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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


    [open]  I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth;
    #1

    GRETA
    I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.
    " Do you remember? "
    She was born here - burst forth from the cosmos and magic; a slick and tiny thing ripe for the picking. Unknowing and unwanting, a reckless mistake (one her father is wont to do). It is so easy to create and not follow through - why are there so many unwanted things in this world? Abandoned; thrown to the dogs; discarded in the throes of of self-service. This is what it is to be a child of the magician, a child of the cosmos, of the vast indifference of Beqanna. You thrive alone (or you are lost to the darkness). 
    There is something heavy in the way her heart thrums, a dull ache that she cannot recall ever being there before. Here - a place so insurmountable, a beckoning that sways through her blood (though she cannot tell why). There is a beacon on the horizon, a hazy and purple light that sways to her. A siren call, a heavy thread. It saws neatly through her skin and draws her in, reeling inch by inch, her footsteps not hers alone. 
    There is something to be said about having to venture into the vast unknown by your lonesome. There is no direction - no hand pointing which way to go. No surety in your actions or decisiveness. She is reckless, wavering in the vast ocean of choice. Choice, decision, direction; is this what she is driven by? Is this hers alone? She does not know Pangea - she is not familiar with the rickety confines of its history and geography. She does not choose her landing place on experience alone (because she knows, nothing). 
    Go. He commands, throaty and demanding. Come. It croons, sickly sweet and deadly. 
    The canyons carve around her small skin, looming and ominous like that lurking thing inside her blood (come closer) they soothe (further, just a bit further) they sing. Her body rippled by the shadows those hungry caverns throw across her. That aching river rushing a whisper of hurry hurry, this way. That steady ache in her heart, though she does not quite know why.
    Go He commanded. Come It crooned. 
    And so she does. So she must. 



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    #2

    do you think God stays in his heaven because he, too, lives in fear of what he has created?

    Is he lonely? He does not know the word. Ghaul only knows the ache as he sits, facing the night sky blindly with his wings limp around like a security blanket. His chest feels hollow as he waits out his first night without his father or his mother here to hold him while he slumbers. The canyons are cold and the wind whips through them, chilling him as he feels a shiver run up his spine. This is the deadest hour of night – when the birds all refuse to sing and the prey animals are tucked in their burrows.

    He croons, a melancholy sound, in the hopes that someone will hear and heed his call. Gospel never sleeps near him and Clarissa does not dare leave the borders of Loess once the sun has set on them. The fledgling gives another hopeful chirp, jaw lifted to the sky as he gives his pitiful cry, only for the night to fall deaf around him, uncaring. The boy lets out a sigh until he hears the sound of the dirt crunching quietly under small hooves. At first, he freezes and only an ear swivels in her direction, curious but hesitant to get his hopes up.

    But the steps draw nearer and he finds himself rising onto his talons with his head turned in her direction now. Had she heard his call? Excitedly, he gives a more cheerful chirp before skittering closer, wings tucked properly at his sides now. The blind child circles her with his thin tail whipping nervously left and right, left and right. She does not burn brightly like Clarissa or coolly like Gospel, but somewhere in between, like many others. Still, he’s pleased to have anyone at all to waste the time away with.

    He would like to bump her cheek the way he often does towards the ones he likes, but he manages to contain his delight for now. Instead, he ceases his endless circling before her and merely paws the dirt with sharp talons.

    I was alone, but you are now here,” he observes, grinning with his mouth full of crooked little crocodile teeth. “I am called Ghaul. You are who?

    The little drake swallows nervously but remains in place, still resisting the urge to invade her personal space. His self-control has improved remarkably over the past few days. Only a week prior, he would have snatched her up in his wings and preened at her mane! But he has finally learned that some do not enjoy such immediate affections nor do they share in his desire for closeness.

    ghaul

    @[greta] he views her as a teddy bear right now but i'm sure soon he'll see her as an actual person. maybe. probably.
    Reply
    #3
    GRETA
    I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.
    " Do you remember? "


    There is an innate desire to be touched - each living thing has this drive, this need for connection - verbally, physically, emotionally. It is a lust for words in their ears, skin to skin contact (a gentle brush, an enveloped embrace, a pain splintering punch to the eye), the reaching out of a heart to their own. Strange, how it is such a primal desire, but you cannot always place a name to it. Loneliness; a hollow but solid thing - unnamable if you do not quite know what it means, but it resonates through your bones and seeps out past your skin. It cannot be unrecognized, only felt.

