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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


    [mature]  i love it when you try to save me, 'cause i'm just a lady; any
    #1

    tell me why my gods look like you

    “Pretty little thing, aren’t you?” She hummed, running her hand between its ears and down the length of its skinny neck. It stiffened, afraid of her touch—she smeared the warm red trickle away from its eyes, across its hair and skin. She gently brushed its ruined flesh and winced when the little thing cried out in raw pain. It gave a weak gargle after that, a pitiful attempt at a mew for help, and she frowned watching the life fading fast from its brown eyes.

    She had watched from the trees, saw the mother give birth, saw the wolves come from the shadows and tear the poor mother to pieces—as she often did. It was a timeless ritual. Mothers gave birth in the spring, away from the others, and the predators decided who lived and who died. They came and took them like Gods come to claim their sacrifices. She couldn’t bear it this time, not when she felt something for the sad little thing she now cradled in her arms. Her wrath was swift. She descended from the trees, transforming from bird to unspeakable beasts, and warded off the predators.

    And now she was… this, whatever this was.
    The R’esian fairy had no name for it.

    She patched the child up, closing the bites and claw marks as though they were torn seams on a doll; her magic spread across the little babe, healing it, marking it.
    Making it hers as much as the fairies elsewhere would make it theirs.

    (Everything was a competition these days, after all.)

    Its white hair became as bright and shiny as the blood that had dripped from its wounds, its soft brown eyes a fierce red. It couldn’t stay here now—the others wouldn’t accept it, couldn’t. They did not trust what they did not understand and in this world, magic simply… did not exist. Not as far as the other creatures knew.

    So she sent it—her, the fairy grinned, such a pretty little girl—elsewhere, where she could live.

    (Beqanna had never been a fan of magic that wasn’t its own.

    It felt a spark of jealousy the second the child was pushed through the veil and that spark started a fire.

    The flames engulfed the foreign infant. She burned, and writhed, and screamed while it made her into something of its own design. It took the hair the other fairy gave her and replaced them with scales—then it gave her wings, and fangs, and fire. Whatever this alien fairy had given her, Beqanna would give her more—if only she would let it.

    She would worship no Gods but the ones that now claimed her.
    No Gods but the ones that spat her from the fire.

    Beqanna would accept no less.
    )

    She knows nothing but the sky above and ground below; the sea that glows cold, a stark contrast against the warm orange bouncing off her shining scales. She almost feels like she doesn’t belong here, not in the Moon’s domain when she so clearly should be living somewhere under the hot glare of the Sun—but that wasn’t her decision. Someone else put her here. Someone she doesn’t (and cares not to) remember. Despite its icy demeanor, the water is warm and she wades in up to her shoulders and closes her bright red eyes. Little fish swim around her legs, nibbling at her red cloven hooves, and she shifts her weight every so often to shoo them when it starts to tickle.

    Her belly growls hungrily below the water but she ignores it, instead choosing to focus on the movement of the waves and how they almost seemed to want to take her away. She entertains the idea of letting them for just a second. It’d be better, she thinks, rather than hunting for food—milk is in short supply and her little fangs make it easy to snatch up fish, as much as it disgusts her. It’d be better, because maybe then she wouldn’t go to sleep alone at night and wonder where her mother is.

    The thought is short-lived and she shakes her head, her muzzle splashing against the surface—her wings draw up above her back, dripping water as she turns and marches towards dry land. Skinny, hungry, but still pretty—always pretty. Pretty has kept her alive so far.

    EMBER

    Reply
    #2
    litotes

    Nobility did not come easy; no, its arrival was tenuous and harrowing. Litotes had to work for it, through diplomatic relations and his own true intentions: nobility came but she certainly did not make it easy. He toys with the idea, regal and well-sculpted Akhal Teke head raised to its highest point. Him? Royal, kingly, wise? He blinks, one subtle grunt rumbling in the back of his throat.

    He feels hundreds of years older than he was weeks ago - thousands, even.

    In fact, the Primarch has not really spoken in a week or so. Not since the holiday party with Kensa, not since -

    Not since she told me she is pregnant.

    He grunts again, golden eyes darkening with the weight of it all: The East, Hyaline, Kensa, his future child. My future child. Lie stops now, digging a single sharp hoof into the damp sand, imagining the ground is the plague. The cool ocean breeze whisks around his ears, cruel - infuriating. His ears press into the fluff of his mane as he throws his muzzle to the sky, a guttural (enraged) cry flying from the bottom of his chest and out his outstretched maw.

    The fury is short-lived: a coughing fit shudders his whole body, spattering bright crimson blood over his lips. He knows not what to do - briefly wishing Rune could harass him into calming - so he succumbs to the predatory instinct and shifts to his feline form.

    Saltwater crashes against his legs as he races through the waves, soaked paws slapping against the cerulean and white as if it were inconsequential. He thinks as he races, most thoughts broken as the drive of a predator begins to invade his already fragile mind. Kensa - sick - pregnant - not safe. The bottom of Lie’s mane sprays water when he shakes his head, ridding himself of the worry with that last visceral action.

    Lion-man is what she called me. She was so hesitant.

    The irony. He does not care - not now.

    Little light-hearted Litotes - a boy now a king, spited by the fear of others and his own that he cannot escape. A third grunt, but now more a growl, throaty and hungry as it drips from his lips.

    It is her glowing red form that draws his attention, so small . . . so vulnerable. Feline eyes droop to slits, mouth dropping open to drink the smell of her blood: so hot and fresh, enticing. He stops, agile limbs curving to hold his body as it drifts to brush his belly against the sand. His glowing, terrifyingly instinctive gaze holds her in place as she walks up the beach - one paw stretched forward, then another . . . she smells like . . .

