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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


    they drown us out at sea; any
    #1

    we carry these things inside that no one else can see
    they hold us down like anchors; they drown us out at sea

    The Field. How many times had he been on the other side? Walking amongst the lost and the wandering? Helping to point them in the right direction? Too many times to count. He had recruited for the Chamber, the Gates, the Dale, the Gates again. He had risen in their ranks: served as their soldiers, their Generals, their Lords, and even their Kings. He had been loyal—fighting their wars, bleeding for their cause. He had given of himself time and time again, working himself to the marrow. Working himself to exhaustion.

    And now—well, now, he found himself back here.

    The fury had not bled from him just yet. Instead, years of accumulated scales had fallen, revealing a side he did his best to ignore. An age-old fury simmered just beneath the surface, an anguish that felt as familiar as the hilt of an old sword. He gripped it once more, lifting it up and testing its weight. It had been a long time since he given into this anger; it had been a long time since he had felt true to his nature.

    He had run from the Gates to here, blind in anger. Now, he stood near the border with skin slicked with sweat, nostrils flaring. It was afternoon now, the sun just beginning to make its descent, and he was glad for the nearly empty landscape. He was not sure he could face a mirror of faces so like and unlike his own. He was not sure he could bear the burden of their own questions when he was so sunk in them.

    He paced beneath the shadows of the trees dotting the field, the shadows playing along the curves of his back. He did not possess gifts that were so abundant nowadays. He could not wield the elements with the tilt of his head; he could not call upon the heavens to rain down. Instead, he relied upon what he had always been given—the tools of his birth. He relied upon his god-given strength, his grit, his intelligence. He relied upon his willingness to sweat and bleed and die for what he believed in.

    He relied upon his righteous anger. His conviction. His passion.

    So he was not without value—not without worth. Snorting, Magnus shook his heavy-jawed head, doing his best to rid himself of the memories that clouded his mind: the meeting, Ellyse, Zeik, the kingdom that he had left behind once more. Regrets that melded with anger to tear at his throat. Rising into a half-rear, Magnus came down hard on the ground, frustration evident in his every abbreviated move.

    magnus



    just no gates. obvs.
    [Image: gqYjsHr.png]
    Reply
    #2
    my apologies for the crappiness of this post. i couldn't resist...
    -clings to laura-
    it was good to be back.

    she was a veteran of this field, a familiar lover to it's landscape. the changes that had happened over the years were minor in the grand scheme - a new hair color, a tattoo, a small scar - it was still the same. the scene she painted by coming here was one that had been painted a thousand times with she working her hooves to the bone; the tundra, the valley, the chamber. loyalty ran strong in her blood and yet she had vanished with barely any trace. a whisper of memory left in her wake, and now her not so glorious return.

    to him she was drawn like a moth to the FLAME. the later quite literal for he was set a fire. emotions ran hot and the ashen lady was drawn to them. He was a warrior, truly, and she stood some distance away and merely watched the temperamental display. jeeze, what's got his panties in a bunch?

    eventually - before the rest came like a flock of starving crows - she moved once more. no longer a statue on the horizon but a creature of flesh and blood and LIFE.

    forward, slowly, until she stopped a short space from his side. he, revved up and fiery - she, the quiet, icy aftermath. ashes that fell like snow in the path of the fire that burned. eyes of flame that rested on a marked body begging a silent questions - why?

    ARANEA
    (immortal, mute, infrared vision)
    from dust, she returned
    the dream, an enigma... silent

    Reply
    #3
    BUT HOW COULD YOU KNOW THE SWEETEST SUFFERING
    OF MOVING ON
    Winter has arrived.

    The cold is nipping at Tiphon’s heels and resting frigid kisses across his skin. A shudder is the first sign of life in minutes as he stands still enough for a few flakes to drift down and settle. A curious gaze finds the looming gray clouds above and he wills them away with his distaste for the season. It makes the trip here much less enjoyable, less fruitful. The Dale lulls him back and he spares a brief glance in the direction, but turns to look ahead and continue forward. The kingdom is relying on new bodies, new faces, to help her rise from the ashes. He won’t let it slip or fail. He can’t.

    Magnus’ distress does not go unseen. Tiphon notices but doesn’t take action as quickly as the mare. He is observant and wanders by as a curious shark, eyeing the stranger. He smells of the Gates and yet he is here, battle-worn and agitated. There would be tales worth hearing, if only he could delve into the stallion’s mind and thumb through his memories. What could have happened that would drive a resident from his home and into a field that would leave his future in question? Tiphon considers this with furrowed brows but it’s when he turns that his body disappears into the crowd. It’s as though he was never there, never walking among the mortals, until he materializes next to the mare. Their bodies are close, but the angel’s eyes never waver from the stallion’s.

