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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]  out of the skin into the soul; dragonfly
    #1

    Spring is a time of rebirth but it is also a time, like all the other seasons, of death. As young are brought into the world they kill the mothers who whelp them, others wither away failing to thrive because the bodies or parents they have been given are inferior. The world blossoms on the back of bloody struggle and whatever beauty can be found in survival has a shadow of brutality.

    He is watching a long red weasel approach the grassy nest of a young rabbit family. The parents are missing, but would likely hide from the fierce little beast anyway. The mustalid sniffs around the nest and then scratches away grass and the downy fur plucked from the breast of the absent mother. It savages the small blind cottontails, tossing curled mewling newborns aside and then pouncing after them to break and bloody. It makes a fine game of a total of seven murders. At last, with its white underside stained with gore it selects just one of the corpses and takes it away, dragging and carrying intermittently. Others will make use of the left behind.

    The smell of blood hangs among the trees like a dank, still fog. There are hours until sunrise will color sky red-orange and stars still linger peeking through the dense canopy at the blue monster who now inspects the dead, tasting blood and fur. There is nothing to interest him in the flavor of the kits and he wipes a wet smear away from his dark mouth before stepping over them and continuing along under the juniper where the grassy nest lies. He breaths in the scent of the trees scaley limbs, head low to duck them, muscle rolling slowly beneath his shadow clouded hide. Tunnel, having split off from Shroud for the moment (though they will come together again in a few nights) stops alone to gaze steadily out from beneath the tree, toward the sound of someone making their way through the forest in the dark. Another? Very well, demon, bring them forth.

    TUNNEL
    the heart moving through a tunnel
    in it darkness, darkness, darkness
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    #2
    Winslow

    The black and sapphire stallion is not the only one who watches the weasel decimate the nest of infant kits. It is the sound of their squealing grunts that attracts her attention, and she shifts readily into the copper and white fur of a small fox as she lopes through the greenery of the forest towards their cries. She comes too late to intervene though, and that wiry heart crumples in her chest as she sits with her tail wrapped around her paws and looks down upon the carnage from the shadows beneath thick ferns.

    The bodies are mangled and strewn all about, crumpled and copper like autumn leaves. The fox in her is unappalled, feeling the fingers of dawning hunger clawing at her belly, the understanding that this is natural. But as the weasel returns to select just one of the mangled bodies, she feels wrath swell to overtake the hunger, feels the girl in her rise like fire to the surface. How dare he kill them all to take just one and leave the rest for the ants to chew holes through.

    It is such waste, such needless violence, and at once she is on her feet and bounding silently after him. He is so busy with the thick scent of blood in his nose and the body of the rabbit in his teeth that he does not notice her until it is too late to do anything but make that same screaming grunt the rabbit kits had. Her teeth close around his shoulders and she shakes him violently, feeling the satisfying snap of his neck as he go limp in her jaws.

    There is violence in the satisfying way her fox strips him bare and guts him, feasting on the soft meaty flesh until she is full and the girl in her is horrified. It will never not be strange to want meat in this way, to crave it even when her mind recoils and hides within the shape of the horse. Nauseated, she steps away from the mangled remains, and there is copper stain on her light face and the thick bib of white down her chest.

    She turns back to the kits, meaning to bury them back in their nest in the only way she knows how to honor their needless deaths, but she is startled to find the sapphire stallion stepping in her direction. Her hackles raise and she paces sideways, that little orange body growing and elongating into a much larger wolf as she circles back around to leer at him. She is beautiful in this form, powder blue with black points and a black mask, a tail too full for it to belong on this body. Even her eyes are mesmerizing, glittering like blue crystal as she draws to a snarling stop a few strides from his shoulder. “You aren’t welcome here.”

    the devil in my arms said feed me to the wolves tonight

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