    There is a song that carries on the wind; low and sweet and beautiful (a melody that doesn’t quite seem to belong here in this place, but here it is twining through the canyons). It is marked with chirps, little beacons of hope that have sprouted from the sad song. It is unusual - a sound that Greta had never heard (for who would sing to her?), and it is calling. Come, it calls - and so she must, for what else was she to do?

    She approaches, her body swathed in the dark - everything so dark, dark, dark. How foolish of her to follow the call in her mind at midnight. How silly of her to be lured like a siren towards an unknown melody. But it called, and so she came. Timid steps, her head quirked slightly, the moonlight her path, the churrups her target.

    And oh - oh!

    A creature! A thing! A puzzle of pieces and stars and scales and talons; a tail curved like a bow. This was nothing Greta had seen (perhaps, maybe, in nightmares?). He is skittish like falling snow in the wind - this way and that, at every curve of your face and angle of your body. He is everywhere. His body is swirling around her, ragged claws tearing at the dirt (better than flesh, really). And his eyes - he has none! What she mistook for adorning horns (strange, so strange), where his eyes should (would?) be.

    She should be disgusted (she thinks?) - but he is a patchwork of her mother, her father. A galaxy ridden thing with wings and horns - a concoction of where she had came from (and still so unsure where to go). She is timid in the face of his recklessness - has he seen so much more of this world than she? He is bold in his words, where she has never spoken a thing. He is unflagging in his surety that this is where he belongs (and where does she go?).

    Ghaul. A heavy name for someone so young. You are who?; who was she? She did not know. Her breath was taken in the moment, a cacophony of something so new. It was not a command, but a request - a question, a query. Who was she?

    “I-I’m.. Her name, something so simple and sweet - plain, bitten through with hardness. Her father, for what knows why, had chosen it, that much she knew. She knew her mother, she knew her father, she knew they were both gone now, she knew she had no home - no claim - no family - no friend or foe. But she did not know who she was.
    “Greta?” A question, almost. An upward inflect - was this all she really was? A series of hard syllables and vowels, a name. “I am here now.” She side stepped as his body made another sharp turn around her, wary of his flagging tail. Her head turns as he circles again, following his movements to better find his attention before she asks - “Where.. Where is here?”







    @[Ghaul] eeeee this feels SO GOOOD <3
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    #4

    do you think God stays in his heaven because he, too, lives in fear of what he has created?

    This one does not squirm away or flinch at the sight of him, he notes with keen interest as he draws closer. Perhaps she is confused by him but she does not recoil from his attention like others have in the past. In fact, she doesn’t say one unkind thing. There is something like a purr in his throat when she begins to reply, even as she’s tumbling over her words and trying to piece them together. Is she confused, he wonders? Or will she need to be named as Gospel had done for him? He thinks he would have to find some sound that suited her.

    Greta, she says, and his small ears perk up to catch the sound. This one is called Greta. He nods, slowly, and repeats the name under his breath like he might lose the memory in a second. Then she affirms that, yes, she is here now. The little drake seems to perk up and gibbers happily, a throaty noise framed by his smile while his legs dance in place.

    Here?” he repeats, tilting his head like a small bird before glancing around. This is the only place that matters. It is the kindling for a great fire, he thinks. When he reaches maturity, it will burn all other nations to the ground. “Here is the beginning. Here is Pangea.

