"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
11-25-2015, 12:05 AM (This post was last modified: 11-25-2015, 12:10 AM by Sid.)
Lightning strikes overhead, bringing a snarl to the previously chestnut woman (her own unique signal for another entering the afterlife). Those velveteen lips, however, have taken on the silvery sheen that everyone here seems to find irritatingly fashionable. Tea-cup ears pressing into her skull, Peccatrice Dea snaps her teeth angrily at the empty, domed sky; the lightning is only a nightmare, there is no weather here.
Whip-like tail snapping around her voluptuous hips, the ferociously small woman shakes off the terrors of her beforelife (her fancy, cynical word to contrast the ‘afterlife’). Ignoring the slight flutter of her heart which always comes when her death scene plays in her head (though for a very unusual reason), the once-queen pushes herself to a canter, though in this land, the movement floats and sways. After decades here, however, Peccatrice Dea has grown accustomed to its strange ways.
Aiming for the usual entrance-place of the freshly dead (hah), the silver-fire woman downplays the increasing flutters of her heart. She denies passionately that it is one of fear, though she also refuses to take hope. Decades, it has been decades, and still wife nor daughter has shown their faces. And for this she is glad! She is so glad…
…Well, Kotaro’s immortality is a bit of a piss off to be honest. BUT! She is doubtlessly glad that Trissy hasn’t shown up yet. Not that she exactly loves the idea of having never met her daughter, but Peccatrice Dea begrudges her midnight daughter the chance to have a life.
Surging with little effort through the crowd who has gathered around the Spot, as she calls it, the vixen stands on her tip toes to get a better view of the new arrival. Huffing in disdain, she politely bites two large males out of her way until, at last, she comes to the very front row.
Kotaro!
Onyx eyes nearly bulging out of her Arabic skull, Peccatrice Dea bolts forwards as fast as this land allows. One moment their eyes are connected by titanium, and the next, the two petite women are ensnared, or rather, the chestnut has swallowed the bay in her tightest, most sensual, exuberant, nearly-peeing-herself hug.
She laughs. It’s drowned by the sounds of chattering ghost voices, but she hears it in her bones. Well isn’t this just the funniest shit she’s encountered. Kotaro never figured herself to be one to pass off into the next lifetime, especially when her immortality kept her firmly grounded and beautiful in Beqanna. She’d figured once Peccatrice exploded into the next world she would never see her again, per the rules of life. But life – or maybe the magic of Beqanna – had other ideas.
A mare with the soul of timelessness becomes the prey, and then her constant flow of lifeblood is chewed in half by the jaws of someone who will inherit it. Just like that, Kotaro is no longer of Beqanna’s living world. Just like that, Kotaro no longer has to wonder about her dear lover. Just like that, Kotaro’s suffering and mourning is put to a sudden, jarring end.
So when she blinks open dark eyes to see a gray, hazy world, she laughs. Everything is ironic and funny and paper-thin. There’s a minor crowd, all looking to see what new ghost baby the living world has birthed. Who they are (a family member or child or lover or queen or king or old friend or perhaps someone magical or perhaps someone alive) and where they’re from and how they got here. The whispers stir but she doesn’t hear them because her laughter is echoing in her recently-deceased ears.
It stops dramatically short when she spots that face she didn’t expect to ever see. It’s a face that used to be lying in bits and pieces and chunks the last time she saw it. It’s a face she’s seen every day since her lover’s death. The face gets closer, suddenly, and then they are touching. It feels odd – less solid and more fluttering and brief – but Kotaro accepts it nonetheless. She notes that the scars on her shoulders (deep, constantly aching scars from cursed wings given by her lover) no longer cause a dull throb, but it is hardly noticeable compared to Peccatrice’s body wrapped around hers.
Oh goodness, how much she’s missed that tight little body.
Ever the sarcastic one (even to their reunion), Kotaro replies roughly, “No, I’m not. I’m just a random rock you’re hugging and crying and slobbering over.” Then her mouth tightly crooks into a genuine, rare smile and she pulls Peccatrice closer. “I didn’t think I’d see you again, babe.”
