• 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


    soldier keep on marching on; any
    #1

    When days have become endless, when they lose all meaning, it's so very easy for the days and weeks and months to become muddled together, fading into one monotonous span of time. It is the price of immortality, one might suppose. A price he has paid over and over and over again.

    He had long since lost track of his ceaseless wanderings. Once, he had been a soldier. Purpose had been burned into his bones, an indelible stamp. Then his home had fallen, ravaged by forces far greater than he. In the years since, he had become nothing more than another of Beqanna’s infinite wanderers, faceless and nameless. No longer a king or a warrior. Just another in an endless sea.

    While he had not been content, he had accepted his purposeless existence. He has given himself to the fog of immortality. Perhaps he had slept. Perhaps he had merely wandered. But whatever the case, for the first time in ages, he finds himself restless.

    For a moment, the sky becomes just a bit brighter, the stalks of grass and quivering leaves just that much sharper. With a grunt, the pale stallion stretches long legs forward, feathered wings extending to their full, impressive length before a forcefully wakening shake consumes his body.

    Stiffness relieved, he settles himself once more, snorting for good measure. Only then does he recognize where he had unwittingly carried himself. The meadow, a place as familiar to him as it is foreign.

    quiet now, you're gonna wake the beast

    hide your soul out of his reach

    Hurricane



    It's recycled because I'm lazy but someone please come love himmm
    Reply
    #2

    when i run through the deep dark forest long after this has begun,

    She’s still wandering. The mare knows she should return to Loess (her half-brother perhaps awaits her, as well as news of politics that personally she cares not for, but only participates because it is what her pack enjoys), but the wolf continues to lead her elsewhere - to meander through the forest and the riverlands, damp paws numb from ice and snow. The dusty cream wolf comes to a sudden halt where the thick trees of the forest begin to grow sparse and the undergrowth is more than just branch and debris, lowering herself with a huff to begin to pick the hardening ice that has solidified between her paws, her black snout snuffling as her teeth seek the cold fragments.

    Spitting the shards onto the ground, nutmeg eyes glancing up every so often to glance at her surroundings, the wolf grooms herself the best she can - bramble and dead twigs cling to her chest and neck (the places where she could not reach to pull them away from her ivory fur), muddied and dirty from her explorations that have lasted longer than she originally intended. 

    She glances up again and there is a curious whuff that leaves her cold, shimmering snout. Broad ears flick forward as the sound of another pries her attention away from the underneath of her paws, pink tongue licking at her black-lined lips to attempt to rid the numbness that had settled there. Her chin tilts, curiosity then allowing her body to follow the movement, nostrils fluttering. The stallion is easy to see now that she is on her legs - great, massive wings outspread from his withers, shuddering softly in the bold (yet never-reaching) winter’s light.

    The wolf begins to step forward and before her fore-paw hits the ground again, a hoof has taken its place. Her body shudders and nearly groans in persistence to the change, but Dayé is in true control of her mind and forces the wolf away (though never completely) to wear the smooth, golden-blue skin of a wild-looking young mare. 

    Dayé comes to stand beside the large stallion with a casual walk, though she has positioned herself far enough away that there is obviously no familiarity between the two of them. Mere strangers, finding themselves in a meadow that they perhaps do not belong in. She snorts softly as her pale gold legs bring her squarely to a halt, milky threads of tangled mane and forelock brushing delicately against the shimmering blue of her neck and face. 

    She has never been one for talking or conversation (expression of body and face were her language of choice, but she knows that there are many who do not ‘speak’ as she does), but she has learned the social constructs of Beqanna, and has rather come to enjoy the mundane small talk that comes with meeting strangers. She liked to watch them as they respond to her, to really narrow down their true intentions despite the way the sound of their voice does not match. 

    Her nutmeg eyes carefully trace the planes of his face, noting the weariness that lingers beneath his bold eyes yet somehow seems unfitting. “Hello,” she finally says, not caring (or not knowing) that her prolonged silence before speaking could be taken as strange or awkward. 

    She is still learning.

    Dayé

    where the sun would set, trees are dead, and the rivers were none.




    @[Hurricane]
    I read his post and Daye said she wanted to meet him. :|
    Reply
    #3

    The wolf is a silent creature, stealth as natural to it as the thick, shaggy pelt adorning its compact frame. Even Hurricane, with all his skill and experience, cannot hear it coming until it is close. But he has rarely worried about such things. He would make a poor meal for any such creature, especially a lone one such as she.

    When the pale wolf appears from the trees, his dark eyes settle upon it with surprising apathy. Even when between one step and the next, she shakes off the skin of the wolf for that of a horse, he shows hardly any reaction. Instead, he studies her, as she no doubt had done to him. She is as wild as the wolf, even in equine form. The blue gold sheen of her stunning skin does little to distract from the rawness of her demeanor.