    The Primarch comes to, violently shaking his head while standing up rigidly straight. He looks down at his claws pummeling the watery sand, their rapid flexing like a silent begging to tear into flesh. His gaze wanders back up to the filly.

    He can't leave her alone, especially now. Especially after I was going to fucking eat her.

    Lie pads up to the child, uttering a soft hello from the distance so as not to startle her. He does not bother to shift back to equine, sensing that the girl will not be too terribly startled.

    “What are you doing? Does your mother live here?”

    i don't want your pity, i just want somebody near me
    guess i'm a coward, i just want to feel all right



    @[Ember]
    Reply
    #3

    tell me why my gods look like you

    It’s instinct that brings forth the flames.

    They come roaring to life along her back, the water around her bubbles—boiling hot—and a few unfortunate fish come floating up to the surface; she regards the lion with her red eyes, wide and terrified, and swallows hard when he comes splashing to a halt. He asks questions, his voice deep and growly. She swivels her ears forwards, eager to listen, ever curious about what the big cat might want—he could have eaten her then and there, surely. She imagines what death might have been like, what being torn asunder by those claws and fangs might have felt like; there’s an image in the back of her mind and for a second, she thinks she’s familiar with such a death.

    Almost as if it’s happened… before.

    (It couldn’t have, not when she stands before him now so alive and well.)

    ‘Just a daydream,’ she thinks, her tongue feeling uncomfortable in her mouth.

    He expects her to speak now, doesn’t he?

    “Swimmin’,” she responds simply, motioning around with her head to indicate the water. The fire along her back has died down, it smolders weakly down her spine and she shivers at the sudden lack of warmth. “My mom doesn’t live here, I don’t think. I’ve never seen her before.”  If her confused demeanor isn’t a dead giveaway, her accent certainly is—she sounds as if she’d be better suited to some place down in a holler—she isn’t from around here.

    “D’you think you could help me find her?” The filly muses, cautiously continuing her trek towards the shore. She’s careful to keep an eye on the lion. It’s only natural, after all, and despite being certain she cannot outrun him or even take off in enough time to fly away, her claw-tipped wings fan out and then flap anxiously before folding at her sides. “I’d like to meet her at least once.” Not that the lion owes her any favors. He’d been taking a stroll along the beach and happened to be curious enough to approach her, she reckons. Maybe children weren’t supposed to be all by themselves.

    Which stings.

    “Do you have a name?” She asks, turning around to face him, her cloven hooves wiggling down into the white sand. “I don’t, not yet. I think moms are supposed to do that.”

    EMBER

    Reply
    #4
    litotes

    Swimmin’: a word so simple wrapped in an accent that . . . does not belong in Beqanna. Litotes turns his head ever so slightly to the left, carnivorous smile sliding up one side of his mouth.

    What a curious little thing, glowing red and terribly alone in a land known for its excellent care of children.

    The moon reflects pale white off of the dewy water still lingering on the filly’s scales - lion eyes fixating coldly on their distracting glitter. That near-cruel golden gaze remains there, then slowly (so - slowly) dragging back to the child’s (only his eyes moving, his head still focused intently in the direction of the glimmer), an absent mother now dangling like poisonous information right before his eyes. A single claw digs lazily into the sand, calm (considering . . . dangerous).

    He could eat her. Sure, the scales will offer a challenge, but what is a first meal as a predator if not challenging? Those spindly filly legs would snap under his weight, suddenly rendering her protective scales inconsequential. Ember will squeal, but he can silence it quickly with a firm blow to her jaw. She might still be alive when he takes his first bite, though more than likely she will bleed out from all the tearing.

    Sure. I could eat her.

    A marbled glaze has passed over his eyes, clearing away with an acutely feline blink as she asks, “D’you think you could help me find her?”

    Ultimately, it is Ember’s bizarre accent that reminds him of who he is, so strange it redirects his obsession. A low rumble builds in the back of his throat and eventually spills over his lips, quiet like focused background music. Sand flies in an arched line when he whips his tail around, swishing the flexible bones curiously, the movement miming one pondering their options.

    “Yes, I think I can do that,” is his final decision, followed by a smooth turn of his head. There is really no point, he thinks, a child with no name is certainly a motherless child. A twinge of empathy tightens his chest, though he cannot quite place it over the racing predatory instincts. “In the meantime, I think I will call you Ember. Where should we look first, little flame?”

    He knows that they will not find her mother, but is content to offer a distraction for the child while he can.

    i don't want your pity, i just want somebody near me
    guess i'm a coward, i just want to feel all right



    @[Ember]
    Reply
    #5
    Ember runs her tongue across her fangs, pondering his question. It's not an easy one, no sir. She has no clue about the lay of the land—nor what creatures, nor secrets it might be hiding. She doesn't know that the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. She has no concept of time, nor change, nor seasons. It doesn't occur to her that she will never find her mother. She knows only Litotes and his promises that he never plans to keep.

    His low, rumbling growls comfort her—unaware that this is merely thunder before thr storm. "I ain't really sure where to begin," she admits, her ears splaying shyly out to the sides. She shuffles her weight uncertainty and swishes her stubby tail. "Where does everyone go to meet up?"

    It seems like as good a place as any.

    Ember doesn't really wait for the lion, she simply turns and begins slinking away from the water; a bright, red glow surrounds her and she hums softly as her skin begins to heat up. The water, quickly turned to steam, rises up around her in a thick vapor and she curiously glances over her shoulder at her new friend. "I'm gonna be followin' you, so," she halts, motioning with her head to beckon him to lead the way.

    "I figure she looks like me," Ember tells Litotes, picking up his pace once he decides to move along. "So... black and red and scaly, maybe glowy, too. Who knows."
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