"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
07-25-2018, 10:57 AM (This post was last modified: 07-26-2018, 12:55 PM by Neo.
Edit Reason: Third place reward
)
@[Casia]/ @[Virgo]
Welcome to your finale!
Here is where your story ends.
Remember your weakness?
This is your antidote that will bring you back to BQ...
(If that is what you want)
Though when you return,
you may not remain the same as before.
Prompts:
*While engaged in your task, you encounter your weakness
(how it affects your character is completely up to you)
*You can return to BQ by way of the antidote or remain lost in your alter world forever
Or die... (all deaths should be epic right?!)
Word Ct: Unlimited
Due: August 10th 2359(11:59pm) board time
-Why this day? Cuz its my birthday bishes -
This is your final chapter and each of you will receive a prize,
but the winner will have the ultimate reward!
RULES:
As before.
@[Sabra] is eliminated for not completing the task within time.
- You suddenly begin to tremor as the energy filling the area surrounding you turns violent. Lightning streaks begin to extend from your body and incinerate anything they touch. The turbulent clouds rolling above begin to circle around a center hole... A black hole. Beings and inanimate objects alike are sucked skyward and disappear into the darkness. You are last to leave this place, but eventually you levitate towards the opening and are deposited in another dimension... A familiar dimension. You are surrounded by those you love most when you awaken with tortured screams. They attempt to console you but the memories are deeply imbedded in your conciousness. The first thing they notice is the eery white glow of your eyes. They gasp in horror and you see the fear creased on their faces. Even the physical scars remain of your imprisonment and torment... May peace find you once again but I doubt it
Since she came in third she will receive a 0-spaced trait of Glowing. If you'd like to keep the trait please post in updates!
It’s nearing the end for our Evil Queen; her heart falters in its cage, an organ once so strong now utterly vanquished.
The powerful gust of winter wind sent from the Faerie’s own hand feels like a million stab wounds on each of Casia’s bodies. She wonders, as her duplicates are tossed so flimsily, if she’d ever meant anything to the Faerie: if the years… the decades… the century that they’d spent together, had been meaningful at all. Her nose is snotty as her head jostles against the nondescript ground, eyes tearful though she’d rarely ever been known to cry.
But come to think of it, the only times she had ever cried had been for the Faerie. Whether in mirth, or in misery, or in anger; she’d been the only one to receive such vulnerability from the once regular mare. Once regular, and now? Forever written in history as but a tool for Ascension in the realm of Beqanna’s rightfully cruel hierarchy of Faeries…
Regina Atra. Sacrifice.
“You always have, my love.”
Flimsy last words, flimsy little girl: how dreadful an end to have come to after everything she went through. A sex slave to a greedy pilgrim, really, it doesn’t sound romantic when phrased as such; but even as she staggers to her thin limbs with the determination of one already dead, she knows that’s not how she would phrase it, even now. Even as the silver-blood Faerie breathes with a ragged, passionless anger towards her, Casia knows that’s not how she would phrase it.
It was love. It was an adventure. And it had always, always been the Faerie’s story; she’d known that ever since day one. And she was grateful to have ever been even a side character in her lover’s epic tale.
As the distance between them closes, so too does the window of patience and calm that had briefly remained in the Faerie’s eyes. It’s tragic, really; just as the little, ghostly figure opens her mouth to breathe a last confession of eternal love, her winter master raises a bloody hand before slashing it across her body. The stroke of death is hollow; an ironic slap to a face well used to physical intimacy.
Around the heaving Faerie, the little replicas of her earthly figure gently dissolve, one by one as the fall to their knees and then into nauseating clumps of skinny legs and snivelling eyes. Though there seemed infinite duplicates before, to her Ascending eyes, there could now never be enough of them: she scrambles over bodies and slips right through them as they dissolve, straining to reach the last of them. It’s not long before no more than she can count on her fingers remain; and it’s even shorter before she holds the last of Casia in the palm of her hands.
Where her winter-cold fingers touch, soft splotches of purple glowingly appear.
But for all the symbolism and for all the romance, her death is no more than any other. We all pass at some point; we all make the journey. It’s those left in our wake that truly suffer, they who must hold our bloodless bones and remember a colour on our faces that will never be there again. We are rarely the heroes of our own stories… But always, always we are the words written on the very pages of others’.
“Regina Atra…” But no Evil Queen could answer.
Come, Winny. The name, so ancient now, feels as hollow as the face clasped between her bleeding hands. A gentle weight settles on her shoulder; the Matriarch. As you once christened this child, so too do I christen you: Winter Faerie. Shed your past self and feel the weightlessness of Ascension filling your being. You have completed your Pilgrimage; you have Sacrified your Offering; and now, you will sit among those who make and who unmake, who give life - and death. The Faerie feels her hands dragged against their will away from her lover’s breathless face. With tear-filled eyes, she watches as the last of the colour she’d bestowed upon Casia so long ago finally and completely drains; and in the next moment, her tiny figure (their tiny figure) dissolves along with the rest, leaving her empty.
