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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


    darkness is coming to swallow the light; pollock
    #1
    I looked at my mother dear, didn't even crack a smile.
    Said if woman don't kill me I don't mind dying.
    Screaming.

    The jaguar king is screaming.

    His screams rip through his throat and into the surrounding space of the forest as the jaguar spotted stallion crumples to his knees and his body begins to feel like it's burning from the inside out. His body contorts in strange ways as he twists and turns trying to alleviate the pain that is ripping through him. Slowly the Magic seeped from the earth and up and around Demian, slipping into his ears nose and mouth filling him with gift from the Valley.

    Great gifts always came at a great price.

    Especially ones that were returned after being stripped away. It took close to an hour for the process of the fire to return and fill him before tying back to his soul once more. The king's breath was heavy as he laid out on the cool ground of the forest, the smell of dirt filling his nostrils as he blew heavily, kicking the dirt up slightly. His sides rose heavily and for a while he spent time focusing on his breathing, slowly taking deep breaths until his heart rate returned to normal.

    Breathe.

    He thought the word over and over until finally his breathing slowed as well and his lungs no longer burned with every breath. As soon as everything became more clear, Demian suddenly realized the warmth that was spreading through him, spreading through and up his limbs like an intricate web. Even more slowly it filled his center and spread through his organs before finally spreading up his neck and up into his head and across his face.

    The last to be touched then were his wings. Feeling the warmth gave him an extra jolt of energy and quickly he moved to his feet, his head light and airy causing a strong sense of dizziness as a burst of warmth spread through him, quickly taking his breath away. It was then that the tips of his feathers burst alive with blue, green and purple flames making it look as though he were speckled with tiny little flames.

    It was soon after that the flames went out, slowly making their way back inside and then traveling further up, weaving their way towards his sockets. Slowly the worked to form a set of eyes in the King's empty sockets and with a new sense of calm Demian allowed the fire to do it's own thing, a strong sense of happiness filling him. The pain had most certainly been worth the result. And it took only minutes before he was finally seeing once more. Though it was all in smoke and flame he could make out the close surrounding trees, the soft earth, the wild growing foliage. Looking around slowly he turned in a slow circle, taking in the close by sights before stopping his tracks as he caught sight of a face in the hazy background.

    "Hello."

    It was all that he said. He wasn't exactly sure if he was actually seeing anyone. From experience he knew that his sight by fire wasn't always reliable. And so he waits to see if he's wrong. Waits to see if someone is actually lurking in the shadows.
    D E M I A N
    html copyright to the lovely call
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    #2
    I called you to announce sadness falling like burned skin
    I called you to wish you well, to glory in self like a new monster
    And now I call you to pray


    He watches from damp shade as fire overtakes his body. His mouth and his sides and his throat, licking his shoulder blades with lust and greed. But he cannot smell roasting meat or singed horsehair. He tries, pulling in deep wafts of musty air, searching for the acridity of smoke and mouthwatering scent of him. But the fire burns clean and kind. It does not melt him to bone and black char.

    But he screams.

    He writhes.

    Pollock’s heart races.

    Another gem to adorn his greathall with. Another twisted web of bones – these scorched and masculine and hanging with cooked flesh – to join his strewed treasures and toys. He licks his lips, watching feverishly like a cat watches a mouse curl and squeal in death hollers as he holds him by his tail. When he falls to his knees, searching for something to sooth the singeing of his body, Pollock shivers and wonders if he has ever seen flame vanquish life – he has seen time and sin, and foolishness and pride, and thoughtlessness. Skulls cracked and bruised up brain tissue…  

    —well, he prefers brute force and bludgeoning, but there is a gracefulness about this, too.

    (He flinches. He thinks he remembers the smell, all right. The dance of flames from houses and from damaged machinery. He remembers plastic, melted and disfigured and sad looking. He remembers making them his, from beloved things to soldiers. And then he remembers none of it at all, but his brows furrow and he sends some savage part of him chasing that image down a fox hole.)

    Then the orange spotted man goes quiet. He breathes and the fire retreats back into his ribs and belly. He stands up and he is mightier than he was before. Where Pollock had been refashioned (and had paid no price for it at all – that had fallen squarely on the boy’s thin, feeble, naked shoulders), this man is restored. Once weakened, now something else entirely.
    He appreciates the transformation.

