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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


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    Brilliant Pampas: Round 1
    #11
    Ruan

    it's not by bone but yet by blade
    can break the magic that the devil made

    The scars that were slashed across his back and sides burned at the sight before him. A good number of them had wings, as he once did before they were torn violently from his body. It ached where they used to be, the muscles for flight long withered away and useless over his shoulders. He gazed briefly over each of them present, learning the faces as he settled like a large lone wolf off to the side.

    The smallest of them spoke up and claimed his cool gaze, immediately reminding him of Smidgen. His heart ached at her memory, the girl with fairy wings that had not been as young as she seemed. Small and childlike, this similar fairy offered hope to the questers before instructing them on their task.

    ”We need flowers from the Brilliant Pampas. One each of red, white, yellow, pink, and orange blooms.”

    His brows pulled together in puzzlement and he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly with a long blink. Damn. Perhaps his sleepless nights were finally catching up to him. It would be his luck that it would choose now, at this important moment, to affect him.

    He listened as his penetrating gaze shifted to the others as one by one they grew drowsy too. They were dropping in slow motion, drifting to the earth and falling right asleep. His frown deepened into a scowl, meeting a winged woman's eyes just as she joined them in oblivion. With a low growl, his attention flew to the fairy again, fully aware how heavy his eyelids seemed. He felt drained, fatigued, and like each part of him suddenly weighed so much more.

    Unnatural.

    He crashed to his knees, fighting it as hard as he could. It wasn't the first time magic was used to manipulate him, nor was it the second time. His teeth were clenched tight, but it was a losing battle. There was no power to fight this. They were all powerless.

    “But they have to be from spring’s first blooming - which is already upon us. Hurry!”

    His fur pressed beneath him as he slumped to the ground, fury burning in his helpless heart. All the rage in the world - and he had plenty of it - couldn't keep him awake under this. A sigh was all he had the strength for as his cheek met the ground and his eyes closed. He slept just as deeply as the rest of them.

    and it's not by fire but what's forged in flame
    can drown the sorrows of a huntsman's pain




    #12

    it's a guarantee that he won't forget me.
    my body little, my soul heavy.

    It is the same thing over and again, is it not? Naia returns to Nerine, grows restless, leaves. The smell does not suffocate her any longer, the people are tough but friendly - why does she go? She thinks she has come to terms with her feeling of misplacement (Have you really, Naia? What are you doing stepping delicately over the border once again?).

    The violence of these taunts might be the death of her.

    No, this time I have a purpose, she hisses back. Rebuking does almost nothing for the jeers merely simper and giggle. The two year old wants to stop, to close her eyes, to run to the very tip of Nerine’s peak and fling herself off. Why does she feel like this? So berated and broken, lonely like the last green leaf clinging to its branch - lonely like a girl abandoned by her mother. Just . . . lonely.

    All this time she wasted, lying to herself: she never left Thalassa. This was never her choice. To be isolated from her father and his happy family, to go off on her own. Even if she spent most of her life kicking trees in futile attempts to train for battle, she never asked for this.

    What young, social creature asks for the quiet creaking of lonesome bones? The company of abandoned thoughts? What creature would ask for this - this madness, these cycles, I can’t - I can’t stop thinking about it. God, I wish someone understood, I’m so alone. I just, I just wish - 

    Trees sway above when Naia comes to a jarring halt, the leave’s gentle rustling twisted into ominous whispers. The soil scratches the girl’s muzzle as it hangs so low to the ground, tear after tear turning the sweet brown into speckled black. Perhaps she will not go on, turn back to Nerine, face the music, end it all. She thinks she can no longer take it, the voices above and the faces below - she thinks, maybe (maybe) she is not the curated being she was as a child.

    Ever since she met Leilan, every bit of her has shattered, like a glass castle built too precariously on a cliff.

    All that’s left of her is just clear crystal pieces on the ocean floor, to be whipped into foggy seaglass by the perpetual years.

    It is in these thoughts that Naia arrives, not realizing she had picked up her hooves again - not realizing she had strength left to push back the tide. They have gathered atop the Mountain once again, a group of novel individuals milling anxiously about. Their directions are to rush to the Brilliant Pampas. Perhaps she is not up to the task in her zombie state, but she will ignore that sentiment as she ignores everything else.

    Their destination is a brisk trip through Loess. She is unbothered by the sights or scents of others: head held low, ears pushed back, eyes glazed and fixated on the task ahead. When the girl arrives it appears many others have arrived already, most peacefully asleep amongst the blooms but some still lazily drifting . . . to the . . .

    Before she knows it, she is but another dark shape rising and falling amongst the weeds.

    Naia
    #13

    i'm told that to be human i must stand still
    you can try your hardest, but i never will

    She grows restless, her world too small and confined. And so she wanders, her unsettled heart bringing her too often beyond the borders of Tephra

    Today she hunts the forest, and when the call for those brave and righteous goes out, she is near enough to heed it. More out of curiosity than any strong sense of duty, but still she comes. She slips easily through the underbrush to the mountainous path, the lean and rangey body of the youthful wolf perfectly suited to such terrain. The soft, dusky white of her pelt (tinged with hints of navy) blends well with the pale stone of the mountain path, her footfalls quiet as she climbs.