Leaving her capable of her newfound duties.
Turning, she closes her eyes; the weightlessness; it fills her.
Stepping forward…
She Ascends.
---
Years pass, or perhaps it’s decades; maybe even a century. Those who determine the very particles which make up Beqanna often forget how to tell mortal time, seasons blending into a slew of colours that seem almost indecipherable the more they swirl together; but it’s not the timing that the Winter Faerie returns for.
It’s the stream.
With a cloud of breath rising from her shuddering mouth, she kneels down next to the very spot that she began her Pilgrimage. The water would chill any other to the bone, but to her, it feels normal; familiar. She glances upwards but once, as if to check if another higher power might be watching her; but the Matriarch is elusive and often caught up elsewhere, usually in the doings of her Pilgrims and their Offerings.
Of course, the Winter Faerie isn’t naive enough to think that her actions will forever go unnoticed; but perhaps, by the time they call attention to themselves, too long will have gone by to warrant reprimand.
It’s a simple magic, all this time later. As easy as changing the colour of a mortal’s coat.
“Casia…” She smiles, tears in her eyes for the first time in centuries. “Be free.”
As her hands lift from where she’s resculpted the soul of her epic lover into that same, lovely, beautiful physical self, two splotches are left white. Her Evil Queen won’t know why - in fact, she won’t know anything besides her own name - but she will know.
And, even from high above in the clouds, she will always be watching.
Casia awakens.
casia
word count: 1000 ish
*while trying to kill the Faerie, Casia encounters winter magic that hurts and then kills her.
*she dies, and is then returned to Beqanna by her rogue lover (unbeknownst to her) at an undetermined later time.
there’s no part of scripture that ever prepared you for his hands - hands that map
a communion in the cradle of your hips. hands that kiss hymns up your sides.
A few drops of navy blue blood drool from her chin while her lower lip quivers in fear. She does not know if she is strong enough to save the little mole from the grievous wound she has inflicted on him. His breathing is ragged and he grows weaker by the second, but she knows she must try at the very least. Meanwhile, the other moles have taken to bowing around their goddess and their dying friend while they hum what must be hymns. Even in the chaos, the sound is oddly soothing to her troubled soul, but there is work to be done.
Virgo reaches down and touches her lips to the bleeding mole’s stomach where she ripped the tender muscle from him. She reaches into the hivemind and borrows everything they know of these worshippers. As the nerves and tissue weave themselves across the gap, centuries of memories flood her mind. They have always longed for her arrival, going so far as to carve her form into the stones that protrude from the sand. The hive children wove tales of their goddess’ greatness and taught them the songs to greet her with. Every day of their lives revolved tirelessly around their worship of her. While some may find this devotion as great praise for their ego, Virgo finds herself humbled. She finds herself so small in the shadow of their devotion. How could she be worthy of such love?
But a paw is touching her face and she is drawn from the memories of the swarm. The weakened mole is thanking her in his strange tongue, sideways mouth still beaming up at her with such gratitude and joy. She’s surprised at how soft his skin is against hers, how warm he is even in the dead of a desert night. The girl leans her head into his strange little hand and sighs in relief that he has survived. He returns to his people and joins them in their bows.
Now what?
What next?
Another test?
The children murmur amongst one another as they come to terms with the miracle they have witnessed before them. Their votes are cast and the sound is like trying to pick out a single voice in a senseless crowd, but it doesn’t take long before they begin to chant sister, sister, sister. They spring from the ground in a burst of sparkling silver sand and crowd her so quickly that the moles are skittering to make way for them without being tread upon. Each child giggles and runs their fingers across her slick glass and ink skin while the shimmering silver moles join in their celebrations. They don’t understand the reason for such rejoicing, but they too are overwhelmed with glee.
“Where shall we go next, then?” Virgo asks in between her own laughter. The question does not interrupt their celebrations but rather adds to their excitement. One sister, particularly smaller than most, hugs herself around one of Virgo’s raptor legs and listens patiently to the others’ ideas and suggestions of planets or galaxies. Her cherub face frowns at the idea of leaving their flock, however.
“What about them?”
Her voice is just breaths above a whisper but it brings a sudden and eerie hush over the hivemind. They turn to face the moles again, each of the laity fumbling nervously with their paws or hugging each other tightly in consolation. They had never thought their goddess would leave them once she finally arrived. They had never even thought to fear her departure. Virgo remembers their monuments and their carvings, their undying loyalty to her even before they knew her voice with their own ears. Shame flickers across the swarm’s hearts. They had not considered the effect their absence would have on the moles. Then, a word begins to echo across their thoughts as soft as cashmere: stay.