    And his smile grows, teeth clicking together excitedly as he edges closer, just barely touching his side to hers. His scales are rough but they are warm from the fire that churns within him. The child even flares a wing over her, sharing in his little makeshift blanket with her. He decides he will not eat her. Instead, maybe this one can be a friend. Clarissa had told him he should make many of these friends but there are so few that he finds himself drawn to. Or, likewise, drawn to him. Others hesitate and find him vile. He cannot see the look of repulsion on their faces but he can hear it in their voices when they speak so lowly of him.

    Here, fire will only cleanse. Others, it will consume.

    The words make sense to him and so he does not think to expand any further for her. Ghaul does not know that others do not worship the wild or the feral chaos that drives him. In fact, it has never occurred to him at all. How could they enjoy tranquility like the midnight air around them when it only makes him feel so hollow inside? How could they worship at an altar of loneliness and quiet when destruction roars for them?

    He sighs contently now with someone to share in his warmth as he listens to the crickets chirping happily.

    ghaul

    @[greta] theyre officially friends now.
    Reply
    #5
    GRETA
    I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.
    " Do you remember? "

    He is constant - a movement that does not settle, a rapid maneuver of scales and teeth and sound and thought. She is unused to this. She has only ever known the silent cage that she was placed in. Here you will stay”, he had said. “Here, you are safe”, he assured. And safe she was - a world built just for her, a safe haven, a snow globe, a map that reached to her every desire. It was silent, and solitude. Her father placed her there and fled (to where, who would ever know). Her mother had released her and then returned to her galaxies - whichever they may be. All she had known was herself - her stillness and her silence and her unknown. 

    And now here he was - a constant motion or memory or noise. His clicking and warbling an undertone in her ears since the moment she stepped foot into - here. Here. And he answers - Pangea. The world tilts her insides, spreads them thin like a liquid. Pangea. It is like a memory you have lived, but cannot remember. A word that is on the tip of your tongue, but you cannot spit out. Pangea; the beginning. She shakes her head slightly, a miniscule movement of frustration. Pangea - this is where she was beckoned to - but why? He seems so confident in the word - he knows why he is here. But why is she?

    His face alights with what looks like a promise - but he carries a crocodile grin. His teeth careen and cater to one another, sharp and clacking. Somehow, she finds that they bare no ill will, despite the look they tell. She is unsure (as she knows nothing) - how to read a letter like him that falls into her lap. He seems like a demon sent to shred her (father? Is this your work in kind?), but his body flurries towards her like a moth to flame - not to maim, but to mirror (side by side).

    Suddenly, he is beside her - settled for a moment (how still, she thinks, how unusual for this moment). His wing alights over her body and she flinches as the moon is shadowed by his mass. She starts, a tenseness stringing through her body like a wire. Too close, too close. All she has ever known is that lengthy stretch of solitude. But he is so at ease - it is as if it were a yawn, or a smile, or a peel of laughter - his wing stretched out across her. And as the moon ebbs away under the thick scale of his skin, she finds herself fading into comfort (or whatever that may be).

    Fire, he speaks of. Something all consuming and cleansing. Her eyes jolt wide at this; an unsettling comment. “Fire?” She finally speaks, filling the brief silence she has given them. She is not sure she likes this, it feels like a rough and unsteady word in her mouth (though she has never come into contact with such a feral flame before). Her body, though tense, leans into the heat of his own. As if he could protect her, as if anything could keep her safe in this world.

    The silence ebbs, and he is quiet (as is she); no throaty clicks, no sad crooning tune - simply the silence of the night.

    “Ghaul?” She questions after some time. It is that question you ask when you are fearful of being the only one awake, that your lover has drifted asleep and left you alone to the wolves and the night. It is the timid query that has been rolling in your head as you lay there awake, daring yourself to close your eyes.

    “Ghaul? I think I have been here before.”





    @[ghaul]  ... until  he eats her - ha ha!
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    #6

    do you think God stays in his heaven because he, too, lives in fear of what he has created?