    ”Tiphon,” he offers to them both in a voice of liquid fire. All three of them here are soldiers; it’s obvious in the way they stand, their bodies, their minds warping to address a more diplomatic manner to recruit. ”What happened in the Gates?” Perhaps the question is too abrupt, maybe even unwanted, but he cannot deny himself the answers he craves. Is there something that should be known of the kingdom? Is it crumbling in the hands of an unfit ruler or simply does it lie in the ashes with hardly a heartbeat anymore? ”What could drive a Gates soldier from her borders?” His brashness can be offensive or it can be commendable. His thirst for awareness and knowledge is driving his mind and trying to wrap it around Magnus’ situation. The predicament could be many things, but he needs to know. He won’t offer a home to just any deserter .



    TIPHON
    STARLACE AND INFECTION
    Reply
    #4
    "we pull apart the darkness while we can"
    She had come here once before, only once – though, not in the role of a recruiter. She would never be a charismatic diplomat, never a wordsmith capable of spinning enough poetry to convince a stranger of the worthwhile life that could await them should they choose to pick the Chamber as home. Killdare did not make her his queen for her qualities of charisma. She did not understand why he had at all, but she kept the dark at bay for him, kept the wild from blistering in her heart until it was all that remained. She would do so for as long as he asked it of her, for as long as the safety of the kingdom rested in her incapable hands.

    There is something different about this day, though, be it fate or perhaps a pair of meddling twin magicians, and Malis surrenders eagerly to whatever it is that drives her restless heart to the edge of the waiting field. She does not enter right away, not until the sun has inched further across the sky and she can feel the raw heat pooling in the contrasting indigo hollows along her back and hips. It is only when that silhouette of damp gold, of a figure she recognizes in an impossible way, of a darkness that sings out to her appears in the shadows beneath a copse of trees that she understands.

    She watches him in his roiling fury- but she isn’t the only one. There is a mare first, dark and silent as steel, and then a stallion in complete contrast with the first in the way that he glows like bone beneath the sun. She waits until they have all come together, collecting like dew in the belly of a leaf, before she crosses the winterscape to join them. They are different up close, different than gold and steel and pearl, different than her in the way she feels restless in the midst of so much unknown, so much of what she cannot control. She thinks they’ve all been here a thousand times before, because they settle in with a sort of familiarity that she cannot match. So she does not try. Her ears flick and her muscles slither like snakes beneath her skin, and when she turns her eyes from the mare to the stallion and then finally to Magnus, they are molten green emeralds.

    “You’re back.” She says to him, quiet, and it isn’t a question at all. She doesn’t mean the field, back here, she means it in a wider way. The last time she had seen him had been in this very place, except the roles had been reversed and it had been Malis withering in the shadows. She had even agreed to see his home but he had disappeared shortly thereafter, against his will though she had no way of knowing this, so nothing had kept her bound to the Gates. She can smell the Kingdom on his skin now, and it makes her wonder too. But she is nothing like the bone-white stallion and she will not ask, not when she knows how she would ruin anyone who tried to pull her demons out into the light. To him, to the steel and silent mare she says instead, “I am Malis, of the Chamber.” She wouldn’t have introduced herself, wouldn’t have given them a name to wield against their tongues, but Killdare would have. So she does, too.

    She is silent then, though she does not fix those emerald eyes on his face as the other two do. Instead she drifts as she always does, even now, letting her gaze slither in and out of the shadows nearby until the sound of voices draw her back in again. Unlike the others, warriors of their homes, defenders of the worlds they come from, Malis does not belong here. There is too much wild, too much dark and it simmers dangerously just beneath her skin in this unfamiliar closeness, this restrictive role. But there is reason she is here, a reason she came to find this face again, and so she remains.

    MALIS
    makai x oksana
    texture © hexe78


    omfg what even is this. D:
    Reply
    #5

    Nymphetamine

    Winter was upon them, the time for lazy mornings was over as daylight was precious in the cold months. As the governor or Chamber, he had much to do in a day, especially now that the magic had been taken, alliances were more important and knowledge of your enemies was even more valuable. Nymphetamine had had a terrible go of things after the raid, he had assumed all “the warning” had been directed at him and it took more than a little convincing to realize he was trying to hold too much of the weight on his own. It hadn’t been easy to face his mistakes he made out of shame and misplaced anger, but time and effort had started healing the wounds he had caused. He had thrown himself back into his work, now that the wounds were healed leaving only some scars from the fangs of the the shadow wolf. He was going to visit Falls as he had heard of them ‘raising the walls’ so to speak, but decided to stop in the field, as he had not recruited in some months.

