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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


    watch earth b u r n >> kersey + kult
    #1

    this isn't mischief

        He walks slow and steady (yet with a dance in his feet, a limp to his long strides, and a bounce in his gangly legs). Although it is the heat of summer, he can feel the nip of fall approaching steadily. It won’t be long until the green leaves will melt into yellow and orange and red (and then snap to the ground, to crackle as he steps across them). It won’t be long until the humid breeze will whip into a blustery one (one that pulls against his shoulders and sends him seeking shelter). It won’t be long until fall will morph into winter and then winter bleed into summer and another year will have passed.

        Although it is the heat of summer, he is always looking ahead.

        He comes to a halt (an entirely ungraceful one, but a halt nonetheless) beside a lazy stream. Flickers of fish dance among the shallows, their bodies shifting quickly before one might hit the other. He wonders, briefly, how they might know their company is too close for comfort (intuition or instinct or movement or senses or thoughts). With a smirking lift of his lips, the trickster takes a hoof and splashes it roughly into the water. The fish vanish, leaving behind only a wake of ringlets from his movement.

        The cool of the water is refreshing on his leg (especially while the humidity of summer presses against his flanks and burns at his skin). The trickster drops his muzzle to drink down some of the stream’s portion. When he raises his head, he finds himself royally bored. No problem. Someone will find him eventually. Or he might have to find someone.

    lokii

    this is mayhem

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    #2

    This meadow is disorganized. It reeks of a hundred more horses than I have ever seen in one place. It was a good choice for my first foray out of the cove. I had not wanted to leave until my physical strength had grown. Being a child is tiresome. Even now, at a little over a year old, I am still leggier and slimmer than I wish to be. Adulthood creeps towards me at a disgustingly slow pace. I envy Kirin and Nicia in an offhand way.

    So many of these creatures are beneath my notice. Not only do they not carry a trace of the great god's blood or favor, they squander the potential of their lives with peace and harmony. So much more is to be learned in strife and pain. My eyes glitter with remembered agony, the gasp of awakening and arousal, the burning touch upon my neck. I crave it and I am willing to stretch my limits. Not one of my subjects has the stamina that I do.

    Kult stalks behind me. We are better in pairs, my siblings and I. There are those who would tear us from our exalted place, or think to take advantage of our youth. Both would be grave mistakes. Kult would probably enjoy such an action on another's part. I know I would. A slow smile stretches across my orchid purple features. I imagine with great relish the taking apart of a body as complex as the equine one. Seals are as advanced as I have become in my studies.

    I stop briefly and glance at my brother, the bay one. He looks unassuming. It is well that he does, but one would be an idiot to think he has no strengths. I am the flashy one, the one who draws eyes first. It's my role. I distract the prey with a smile. Kult decimates them. And then I pull them apart and learn.

    But today, we are both free of blood (although the smell never really leaves us), and reasonably appropriate. Kult seems to be leaving the leading up to me, although his age is greater than mine. Whether by conscious choice or not, he tends to follow. I take control easily, choosing a stallion drinking at a stream, his legs being lapped at by the water.

    I approach, brother in tow. My body is young but my eyes are filled with knowledge.

    Hello.” I offer with a touch of amusement. “Kersey, and that is Kult.” I glance at his feet. “Fish seem a poor choice of adversary. They submit far too easily.

    I would know.


    K E R S E Y
    the academic executioner
    daughter of carnage and killgore

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    #3



    He doesn't often leave the confines of the Cove. He doesn't really need to. Their little slice of Beqanna held all he could require, most of what he could want. None of them really needed to leave, but sometimes the herd was too quite, or mundane. Sometimes, one just needed a change of pace to spark life back into them.

    It is not unusual to find him trailing after his younger sister, Kersey. The two siblings had formed a camaraderie, filling each others needs, giving each other purpose. He was the trap, she was the surgeon, delicately undoing the seams of his catch. Kult did not posses any sense of delicacy, everything about him was coarse, urgent. And so, when Kersey had announced that she was traveling to the Meadow, Kult was quick to tailgate.

    They traded the salt filled air of the shore, for the fragrance of wild flowers and a million horses. Some of which were no longer even present, not for a while. Like any place filled with potential victims, the Meadow was still a feast for the two black pits he called eyes. Even as ravenous as it made him, hot breath expels from his lungs in distaste for those gathered. He trails behind the female, crawling, snaking across the grass lands;head and neck slung low. He wove as if stricken with back problems, a prowling, out of place gait. However, Kult's back was perfectly fine, straight as an arrow.

    Against his sisters vivid shocks of orchid, he was an unremarkable fading, flat bay. The tree-bark brown lacked luster, was made even more dull by the peppering of rose-grey to take its place. Even his eyes were black, void and unyielding. An irregular star sprawls beneath his clouding forelock in a letter 'x'. He only watches silently as Kersey leads them to a lone stallion, standing against the gentle stream that runs back the way they came. When she stops to introduce them, he walks to the bank peering into the cloudy water below. The stream bed has been recently disrupted, grains of sand still floating near the surface, not yet settled to the bottom where they belong. He does not add much to the conversation, the exchange of names has been taken care of, but he does give something. A single word of expression, "fish," he says with a crooked grimace. He was equally unamused with the poor entertainment of marine life.