    He finally stills once his wing is draped over her but he notices the way she stiffens at the initial contact. She would lay still if he crushed her throat, he thinks, but then she could not ever hold him back. Ghaul had discovered that problem when his mother’s limp body refused to groom or kiss him. But before he can really begin to weigh his options, she settles and leans into him, accepts his embrace the way he had hoped. The boy is glad that this friend does not have to die today.

    Fire,” he repeats, and lifts his chin. He huffs a short plume of flame that curls into the air and dies just as quickly as Ghaul had brought it to life. It is, perhaps, like him – gentle and warming when tamed but destructive and all consuming at its worst. In his restless dreams, he sees the entire countryside aflame with him standing over the ashes floating on the breeze. He awakes, laughing and giddy, only to find that none have perished. They will be glad to be sacrifices, he believes.

    He wants to tell her this but the words don’t come together in his mind. The child has only images and ideas all locked inside his head for only him to enjoy. Maybe it’s for the best, he thinks. Dawn had made a sad little hum whenever he tried to explain it into her in his broken language and simply kissed him goodnight. Greta may not understand his heart either.

    Still, he is at peace here in this moment and he finds himself drifting off. The only sign that he has grown tired is the steady, even breathing coming from his little reptile nostrils and the rhythmic rising of his ribs. But just as his chin begins to droop, she calls his name and he lifts his horns to look at her once more. He studies the blur of red that forms her outline and tilts his head curiously when she says his name again. Been here before? A soft, curious croon breathes from him as he continues to stare blindly.

    Another life?” he asks, touching his nose to her cheek as he examines her closer now. “Before Mother’s sacrifice, I was here. Maybe. Not sure?

    He seems to think, the muscles of his brows furrowing behind the small nubs of his young horns. When she still carried him, he dreamt of destiny and purpose. But Ghaul was never sure if that was all in the before, the after, or some other galaxy all together. The fledgling sighs against her cheek and faces forward once more as he appears to contemplate this now.

    You remember what?” he finally asks. Could she tell him how Pangea heaved with disease and filth? Was she here when the lepers were cast out and had nowhere else to go? He is too young to know what has ravaged the land long before his awful birth but he is eager for the tales. Perhaps she could even tell him how beautiful his home is in the dying light of the day.

    ghaul

    @[greta] as long as she plays the little spoon, she's safe for now.
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    #7
    GRETA
    I once held your soldier heart between my war teeth; shook it like a dog with a bone until it knew the fear of good love.
    " Do you remember? "
    There are rules, he said. (So silly, to list rules when he is what made her). Tell no one, show no hint, do not remind yourself. Of what? Of what? She had begged - tell her, you must! And he did not tell. But oh, did he show her the wickedness that his heart created; the curse she must wear like a heavy cloak, the secret that cannot be shrugged off.

    And yet; here is Ghaul, already reading the tiny cracks in her frame. Moments into meeting and he smells that scent on her - she will do anything. And neither knows the weakness - his glory is bright with the fact his mother laid still. Greta would not hold him back, for she is too frail, a tepid and milky little thing who he could thrust through with one breath. Ghaul would not know, but he could simply ask. Lay your throat to me, little one.; and so she would. His feast stands before him, and with barely a beckon (a command, really) and she would be ripe for the taking.

    How silly.
    He breathes and there is a fog in the air - an autumn morning that curls before them. A masterpiece of his own making (that is just as quickly fading away). Fire, an action to the word - something tangible and true, and she wants to peek out her tongue and almost taste it, taste him. The word sounds so steady behind his lips, while fluid and smooth a word, it sounds forceful and true spilling from the fog in his throat. He says nothing more - leaving it as this, a solitary word, a moment to split, a future to see - and so she must accept.

    The night stretches, and she calls out, and is almost startled to find him awake, answering - that soft humming voice that is stretched with slight sleep. She finds a nose to her cheek, and she is surprised how easily touch comes to her. How simple the night and a wavering moon and hot-bedded wing can make her feel so okay. The night can make you feel anything, really; a witch in disguise of stars. Night magic; she remembers, stars and streaks and the palatable taste of magic in the air (her father could make anything feel true).

