I am a nomadic bloke, who only breaks his solitude in the hopes of meeting someone who fascinates me. Stumbling upon you, was a gift."


    Arithmetic
    I Don't Make Love


    A little shorter, sorry! @[chantale]
    Reply
    #7
    my corrupt nature is empty of grace;
    bent unto sin, and only unto sin;
    and that continually.



    He yields little, with his story – nomad and nothing more. She doesn’t mind. She smiles at the words – they mostly sound like static, to her – as if it’s a fascinating tale. She keeps close, listening for that flutter of pulse, the thud of his heart. The sounds and symphony of life, the things that have mostly gone silent within my corpse masterpiece.
    (She wonders this sometimes, when she is in her more lucid state. Where the threshold is between dead and alive. Where she exists within it. Her heart beats so slowly it’s barely there. Her blood oozes rather than flows. Yet she exists. She’s borne children. Curiouser and curiouser.)

    “You’ll get a story, in time,” she reassures, “perhaps a story of a witch you met in the forest.”
    He hadn’t asked, but she offers.
    “I came here long ago, from a land far, far away…” she can’t recall the name of it (she thinks of that place in proper nouns, in Herd and Prince and Her)
    (!! HER !!)
    “and I was a queen, once.”
    She wasn’t – she was lover to a queen (briefly, in an affair that ended – how else? – in blood. She was lover to that queen’s king, a revenge affair, but lover was not the word for what had transpired between them, filthy and useless.
    “Now, though…I mostly wander, too. Looking for things to amuse my fancies.”


    chantale
    how original a sin.
    Reply




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