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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


    Machina Arcana - (Anaxarete)
    #1

    Vadar

    Seven characteristics are in an uncultivated person, and seven in a learned one

    The awkward thud of Vadar’s uneven gait follows him everywhere now. It gives him a sort of distinction as he shambles along down the Mountain trail, a rhythmic broadcast to predators that says, Here I am! Weak and easy pickings, but he keeps on the path anyways, keeps thumping along and bobbing his head until the scenery clears and the Meadow stretches out in front of him.

    How could he stop? If Vadar took one moment of rest it would be his death, surely. He would ease off the bad forelimb and possibly crumple from exhaustion, lay in that same spot until the fever reared its ugly head again, and then slip away forever. Death hounded him, very much like the little hollow-eyed creature that followed him now. He glanced back to take a look and - yes - it still trailed behind, walking slowly on two upright legs made of twigs, leaves, and oddly small stones.

    “Still with me buddy?” The black stallion spoke hoarsely, both pale corners of his white lips stretching into a dry smile. He could still taste the grit from Island Resort in his teeth. The small creature made from forest things said nothing in reply and gave no indication that it’d been spoken to, so Vadar shrugged and kept on.

    It was just the fever producing false images, he assumed. Just a hallucination. Certainly not something of his own creation.

    Around him the gentle touch of winter grass felt like white-hot fire, raking brittle tendrils over his pockmarked and hairless legs, but he shuffled forward through the blinding pain. It was probably all that was keeping him awake right now, so he relished the sensation of agony and hung his dark head lower. Evening was coming and afterwards, nightfall. The chilling threat of a cold, starlit walk was made worse by his lameness but to his surprise the creature who’d followed him down from the mountaintop was catching up and taking the lead. With a soft grin he noticed it was changing. Its gnarled, twig-like hands were grasping long blades of brown grass and putting them physically into its body, where they clung to one another and began to take shape.

    He realized it was trading things, sort of. Dropping a stone or a leaf here, replacing it with grass or sod there. Kind of cute, in a strange way.

    Vadar sighed and focused on the golem, never expecting that someone or something might intervene.

    Info/Ref



    @[Anaxarete]
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    #2

    LIKE WATER FLOWING INTO LUNGS.

    Plague.  She had long since observed the frequency of visits to this place from those with any number of symptoms. Plague was not something she feared. It would take more than that to compromise the shadow mare. The plague did, however, afford the cold woman an opportunity of sorts.  It was in times like these that she was pleased with her newfound sense of anonymity. For there was always opportunity in the face of mortal tragedy, even if that opportunity was for little more than her own amusement.

    She’d seen him limp his way into the meadow from a distance.  She watched, impassively, as he struggled before making the decision to follow.  She did not allow herself to be seen as she observed the sorry sight.  Finally, she decided to approach.

    “Well, well,” the cold voice cut through the silence before the shadow mare stepped into the light. “What have we here?”  She stepped from the shadows but did not stop before the boy.  Instead she walked a circle around the clearly distressed stallion, her cold eyes crawling over the ravaged flesh - analyzing. She finally did stop only after making a full rotation, making a soft tsk, tsk under her breath.

    He was gifted, it didn’t take a magician to sense that.  Ice blue eyes trailed over the strange figure that accompanied the young stallion.  Alive, but not living. Curious. She preferred to work with living flesh rather than breathing life into that with noe.  However, she found herself amused by the creation that the boy had managed to put together even in such a delirious state.  

    “You seem to be in quite a state, Child,” she breathed, her voice nearly expressionless in it’s tone. It wasn’t a question, but an invitation. Tell the shadow mare what ails you, boy.

    A N A X A R E T E
    been there, done that
    image credit  


    @Vadar
    (sorry ana thinks anyone who's not over 100 is a baby)
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    #3

    Vadar

    Seven characteristics are in an uncultivated person, and seven in a learned one

    When things like Anaxarete slide out from the dark you don’t stop to engage them in conversation, which is what Vadar tried to do until she blocked his path by circling him. Unsteadily, he stumbled and then stopped. “I’m not ready yet.” Vadar panted, his foul leg crooked at the knee, “Let me pass.”

    He thought she was death, finally come for him. Offhandedly, he wasn’t surprised the shrouded harbinger was a mare; it seemed fitting that a female would suddenly appear - calling him child - while making redundant observations about his current state.

    The glow that usually ringed his pale red eyes had dimmed to a mere glimmer, but they rose together in unison for a final look at Beqanna and his new companion. “You look like Starsin.” Vadar commented with a smile, always with a smile, “No stars though.” He said, dreamlike. For a moment the gray, one-eared mare went hazy at the edges and he focused instead on the brilliant sunset beyond. All the colors melted together, fuschia into a bruised purple, orange into butter yellow - “So beautiful.”

    In that instant he should’ve passed out, but a blinding pain flared up from his one good foreleg and he gasped aloud. The small golem made of meadow grass had wound two long tentacle-blades around the raw tendon and given him acute papercuts. It looked up at him with hollow eyes when Vadar glanced down to see, sporting his blood like red paint.

    “Very rude.” The Alchemist chided his creation, all but forgetting Anaxarete in the moment.

    Info/Ref



    @[Anaxarete] sicko can only focus on 1/2 of something at a time: pity him
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