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    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


    Normal People Scare Me; Violence, Any
    #1
    Normal people scare him. Yes, exactly. He loathed those whom were not gifted, quite like his mother. But his father was an entirely different story, he had red eyes sure but, that was just a birth defect that was passed onto himself. Although there was one small problem. His father couldn't necessarily handle his ability. Yes truly pathetic in his mind. But at least his gift allowed him to escape the painstakingly boring herd land his father called his own. That's not just the best part. He was out and free on his own and he was prepared to start some trouble.

    His body concealed with his gift of wondrous invisibility. He began on the prowl and stalk his victims. Many of the children within the field didn't see him coming. Yes, he was still learning his gift and, yes his body would not always stay concealed. It would flutter in and out in some circumstances and in others he would stay completely concealed. 

    His jaw would clamp upon multiple clumps of fur and flesh, ripping bloody peices out of multiple foals causing them to screach in extreme agony. His silvered tail lashed as he appeared behind a petite filly. Blood drenched his muzzle, almost the exact color of his eye candy red pools that skillfully examined his victim. She was small, and ever so easy to sneak up on.

    Until, the girl decided to whirl around. His Crimson eyes locked with hers as she gasped in a pathetic tone. He didn't care. Not that he was spotted out that there were now multiple pools of blood upon the ground from his drenched muzzle. This is when he needed his ability most. He tried to conceal himself yet, it all brought him to err. He was now surrounded, his build flickering in trial to disappear.

    He had never found a crowd of foals like himself to be typically horrifying. But the fact that his gift was backfiring made it even more terrifying.

    As he said normal people scare me.

    In a great effort the wretched eyed boy, kicked in concentration. Finally achieving his concealment once more, the silver dappled boy weaved through the crowd. His blood red eyes searching through gaps between foals, as he easily escaped the horde of watchful eyes of children.

    His concealment fluttered once more traveling him a distance away from the others. He was alone. It seems his discord actions were over for the moment. He would just have to aimlessly sit about like a pathetic creature quite like the others socializing about.

    He wasn't scared of them. It was those who were normal that frightened him, that fuels his anger to real havik upon the ungifted. Normal people scared him.
    WAYLAN
    -NORMAL PEOPLE SCARE ME-

    @[Cassi]
    Reply
    #2

    violence


    She is:
    Daughter of a magician and a monster, a never-should-have-been, a girl birthed bloody under a gibbous moon. She nursed on milk that never tasted right on the tongue and cut herself on her mother’s sharp bones.
    (Mother dressed like a sword, sharpened every angle until nothing soft was left.)
    She’s black like her mother but the resemblance ends there: she is not so sharp, not so angled.
    She’s black like her father but the resemblance ends there: spikes don’t trail down her spine, she is more horse than alien.

    She is:
    A child born under foul stars, who one day spoke bones out from the earth and made them dance about her. A thing her mother watched quietly until she made the skull spin about, made it stare dead-on at her mother and made its mouth open as if to howl.
    She brings forth the dead, first just bones – small ones – and then larger ones, until she can assemble entire skeletons. Corpses aren’t far behind. She grows stronger every day.
    And that’s not all – her mind wanders idly from her body and jumps into others. She does this to her father and finds his mind strange and foreign.
    (When she attacks her mother in her father’s body, no one finds it amusing, but she still has the taste of a smile in her mouth.)

    She is:
    A girl cast out, because mother tired quickly of her antics and the clack of bones.
    (It didn’t take mother much to shatter the bones, turn them to powder, but Violence could always find more. In a land so old, there was no shortage of bones.)
    And the castaways and cast-offs have a way of wandering, which is what she does now. She looks normal, today, no bones follow her, even though she can feel them in the earth, calling to her.
    Nothing unfolds, a boy flickering in and out of sight, indistinct as a candle-flame. She smells a bit of blood – too fresh to be of much interest to her – and traces it back to the boy.
    (It’s not an unfamiliar smell, or a particularly unpleasant one. But she only cares for flesh when she inhabits her father, sits in the skin and thinks hunt. In her normal state, she prefers things already dead.)
    “What are you doing?” she asks idly, eyeing him with a mild curiosity.

    I'd stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips

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    #3
    He was surprised by the fact that a simple little filly had just wandered up to him like a first-class meal. His dark chocolate lobes prick to her words, his figure flickering in and out as he slowly took a moment to gather his words. Crimson dyed orbs examine her frame as he held his tongue quietly processing, the fact that someone wasn't completely horrified of him. Why hadn't she been event a tad bit scared? Blood dripped from his muzzle as he opened his lips, allowing a bit of blood to drip into his mouth."Playing with my food." He answered in a muted tone, it was quite casual but yet again was he one to speak? No.

    His focus remained on her, there was an unearthly vibe that seemed to through her body, causing him to become curiouser and curiouser."Who are you to ask?" He snorted as he rolled his shoulder blades in a relaxed manner.

    If his father was here, he would tell the boy to choose a pick up line. Something classing, and over used by his father like:'what's a pretty thing like you doing all out and alone?' Truth be told. Everything he heard from his father was probably a lie, considering Waylan himself was just another toy in the old man's toy box to play with.

    He stared at the girl quietly. She was normal but, still why would she walk up to him? Out of curiosity driven by a naive voice within her head? This was not possible, everyone was scared of him, even his own mother. But why wasn't she?
    WAYLAN
    -NORMAL PEOPLE SCARE ME-

    OOC: This is crap. I just wanted to get a post up for you.
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    #4

    violence


    She is not scared because she rode lived in her father’s feral mind, where thoughts were condensed into the basest things. hunt and feast and kill. She lived in its (always it, never he) mind while it hunted prey – hunted meat - and she recalls with a vivid clarity how easy flesh tears and how, when dying, so many things sound the same.
    She had returned to the kill site, later, the earth strewn in blood and bone. She recreated the creature with what was left – there wasn’t much – and chased mother with its skull.

    She isn’t scared because with one push she could jump into the boy’s queer mind and make him dance for her, a puppet on her strings.
    (She thinks. She hasn’t possessed much other than the feral shell of her father, who is simple, an easy toy.)

    He responds playing with my food and a fleck of blood flies form his lips like spittle. She finds it all quite messy, prefers her things to be bleached bone. But she doesn’t leave. Not yet.
    He questions her and in response she stands taller. She is a child yet, and she is not all sharp angles as her mother is, but she comes birthed from monsters and magicians, a girl who speaks bones from the earth and laughs among the dead, and she is not a thing to be questioned.
    “I am Violence,” she says, “and I am so much more than you.”
    She does not say this haughtily, though perhaps the words suggest otherwise. She says it calmly – she does not know him, does not know his lineage, but she has the self-assured righteousness of the young.

    From the earth, she begins to pull forth the bones. Most are simple woodland creatures – common collateral damage of living amongst those who fancy themselves mad – but there are some larger things, wolves and such. She finds a whole wolf, mostly rotted, and calls her forth. The creature obeys, the skeleton piecing itself together, and it walks to the woman who summons it.
    The bones clatter as she is flanked by the wolf, bones held together by her macabre magic. The wolf’s skull is aimed at the boy but the sightless eye-sockets see nothing, long ago emptied by crows.
    There is no fear here.

    I’d stay the hand of god, but war is on your lips

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