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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


    ask no questions - lilin, any
    #1
    Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies
    She comes back with as little fanfare as when she left. Though she doesn’t remember the journey back. She only remembers Death’s sweet, soft touch. Remembers falling asleep beneath that touch, remembers the peace that sleep brought. No more pain, no more fear, no more running. Just beautiful, quiet sleep.

    Her raven is the thing to wake her, cawing like a maniac now that it’s found her again. It’s black feather’s brush against her, examining cuts and scrapes. She mostly don’t care, till it’s wing brushes against her cracked ribs, and even that light pressure makes her screech. The raven stops, pulling its wings back and tucking them to it’s side, suddenly very silent as it looks at her with intense, beady black eyes. “Hello, Mother,” she says softly, knowing her mother is behind those eyes now.

    Certainly, her disappearance didn’t go unnoticed. Raven would have told Mother, and Mother has probably had an army of raven’s looking around Beqanna for her. Or maybe not. Maybe Mother has simply been waiting for her to return. Weaver sits up slowly, wanting more than anything to go back to sleep. Death had been a beautiful thing, truthfully. Well at least, death had hurt a whole lot less than she hurts now.

    Her eyes travel to where the raven seems to be staring. Blue markings, the color of death and mimicking those on the four seals, swirl on her chest. They are faint, but they are there. She is the seal now. She knows this with a certainty she shouldn’t have, but she knows it anyway. She holds Death at bay. What a heavy burden for a child so small, but Weaver doesn’t find to be too heavy for her to bear.

    The raven’s gaze goes blank again for a moment, and then it takes to the sky above her, perching in a nearby tree. Apparently Mother isn’t too worried about her. Or else she’s on her way to collect the girl. Weaver never really knows for sure.

    But then she spots the girl without a name. Sister, they call her. How long has Weaver been gone? Has it only been moments in Beqanna, or has so much time passed that Lilin has come and gone, and Weaver just happened to pop back in at the same time? “Sister!” she calls, not knowing what else to call the mare. She’s still on the ground, but she gets to her feet slowly now. Her side is a wash in pain, her black and white coat painted with blood and dirt and dried sweat.

    Her steps are slow but steady enough, crossing whatever distance Lilin doesn’t cross. Weaver, if she were any other girl, would probably start with the more obvious topic of “how long has it been since I disappeared to save the world?”, or something of the like. But instead, she asks. “Do you have an actual name, or should I really call you Sister?”

    weaver

    weed and straia's chamber princess

    Reply
    #2
    She had disappeared. 

    Just like that. 

    Like nothing Lilin had ever seen before. Not like when brother had changed, because he had never really disappeared. Or, maybe for a second… quicker than her mortal eyes could ever hope to see. And then he was different in every way. But still here

    His transformation had been mighty frightening. But complete and utter erasure from this world? That is scarier by far. Scarier by far because she can at least conceive of beasties, with their claws and sharp dentition, but not of this. This fell beyond the realm of her imagination, wild as it is. Weaver had been gone in a blink, with no mote of weird particles left falling to the dust where her feet had been – no shadow cast, lingering on the ground, to entertain the idea that she had ever been in that spot at all. The blue girl had spooked back, her ears pressing tight against her neck. “W-W-Weaver?” she whispered, rattling out of her tight throat.
    Then, the bird had swooped low, dove straight down with a panicked caw.
    She screeched and turned, ducking into the tangled thicket.

    And, there she stayed, growing cold in the clutch of damp shade, but unable to move. She wasn’t sure why, because everything told her to find mother. To find brother. To go back to that pinewood and pretend as if she had never seen a thing. But she stayed hunkered down, peering out between tall grass and blackberry bushes, breathing hard and feverishly turning that moment over and over in her head. 
    Once or twice, a great, noisy unkindness of ravens flew above, their croaks and haws coming together like a knot in her stomach.

    One landed, stirring up dust and loose, dry grass. It’s beady eyes searched the ground with jerking movements. Then, she swears, it had looked straight at her. Held for a moment before taking wing again.

    The ravens stopped coming in big, black clouds. Appearing now and then in single, wicked flights instead. The fear unraveled itself, in time – replaced by a sort of churning between curiosity and worry. She shifts and steps slowly (carefully, quietly to avoid inciting those terrible birds) from the now deepening shadows and into some warmth. She has kept vigil, she thinks, because at any moment… well, Weaver could come back.

    ‘Sister!’ Lilin turns her head, wary and unsure if she even wants to respond – but the young do not play in indecision, or at least, she does not. It takes only a second. A conflagration of inquisitiveness and without thinking she moves towards the voice. “Weave...” she calls out, and then the gap is closed and the blue girl’s brow furrows and the tail end of her name is caught behind the clenching of Lilin’s teeth.

    She wants to ask her what has happened.
    She thinks, for a moment, that she has seen something like this (but not... nothing quite like this). Smelled something similar but she cannot quite recall. “It’s just ‘sister’...” she mutters, her little hooves shifting anxiously, drawing concerned little circles and lines. “So, are you... okay?” She does not look at the queer glyph on her chest. 

    Actively avoids looking at it, in fact.

    LILIN.
    Michealis and Aurane’s
    ****Steps taken forwards, but sleepwalking back again.
    Dragged by the force of some inner tide.
    Reply
    #3
    Ask no questions, and you'll be told no lies
    “You need a name,” she says, very matter of fact. As if Weaver has some right to decide this at all. She doesn’t, but it doesn’t stop her from saying it. “Shall we pick one for you?” Again, she doesn’t actually ask if Lilin wants a name other than Sister. Doesn’t care. She just assumes. Assumes that she has some right that was never bestowed on her.

    One might think staring Death in the face would have made her proud. But that’s not the case. She would have said the same thing before dying. Before her awful journey to purgatory. Before Conquest (even the phantom thought of that headache makes her wince), before War, before Famine, before Death. Death is the only one that doesn’t scare her all that much. Death is the only one she can think on. Perhaps because his touch had been almost kind. Perhaps because she now hold sthe power to overcome him (though she doesn’t know this bit, yet).

    If anything has changed about the girl, perhaps she is just a bit softer than she would have been before.

    Lilin asks if she’s okay, and now, without the topic of Lilin’s name at hand, there’s little for Weaver to hide behind. She considers saying ‘of course’, like disappearing out of the blue and stopping the Apocalypse is just no big deal. But she kind of likes Lilin and doesn’t feel like being the world’s ass at that very moment. Because honestly? “No. Yes. I don’t know, honestly. A few broken ribs, I think. More cuts and bruises than I can count. And I think I now carry an ancient rune designed to stop Death.” She shakes her head, the words sort of tumbling out at her poor, unsuspecting companion. “How long was I gone?”

    One hell of a trip to the playground, huh?

    weaver

    weed and straia's chamber princess

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