    The gift giver moves from his hide and to him, face to face. He does not know that he is a flicker of dark against flame and heat waves to this man, but he draws closer and then stops. You. He smiles, “hello, indeed.” For a moment the palomino revels in the one-sidedness of it all. Enjoys, for a moment, that Pollock knows him. Knew him. Had briefly brushed air with him as he spattered blood at his feet – he holds it close to him like a secret and is for a second possessive of it. 
    But this secret is better let go, he sudden thinks, though he does not yet know why. Sometimes they do not hold in their vault like well behaved things, but know when it is more lucrative (or fun) to have themselves be known.

    “You were different when I last saw you here. Less firey. I do hope you and Hestia were not too close,” his gravely voice is thick and nauseating with feigned compassion, “or her king-mate. How horrible, really. I hadn’t realized she was such a family woman, nor a royal’s whore.”
    He sows chaos and waits for the harvest.
    [Image: kkN1kfc.png]
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    #3

    With a past so dark, that Satan'd jump out of his seat.
    But still you out in these streets, thinking you hot as can be.
    Without the knowledge to lead, so you just follow the sheep.
    Making sure your lame swag is all polished and clean

    It is almost a relief when he hears the smooth voice, full of interest slip through the dark space that separated him and the unknown figure. At least he thinks the one before him is a complete stranger. Little did he know that he'd soon be standing face to face with Hestia's killer. The one he had for a while felt so much guilt for not stopping. Slowly the fire rolls within, dancing through his vein's as though caressing the body they hid within like a lover's soft kisses. Like him, they were glad to be back where they were meant to be.

    He waits silently. Watching the figure of flame and smoke move closer. He notes the unusual fluid movement of the stallion despite the flames and his lips quirk in slight smirk. Thoughts began to circle within him, thinking of how the stallion could be of use to him, could provide an extra spark the Valley needed and we're most definitely missing. Lord knows the Valley's kingdom was dying for that one personality that set them apart from the rest.

    You could almost say that Demian as a king liked to collect the most different, the weirdos, the murderers to fill the walls of the Valley. The kingdom was becoming his own personal freak-show and oh how he loved it. Eight the magician, known for his chaotic acts, his lack of morals, his plots for his own personal gain. The stallion mixed with moth, looking more like the fluttering creature in equine form. The fire stallion with a great temper and desire for personal gain to match. Cress, too sweet and gentle with a unique brokenness.. And there were more, as well as children soon to come to match their unusual differences.

    Yes, Pollock would be a glorious addition, and it is made even more solid in his mind when the Krampus made equine says what he does next. Slowly, Demian's smirk turns into a sickening smile. You'd think the gentleman king of the Valley would real back in horror, and turn and flee. But Demian's gentlemanly behavior hid his dark side all too well. Instead of running, he stands tall, not phased in the slightest.

    In fact, to be honest... He was amused.

    "I can't say I was close to her," his voice is different now. Liquid smooth, but full of dark amusement. "As I had only just met her that day." His shoulders roll in a soft shrug. "You in a way did me a favor you know." He tilts his head slightly and chuckles dryly in response to the palomino stallions next comment. "Her mate was meant to be my prodigy, yet he didn't live up to expectation." It was disappointing honestly. That Fennick hadn't been able to live up to what the Valley King had believed him able. "Yet I can't say it's much of a pity, her loss or his. Without your killing Hestia, Fennick wouldn't of lost his last reason to stick around and I wouldn't have been able to take back the throne."

    "So I have you to thank for that." Overhead the Raven's call as they swarm through the forest in search of chamberlings who had not reached the fight and the smell of burnt landscape travels with the wind. Taking a deep breath, he holds it for a moment before exhaling slowly and straightening his posture a bit. "Knowing of your capabilities, I think I may have a proposition for you." He wanted him on the Valley's side. He knew the stallion would be a perfect addition. "I would like for you to come to my Kingdom The Valley, and to join us... In return I will give you freedom and a reason to use those very interesting skills of yours."

    He pauses for a while letting what he's said sink in and for the other to mull it over in his mind. "I would like to plant a seed in your mind. An idea in other words." His voice grows quiet, only loud enough to be heard by the one in front of him. "This war has left many of the other kingdoms vulnerable. Quite terribly in fact. While mothers and fathers leave to fight in war, the children have been left protected by the weakest. Those inexperienced in fighting and defense." He pauses, allowing the tension of excitement to grow in the short space between them. He can feel the fire roll faster through his veins, and the flames swirl excitedly in his eye sockets as he thinks of it. The fire at this point is entirely fueling his ideas and thoughts. "You should use your skills against their children. Taking the lifeblood of those who fight would be a most valuable move against the other side." His smiles grows even more sickening. "You would become a nightmares tale to naughty children." What was a better way for him to be remembered from the war?

    demian.

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