    Khaos x Killgore
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    #4

    this isn't mischief

        They are an odd pair. The trickster notices them easily (it’s hard not to, with his knowledge of things evil and chaotic) – the purple and the bay, the girl and the boy, the surgeon and the nurse. He’s always had a knack for noticing kindred spirits (although there are many similar to his, none are quite so demandingly mischievous as the kindred spirits tied to him might be) and this time is no different. However, he pretends he didn’t notice them as they draw closer. They are still young (still inexperienced to the shadows of life, still cocooned in the protection of relative innocence and mothering, still unharmed by the harsh lights of the world), something he notices as they stop close to him.

        She speaks of fish and submitting and he already wonders just who she might be. Does she toy with the minds of simple creatures like he does (grunting with delight as they contort and squeal in terror)? Does she train in the middle of the night until she is sharpened to kill like he does (deep in the darkness, when only the nightcrawlers stir, with sweat rolling down his sides)? Does she smirk with immense pleasure at the thought of tricks and mischief like he does (enjoying the thrill of death and destruction and chaos almost too much)?

        “Lokii,” he offers for his name, glancing between the pair of them curiously. Bruised eyes (black and blue in the right, white and blue in the left) linger on the colt for a moment when he only offers one word. Then his lips slide into that devilishly familiar smirk of mischief. “Would you like to see something more impressive?” he asks. Without waiting for her answer, it happens.

        At first, there is silence. Then there is a loping shaking of the earth (a three-beating sound of something beating toward them). As the thing gets closer, there is a panting and a low growling. When the thing breaks the tree-line, it is taller than any of three of them, covered in hair, and colored a deep, russet brown. A bear. The trickster’s mind works with a practiced ease to trick the bear into thinking there is something comforting for it here (perhaps a home or its cubs or a safe haven) so it doesn’t eat them. But then he smirks and gives the bear the image that the filly and colt are its cubs.

        “Looks like Momma Bear found her cubs,” he says casually, just as the bear steps across the stream and pads close to the pair. The bear’s teeth are bare from running, revealing pink gums and sharp, creamy white teeth very capable of tearing through their hides like butter and a knife. “Don’t worry, she won’t hurt you.” Rather than shredding the pair, the momma bear goes to curl around them and pull them close to her body, emitting generously warm grunts to ensure they know they are safe.

        As long as she doesn’t know they are really equines, not bear cubs.

    lokii

    this is mayhem

    Reply
    #5
    He ponders, and it makes my eyes glow with academic interest. Here is one who thinks, who studies, who takes the time to research before committing his actions to paper. Lokii. I take in his name and store it. I am waiting for more. Of course there will be more. One such as this will not let his name alone satisfy. So when the question of something more impressive falls from his sly lips, I do not reply. He ought to know what my response would be.

    I do not tense, although truly anything could happen in this world of misguided magicians who consider themselves gods (unlike the true god, the iron god, our father). The lines of my body are expectant, bordering on rapture. Air moves quickly through my nose, and my eyes widen. I am acutely aware of the blood pumping through my heart.
    It is not fear I feel.

    A bear appears. I have not seen one before, but I have heard of them. It lumbers forth on all fours, a mass of disheveled hair and yellow teeth and hooked claws. It could kill me, if it wished, but I do not think it does. Or rather, I decide as I look over the unassuming appearing companion by my side, he does not wish it to. They are connected, although I do not yet know how. I will.

    The bear tucks my brother and I to its side like we are its own kind. That does surprise me. My purple eyes flash and then glint with amusement. A bear, after all, might be a far more benevolent mother than my own.

    And what if I wished it to hurt?” I ask evenly, absently, reaching out my nose to touch the heaving sides of the bear. She is massive, and smells of musk and earth and damp. I wonder what she would like torn to pieces.

    I turn my gaze to Lokii.
    Tell me. How does she come to listen to you?


    K E R S E Y
    the academic executioner
    daughter of carnage and killgore

    Reply
    #6



    The man accepts them in stride, looking at them both before he makes an offer Kult can not refuse. Did they want to see something more impressive? Well, he surely did not need to be asked. He reveled in observing the destruction of the inferior, and the world held so many inferior beasts. He knew this to be true, because they were the Children and God was their Father.

    Kult blinks up at the man, waiting for this grand feat to grace their eyes. He responds with a hissed "Yes." and wonders what they will be shown. The answer finds them soon enough, a rumble, a shake from the treeline catches his flat glare. The sounds that emanate from the cover spark curiosity, Kult has never seen a bear. The Cove is not a common place to find such animals, and none had shown a liking to the craggy shore thus far.

    He takes it in, the rotund, four legged animal that stampedes towards them. The body is covered in hair, the ears sit as round half-circles against the sides of its wide head. Its a striking looking animal, perhaps because it is so new, but the fading bay holds firm his ground.

    The creature halts before the man and only then does the boy believe he holds dominion over it. The mass of fur moves in, much quicker than he had expected, wrapping himself and Kersey close to its body. He grimaces deeply, his two dark voids boring into the one called Lokii. He hated to be touched, trying his best to recoil from the shaggy she-beast, her warm, damp breathe entirely revolting. Even with his sister pressed so tightly against him he cringed, angered at how he had been forced into such an action. Under normal circumstances, Kult would never be found in such close proximity to another being. Not unless he was the one to do the touching. He would never voluntarily be pulled into a bear hug, offer someone a comforting touch, bump muzzles in greeting.

    He seethed, quite unlike Kersey, who only inquired what would happen if she wanted the animal to hurt. He swung his head to her, huffing in displeasure, "Yes." He gives her, lifting his legs one by one, and slamming them into the earth with his irritation. He wanted nothing to do with this mother-animal's coddling.


    Khaos x Killgore
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