    Hurricane has never cared much for niceties, so her lack of immediate greeting hardly disturbs him. Indeed, he barely notices she hadn't spoken until the ‘Hello’ falls almost gently from her lips. Had she not spoken first, he might have been content to stand in companionable silence with the pretty mare until dusk fell over the land.

    Instead he finds himself trying to dredge up the remnants of decent social behavior that he hadn't used in ages. “Hello,” he returns simply by way of greeting, voice rough and gravelly with disuse.

    As he continues to stare at her, a faint curiosity begins to tickle at his conciousness. It has been a long while since anyone had bothered to approach him. He is simply a long forgotten relic of a day gone by. Hardly worth the investment, given how much he has forgotten of social niceties.

    But then he remembers one more, the exchange of names everyone seems so enamored of. So after what is probably an interminable silence, he utters his own name, briefly and without lyricism. “Hurricane.”

    A poet he would never be.

    quiet now, you're gonna wake the beast

    hide your soul out of his reach

    Hurricane



    p.s. I'm so excited they're meeting!!! <33333
    Reply
    #4

    when i run through the deep dark forest long after this has begun,

    He looks at her like he knows her.

    Not in a way that was in familiarity, or recognition, but nearly as if in impassivity. His dark eyes caress the hardness of her features - the parts of her that are equally sultry and fierce, unruly and elegant - and there is indifference she finds settling in the sharpness of his alabaster cheekbones. Dayé does not find his loose stare unsettling; if anything, it is something that she finds natural and without abnormality. His openly staring invites her to do the same (the wolf guides her, leading her to immediately size up the presence before her and take in each muscle and sinew, study each part and be ready for a fight), the blue-gold of her eyelids folding slowly over nutmeg irises, white-lashes brushing against her cheeks.

    He is placid in every way, allowing the wolf-woman to stalk ever closer with poised steps, enraptured and cautious all at once. Her own coffee-colored eyes unabashedly click carefully over each part of him - the great wings that are loosely tethered at his shoulders, their massive expanse tucked neatly into folds a top of the silver dappling that clings to his haunches and broad shoulders, effectively reminding her of the moon she so often turns her chin towards. 

    Silence has long since enveloped the two strangers as Dayé draws the length of her golden-blue legs directly before him. Ivory tendrils of her forelock tumbles across her face as her chin presses gently to her chest, eyes still taking in every inch of the stranger of a man before her. A soft huff of breath leaves her pale mouth, the warmth spreading around her face in a visible cloud of vapor. 

    Hurricane.

    The word immediately brings memories of her childhood. Of dark, stormy nights that are riddled with howling, screaming winds and rain that never ceased - of gusts of air that ripped palms from their roots and slammed them against the dark-sand beach, where her mother and father had taken her to hide amongst cave and damp stone, to shelter the storm for hours on end. 

    She knows what a hurricane can do.

    There is an amused tilt to her slender head as her fierce gaze meets his unwaveringly, the silence growing palpable with their closeness. 

    “Are you a hurricane?” It’s a question that rolls from her tongue, though her rough and wild voice remakes it as a challenge. “Like I am a wolf?”

    Dayé

    where the sun would set, trees are dead, and the rivers were none.



    @[Hurricane]
    Same! <3 Please forgive her for being strange. :| And for not replying with her own name, cause she sometimes forgets and needs to be reminded that it's a normal thing to do.
    Reply
    #5

    Perhaps, in a way, he does know her. The familiar stillness of her feminine features finds its match in the harsher planes of his pale likeness. They may have never before met, but there is a commonality in them. One hard to place a finger one, but much harder to deny. She may be a wolf and he a storm, but they share an uncommon lack of tameness. A ferocity that belies the calmness of their demeanors.

    Hurricane would deny it, such fierceness. He has spent so many of his years in the bitter iciness and unforgiving harshness of the forgotten Tundra that he has begun to take it’s likeness upon himself. But there is a fire that resides deep within his soul, one that remains banked until an iron comes along to stoke its flame. His lost home, despite its chill, had done that once. But now, he has nothing. Fallen into obscurity like those windswept flats and forgotten by time itself. Maybe one day, there would be something that caught at his truest of hearts, but he is no fortune teller. It is not his fate to know what might come to pass.

    He barely notices the silence between them, so comfortable it is. He has long since grown used to silence. When one has only one’s voice to hear, it becomes easy to forget how to speak. It becomes easy to allow feral instincts to reclaim oneself. But if there was anyone who could understand that, perhaps it was she, this wild wolf-woman who had singled him out so easily.