    She peers curiously at those who had arrived before her, wondering at the sort that answers such a call. Wondering if there are any like she, who come for the curiosity, for the adventure. She spies one that catches her eye. A man, one with the mien of a wolf in the body of a horse.

    But the fairy steps forward, and she is distracted. They insist flowers must be brought to them. What these flowers could do for them, she does not know. Still, even though it is an odd request, it seems simple enough.

    As they all turn away, her gaze returns to the wolf-horse, curiosity spurring her to follow him. For now, she merely observes, remaining a safe distance as they travel to the flower-strewn meadows of the Pampas. The earliest days of spring are fading fast, and they must hurry to collect their blooms and bring them to the mountain. But when they reach the meadow, something causes her senses to tingle and her hackles to rise. There is enough distance between her and the wolf-man that she can see there is something terribly wrong before she notices any effect on herself. And as her gaze turns to the others, she knows he is not alone.

    Then, only moments later, she understands that she is not immune. She stumbles forward a few steps, a soft whimper escaping her throat. She shakes her head, lids drooping heavily as she tilts dangerously. She needs… to find help. Another few steps, and she can no longer move forward. She weaves and wobbles, nearly going backwards before she droops gracelessly into a sit. Her head bobs as she tips it back, a mournful howl escaping her throat. A warning. A plea. She’s not entirely certain.

    Then she is tilting sideways, unable to hold herself upright anymore. She had fought, and she had lost. As she drifts fitfully into slumber, another whimper escapes her lips, and she prays Firen had not followed her.

    ferran

    #14
    The urge to follow their calls is almost as natural now as breathing. Although I still don't truly understand their magic, I obey it; with a quick press of my lips to Solace's brow, I glance to the falling sun and close my eyes. Panthera, laying next to me, makes it clear that she would like to accompany me. Not knowing whether or not she will be taken away again this time, I begrudgingly accept her consciousness into my dream, not waiting long before making the jump. She is a part of me, after all, and therefore in no need of coaching in the ways of dream travel.

    We awaken inside of the Pampas' borders, just as the sun begins to rise on the horizon. Despite being a warmer kingdom than our Eastern clutches, I shiver, and Panthera's coat shows the same affliction. We both know what to expect, and yet, at the same time, not. Reaching to nuzzle the leopard's skull with a rumble of affection spreading through my chest, I gesture ahead, hoping to make up for lost time.

    Before long, however, a particular red flowers draws on our attention; at first, I fight the urge to lay down and sleep, but my cat's feline instincts pick up on something that my equine ones cannot. After listening to the spotted creature insist for a minute or two, I can no longer resist the pull of the flower; ironic, that the dreamweaver would be pulled into a dream.

    Collapsing, Panthera comes and drapes her lithe body atop mine, her whiskers tangling against my own as the melodic sound of sleep overtakes both of our lungs.
    [Image: kag]
    dreamweaver
    #15

    It is easy enough to slip away when she has no one to notice she’s gone, no one to object to her absence. Only her children and the quiet lingering dark of her older brother. She thinks Merry is who worries most out of the four of them, always so quiet and with such shadows in those beautiful sky-blue eyes of his. But he is kind to agree to watch the twins, to watch Dustov who is pure trouble and endless energy. Dark is so much softer, would be happy to curl up across her older brother and let him fuss over her. So much easier than her wild twin. She trusts that between them, though, Illum and Merry will have no issue.

    But she needs to get away from things, even if only for a little while. To throw herself into a purpose if only to ease the brokenness inside her soul, the rot that eats away at the meat of a wounded heart. If in the process she can help find a cure to heal the world from the plague, make it safer again for her children, for those she loves so deeply, then all the better.

    The fairy who sent them on their way still lingers in her mind as she makes the journey to the Pampas. She is nothing like what Illum had described from his winterland quest, not nearly so harsh as the fae who had guided them to such a frozen, dangerous world. This fairy seemed very much the opposite, soft and beautiful, ethereal. There had been flowers woven in through her hair and a warm radiance in her eyes that reminded Luster of sunshine.

    The difference, the extremeness of it, it made her wary.

    But she is not left long to wonder and worry, because all too soon the Pampas unfurl around her like an endless meadow of soft, summer colors. The green of grass all interspersed with golden stalks, the bright heads of flowers bobbing sleepily in a soft breeze.

    She sighs, wanders slowly into the flowers with such a sudden, inexplicable peace in her heart that she nearly forgets why she’s even come. Her dark eyes blink, her nose sweeping out to touch the nearest flower with a sense of sluggish content that makes something deep inside her absolutely revolt against the wrongness of it. She knows she has no reason to feel this way, so calm, so sedate, knows that even as her eyes grow heavy and her legs bend beneath her, that something must be wrong. Pain, deep rooted and jagged in her chest, has been her closest companion for so long now. Not this, not this hazy peace.

    But she settles to the ground with a long, whuffling sigh, feeling her eyes close even before her cheek settles against the ground. There is a second, one single moment stretched out into impossible years where all she knows is the dark behind her eyelids and the echo of her heartbeat, and then there is nothing at all. Only sleep.


    — Luster —
    so we let our shadows fall away like dust ;




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