    She takes a moment to think, and an almost uncognizant lean of her face towards his nose (how rapidly we fall into the touch). A kindred moment of confusion and bleary memories - who were they before they were here? This moment seems all there is to be; a meeting in the moonlight, the hot scathe of scale on her skin, fear and trepidation soothed by the desire and comfort of the embrace of another.

    “I don’t know.” There is a fringe of fury in her voice, did she ever have another life before her being tucked away in Eight’s little world?. It feels like another life - a decade ago, a yawning year of being locked away. Sacrifice - another jarring word that breaks her from her reverie. A slaughter, basking in blood, a willing act of giving. What does it mean to him? She turns her face to ask, but finds a face of frustration and fraught with thought in the face of her statement. Maybe, he too, has been here before - maybe there are things he too does not want to speak of. The thrush of heat on her cheek - and she wonders if it is the fog he can conjure from somewhere inside.

    “ I don’t know.” An admittance, this time, a defeat. And she is confused, and wrecked like a ship at sea in her thoughts - a furious aggravation of things that feel so long ago.
    “Can we just.. Can we see tomorrow?” It is a timid question, a doubt riddling every word - that they would see tomorrow, that he would stay wing draped over such a sad and sorry girl. And maybe the morning light will show her - maybe the land basked in a lighter glow will hinge on her memories. She was so tired, her legs so jaded from their journey from Eight’s forever bidden world, her mind so tangled with where she should be - was - is - here now.

    “Just.. be here tomorrow.” Her voice mumbled and soft in the peels of his scales, as she digs her nose into the crook of his neck.

    Strange - how easy it is to settle into something you have never known.







    @[ghaul] you can do the fastfowards to morning/pangea tour once you get whatever night talk you'd like out of the way!
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    #8

    do you think God stays in his heaven because he, too, lives in fear of what he has created?

    There is no part of him that knows how to be soft, how to support another creature or dry tears. Any comfort someone could gain from him is entirely coincidental. Similarly, he has not yet learned to impose his will on others nor has he learned to issue commands to girls who cannot disobey. Everything so far has been a series of little miracles all adding up to this moment. He touches her cheek only because he cannot see the features of her face and so he must map them out instead. Ghaul doesn’t really know what makes a face lovely or revolting to look at and so he likes them all equally. There is no favorite, for now.

    He almost startles when she leans against his touch but he only flinches, remaining close for her to continue to lie against. The drakeling keeps his nose right there on her temple and tries not to move much more. There is something to be learned here, he is sure, but the lesson eludes him for the time being. Perhaps a little later on he will learn that others do not share their warmth so intimately with others. They do not let their lips find the high points of another’s cheek or the delicate skin of their jawline.

    She speaks, and he tilts his head curiously when she says she does not know. His small ears turn forward to catch the sound of her anger and he delights in it. Ghaul swallows nervously and wonders if she will give in to that rage or if she will choke it down as others seem to do. But she only repeats her words and wilts as she surrenders the fight to remember. He finds himself nodding in understanding, unable to clear the blur from his own memories either.

    We will see,” he replies with a confident nod of his head, the little nubs of his horns bobbing along with the movement. “I will here. Right here.

    And then he lifts his head, watching the deep blue distance that stretches before him for miles. Part of him is still aching and hoping his own father returns for him. It feels strange, the way his anger and loneliness merge into one and settle there in his small chest. But it grows a little softer once he leans his head against her neck and tucks his chin down to doze off for a while as the blue and black of night turns to the pink and orange of dawn.

    His breaths remain smooth and even for some time, the only sign he sleeps, until a short snort announces his awakening. With dew settled across his wings and scales, he suddenly lifts his head and observes his surroundings for a moment. Ghaul spreads his wings over them in a brief stretch before tucking them tight over his back once more.

    Still here,” he says softly, mostly to himself as he checks the horizon for that familiar blur of fiery red and yellow that he knows will not come.

    ghaul

    @[greta] i almost made him say "but i cant see?"
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