    Are you a hurricane? Her question gives him pause. Of course, he knows his is far more than a name. It is a thing others have often read much more into than he could claim credit for. He supposes, once, he might have been named something else. He remember very little of his childhood. Only his mother calling him her little hurricane. He doesn’t know why he remembers that and almost nothing else, but for whatever the reason, the name had stuck.

    After another lengthy silence, he shakes his head. No, he is not a hurricane as she is the wolf. At least, not to his decidedly biased mind. To others, perhaps he was. But to him, he is neither wild nor ferocious. He is not a thing to gaze at in awe nor fear. “I am just a man,” he rumbles without shame or conceit.

    And he is. Just as inconsequential a man as every other who takes space upon this earth.

    quiet now, you're gonna wake the beast

    hide your soul out of his reach

    Hurricane

    Reply
    #6

    when i run through the deep dark forest long after this has begun,

    The deep coffee of her dark eyes continue to study him ever so intently, curious in the way her irises click over the dappled grey of his skin (ever the learner, soaking in each detail of the sharp planes of his face with interest, each soft exhale bringing her one step closer to him). He does not fidget beneath her steely gaze, nearly comfortable with the minutes of silence that come between each word they speak. It makes her bolder, braver, and the wolf-woman quickly finds herself poised directly before him, a slight tilt to her head so that her bright, inquisitive eyes could still easily absorb his expressions and body language. There is a soft snort that expels from her golden-blue nostrils as her eyes match to his.

    Just a man.

    His voice even reminds her of a storm - brewing and festering, bold and fierce. Her mouth pressed into a hard, thin line and her ears turn backward slightly. “Just a man,” she repeats slowly, as if wisened beyond her four years in this world, “there is no such thing as just a mere man.” She’s nearly chiding him, but her voice is suddenly so gentle that the soft sound of amusement flutters through the air. Even the soft corners of her pallid gold mouth upturn ever so slightly, causing the corners of her eyes to glint mischievously. She has never been good at hiding the wolfish-smile that finds her face so naturally in either form.

    Again they fall silent, two strangers standing in the midst of winter’s dying breath, where the sweet scent of spring could be sampled on the luscious breeze that filters through them. Alabaster tendrils of forelock and mane scrape gently against the bright, crisp gold of her neck and face; the sunlight sending a flash of electric blue where it struck her. 

    “I’m Dayé.” She finally offers him her name in the midst of another breath of elongated silence, suddenly remembering the normalcy of trading names. There is no embarrassment or bashfulness in the lateness of introducing herself; just a blank, expectant stare with the slight raising of her brows upwards.

    Dayé

    where the sun would set, trees are dead, and the rivers were none.



    @[Hurricane]
    Reply
    #7

    There is no such thing as a mere man. The words catch his attention, drawing his focus to her in a way it hadn’t been until that very moment. He has grown unused to others disagreeing with him. After a certain age, it seemed to become almost an automatic thing. A wisdom gained of years rather than instinct. That she would tell him he does not know himself when he has spent years in this body and mind is a surprisingly intriguing thing.

    Others might laugh at such determination, but instead he finds it curious. “Mmmm,” he rumbles softly as his hard gaze focuses more intensely upon her. A piercing stare that seems to see far more than it actually does. Or perhaps, as much as one would expect. “Is that so?”

    The question is not a derisive one. Instead, it beckons at thought, enticing her to share more of her conclusions. He wishes to know what she thinks him to be if he is not a man and not a hurricane. Perhaps some would compare him to his namesake, but he knows better. Hurricanes are ferocious and fearsome, but ultimately they are fleeting. They howl with a destructive rage that sweeps across the land in a graceless arc, but that rage is short lived. He is more. Far more. He is enduring, lasting, and vastly more subtle.

    But he could hardly expect her know these things of him. He does not know these things of her either, as is the way of strangers.

    The silence stretches, and he is not tempted to fill it. Instead he admires the soft curves of her features, allowing himself to enjoy the faint curve of her blue-gold lips. She is lovely, and he is a man, after all. No matter how much she believes him to be so much more than ‘mere’. He would let her explain those thoughts to him. He has never been one for guessing.

    In the meantime, he would simply be a man.

    quiet now, you're gonna wake the beast

    hide your soul out of his reach

    Hurricane

    Reply
    #8

    when i run through the deep dark forest long after this has begun,

    She purses her lips, the movement causing a flicker of electric blue to flash across the otherwise pale gold of her mouth, thoughtful and pensive. Her eyes remain sharp and focused, clicking over his face with each change in his expression, from the soft hum of amusement in his throat to the way his voice challenges her earlier statement despite only responding in a short breath of three words. Dayé’s ears turn backwards passively - not in dismissiveness, but in a way that perhaps a sound nearby has suddenly captured her attention - but it only lasts for a moment as one ear turns to face him again, as the soft edges of her own face turn to match the same amused expression he currently wears.