Stay.
Stay. Stay. Stay.
But Virgo slips between the children once her sister has released her and touches her nose to the nearest mole. Gently, she skims the memories from it and shares it across the hivemind. This one is a mother, with the father curled beside her. Their three children shuffle nervously just behind them. The swarm stares in awe as they learn the relation of each mole until they begin to learn their roles within the society. This one is a hunter while that one over there watches over the young. Some expand their burrows down beneath the sand to make room for new additions to their little pack. The mole that had been taken as a sacrifice had no mate or children of his own, but he tended to the older members of their society and brought them food each day. Each member is as important as the next.
The three-tailed Virgo steps back then and marvels at how complex their lives are, just as she had worried before. Her head aches as every minute detail floods her mind and she blinks in time with a hummingbird heart at the realization. She could not linger here forever, though, much as she wanted to. This was not her home just as she was not a true goddess. But how could she leave them without some gift for their unconditional love and adoration? She turns to the children as the question repeats through all their thoughts.
Tree of knowledge. Let them feast. Let them grow.
She nods and watches as the swarm children turn the sand into a sapling, which then grows into a full tree. Fat red fruit hangs from the white branches while pale pink leaves rustle in the light breeze. Where true gods had kept fire and knowledge and power from their people, they now choose to give it willingly. The moles are hesitant, though, until the children lightly nudge Virgo to speak to them.
“Do not fear, my darlings. This is my gift to you: a tree that requires no water or sun, just your love. In return, it will give you the answers to any question you ask of it,” she explains before lightly kissing the forehead of the mother mole. The Queen, she has decided, after seeing the softness and the care in her heart for all the members of her pack. The moles quickly circle her once Virgo has retreated and congratulate her in soft coos and chirps.
Then, in the blink of an eye, they are floating amidst the dust that was once a planet, lightyears from the moles and their sweet songs. She reaches a clawed finger through the glimmering shards around them that had once been life some eons ago. The children float around her, sometimes slipping through one another in their weightless voyage, leaving eyes or mouths in the wrong body. They offer her images of using this dust to make her own planet, maybe her own Beqanna with a fresh new start. Together, they could show her how to sculpt the Forsaken Valley and fill it with every face she’s ever loved and lost. Her breath shudders at the thought of having it all return to her so easily.
Somewhere in between the memories of the Valley, the children slip Pantheon into their imaginary world, slumbering beneath an oak tree. She can almost feel the summer sun on her back as she imagines watching him nap. He is, or rather was, all legs and knobby knees; he is perfection in her tired eyes. But she knows that is not her real son. No, the real Pantheon is a man now, wandering somewhere and making a life for himself. A clone would only ever be a substitute for her true son. Time is not hers to rewind or cheat to regain what she has forfeited. A slow sigh leaves her lips as she turns to the swarm children.
“I have grown to love you all, your infant horns and the scars where your wings used to be. But my home needs me… I need it,” she says as her voice cracks. They are her brothers and sisters in pain but she cannot force herself into a life that does not fit her, much as she would like to. The hive draws closer to her and they each hug tight to their newest sibling. She has lessened their pain, as they had hoped, so then why is saying goodbye such agony? Crimson tears well up in their glowing white eyes and stain their cheeks as they spill in violent sobs. Each little droplet lands on Virgo’s skin and carves a trail across her, wiping away her new shape in exchange for the old. With so many little eyes crying, it doesn’t take long before she’s a little gray mare with a barbed spine again.
She blinks away her own tears, and when she opens her eyes she finds herself standing at the edge of the lake once again. The three little fish that had called her belly home swim off and leave her with only her reflection now. Virgo listens hard for the sound of the swarm children sniffling or calling her name, almost desperately. No foreign thoughts invade her mind or show her their own ideas. The hivemind has severed itself from her own.
“Please, please stay here with me,” she whispers desperately. “Please come back. I don’t want you all to leave too.” But the words only stir a few light ripples across the water. Her heart sinks and she lays on the grass with her legs curled beneath her. She reminds herself to be mindful of her claws only to realize she has her hooves once again. Her chest feels so hollow now as she resigns herself to something like defeat. Her tears continue to soak her cheeks as she drifts into an exhausted sleep with fitful dreams.
An hour passes, then two. The sun is just peaking over the horizon when an ink black hand reaches from the lake to caress her cheek. She stirs without waking, though she does mumble some incoherent lament. The hand slips back beneath the surface.
Somewhere, a child is crying.
Virgo
he confesses how long he’s looked for a place to worship and, oh, you put him on his knees.
1,686 words.
Her weakness, the children's tears of love, returned her to normal.
The children returned her exactly where and when they took her but left her memories.
Also HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY NEO!!!! <3 <3 <3
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