    Comes again the drawn-out silence, tense yet welcomed by both strangers, a soft flick of her ivory tail against the gentle shimmering blue of her honey-gold haunch.

    “You do not agree, Hurricane?” she replies casually, taking a step towards him with a mischievous smile that now pulls at the gold-flashing-blue of her mouth. There is something about him that draws her in, though the wolf-girl cannot place or name it. Either way, she finds herself moving closer to him, curious in the way her nutmeg eyes rove across the hardened planes of his face, searching for a break in the edges that would give her more insight to the inner dialogue of his mind. 

    She pauses just before him, now only a few feet between their interlocking stares, tilting her head slightly. “Would you think me just a mere woman, then?” There is no offense in her voice but instead a trill of mirth, especially as one corner of her mouth tightens into a thoughtful smirk. Woman? Pah. She is barely of age, but somehow being in his presence emboldens her, making her feel as if she has lived a thousand lifetimes over.

    Dayé

    where the sun would set, trees are dead, and the rivers were none.

    Reply
    #9

    His eyes follow the flash of blue across her lips, enticed by that subtle slip of color. It would be easy to spend days following the shifting her skin, learning the subtle nuances of the way light played with blue and gold. Almost ordinary, and yet decidedly not. Much more entrancing than the the simple white of his hide, the subtle dappling that provided the only relief in the emptiness of his lacking color.

    It is her words that keep his focus, however, no matter how lovely her skin. Few they might be, but intrigue is far more than the presence of words. It is also the absence, the seeking of the mind for something more. Something missing.

    And she is riddled with intrigue.

    His dark eyes shift to hers as she steps closer, the mischievous smile flashing across her more delicate features. The hard planes of his own features remain impassive, his own appreciation quelled deep within his breast. There is a time for appreciation, and it is not this moment.

    He does not answer her first question. It had been made rhetorical by his own clear disbelief. She knows he does not agree, or she would not now be continuing on. Would not be boldly holding his stare, asking if he believes her nothing more than a mere woman. But the question does not take him aback, as she had no doubt expected it would. Instead, one brow quirks faintly, a barely perceptible movement that gives only a brief insight into the heart of this thoughts.

    “Yes,” he replies, low and easy. There is no hesitation in the response. “Mereness does not negate uniqueness.” He pauses a moment, tilting his head as he gestures faintly at her, eyes skimming briefly from the tip of her nose to the tip of her tail. “But beneath all… that, you are still just a woman.”

    quiet now, you're gonna wake the beast

    hide your soul out of his reach

    Hurricane



    I think he's just making up words at this point :|
    Reply
    #10

    when i run through the deep dark forest long after this has begun,

    She doesn’t know that he’s entranced with her; the wildness that shudders in her very being does not allow her to realize the shape of her lips as they draw out certain words, or the subtle way her body creeps forward with grace and enigmatic electricity. She’s still too young to know what is like to be sought after, to be admired, and thus does not feel heat rising to her cheeks as the stoicness of his eyes wander across her but instead does the same, her sharp eyes lingering on the chiseling of his jawline and the not-quite-a-smile that seems to look ever so delightful on the ivory of his lips. 

    Mereness does not equate uniqueness.

    She lifts her chin a bit, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully as a slight amused look sparkles in the depths of her gaze. He skims her with the now familiarity of his eyes and she remains frozen beneath it, wondering what it is he sees besides the dandelion gold of her coat that shimmers electric blue with even the tiniest of movement of her muscles. It seems they are perhaps at an impasse; but she is not one to pride herself into proving she is right.

    He is more than a mere man, even if he does not see it.

    “If you say so, Hurricane,” she replies, her tone even yet playful, finding that even her wolf-spirit enjoys the deep banter between them. “Maybe one of these days I will prove you wrong.” There is a laugh on the edge of her voice as she bobs her head up and down; the last time she stretches towards him, lipping at the air between them as if she means to brush his cheek with her golden-blue mouth, but purposely does not meet his skin. 

    “A mere woman should not be hard to find.” She brings her chin to her chest, her foreleg reaching forward to paw at the earth beneath her before brushing past him - lingering long enough to memorize his scent for the future - and then disappearing into the shadows from whence she came, replacing hooves for silent paws.

    Dayé

    where the sun would set, trees are dead, and the rivers were none.



    i'm so sorry you had to wait forever for this <3
    but please have him come find her cause imma need them to meet again like asap :|
    @[Hurricane]
    Reply




    Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)