    The frosted grasses were melting as he laid his hooves upon them. There were dead brown leaves scattered about from the surrounding treeline. Air whipped around him that held the chill of future snow and bitter nights. He wished more than anything that the Tree still held its fire, so he could share its warmth, but he would have to do without now. The field held many, as it usually did but a familiar face struck him. One he had not seen in many years, one that upon his own arrival had recruited him to the gates, one that had been a part of his foray into the spy game. The buckskin stallion was surrounded by some others, the dark blue of Chamber’s own queen, Malis, among them. Normally he would have left the queen to represent them, as she didn’t recruit often, but she was more than able to. But it was Magnus, and the symbolism was too much for the necromancer to resist.

    He closed the small distance to the gathering, his black tipped features alert, unsure if Magnus would remember him, or react well to his presence, as he had chosen Chamber in the end and not Gates, the former king’s home. He heard the other introduce themselves, and realized that Magnus was the one being recruited, things had literally come full circle. The blood bay sided next to Malis, dipping his nose to her in greeting, they had only met a few times, both in volved the tree, only one, was a positive one, the other was in the craze after the warning. Either way, Malis had his respect, she had earned it long before she was officially queen. His steel eyes were kept on Magnus, he looked very much the same, but Nymphetamine had changed. Last they met the bay was 2 years old, brash and brazen, now he was 10 for appearance sake, and filled out into his long legs and frame. His body was scarred over top of muscles built from traveling from ally to ally, and fighting in battles. Now that time had past he was not to quick to pull sarcastic remarks in an attempt to puff out his chest. He had no need for it now, he held respect and had earned his position. Oh how times have changed. By the time he spoke all others had introduced themselves, and so without a prompt he spoke, ”I am unsure if you would remember me, but we met here long ago, I never thought the roles would ever be reversed, so I had to stop in and join the party. I’m Nymphetamine, Governor of Chamber. Malis, my queen, do you mind if I stay? I do not wish to be underfoot.” His eye flicked from Magnus, to the others as he introduced himself, and finally to the queen as he spoke, his voice light and conversational.

    Magnus had a bit of an edge, something had gone wrong at Gates, the necromancer hoped the buckskin would not see the once double agent spy and decide he was a deserving punching bag. Surely, in the company of others all would go smoothly.

    Like a thorn to the Holy Ones


    ooc: i wouldn't normally send a second chamber horse into an already multi-offer recruitment..... BUT magnus was nymphs first contact in BQ and the full circle was too much to resist, I'll leave if yall want after it. Also, I thought it could be interesting give nymph was wand double agent spy between gates and chamber.... lalallalaaaa <3
    Reply
    #6

    we carry these things inside that no one else can see
    they hold us down like anchors; they drown us out at sea

    It had been years, decades perhaps, since Magnus had felt this lost. Despair seeped into his veins, slowing his rage into something darker, something deeper. His head hung heavy, the winter air biting at him. The kingdom meeting played out before his eyes, again and again. The anger and misunderstanding and the pure confusion—the fear for the kingdom’s future. Then again when Zeik had exiled Ellyse. He had been blinded by his own fury; he had given into it, falling back and drowning in the raging tides of it.

    With each deep breath, he fought for an inch of control. He wrestled with it internally, sweat dampening his coat further, steam rising. When the first mare approached, he looked up, eyes fever bright. She looked familiar but he had no name for her. For a moment, he studied her, furious with himself for not knowing why he knew her—why he could not place her. Finally, he nodded at her. “Hello,” he said quietly, the word whiskey in his mouth before he looked down again. She was not saying anything, and he did not feel the need to fill in the spaces of a conversation on his own. Not when he was this exhausted.

    Then, the other materialized near them. Magnus raised his battle-weary gaze up and looked at the angel-stallion. He bristled slightly at the intrusive questions but shrugged the bluntness off. “Politics,” he spit out with venom before he shook his head, the ink of his tangled mane falling down both sides of his thick neck. “The Gates is under new leadership,” the word tasted bitter. “Although that is not quite the right word for it. One of his first acts was to ignore his fellow kingdom’s questions of his worthiness and then exile one who had been opposed to it.” It stung still and he found he could not dive further into it.

    He could not bring himself to detail the truth of it: that Zeik had been new to the kingdom and claimed the throne having barely lifted for Heaven. That Zeik had brushed off the kingdom mate’s concerns. That he had insulted them, belittled their worries, and then exiled one who had verbally spoke out. Magnus shifted uncomfortably. He had no idea where Ellyse had gone, if Sahm was still there trying to pick up the pieces. He had no way of knowing if Kokachin was settling down, if Felinae was happy, if Cerva was feeling welcomed, if Akkadian had come to check in, if Camelia had been comforted after finding the tree. Every piece of his heart, which had so long been tangled in and tied to the Gates was shattered in his breast.

    His next breath rattled in his lungs and he felt his muscles shake. The feeling of failure seeped through his veins, and he closed his eyes for a second. He shouldn’t have left. He should have done something. He should have battened down his own feelings on the situations, grit his teeth, and just worked behind the scenes for the Gates. Still, some piece of him knew that he did the right thing. Staying would have meant that he endorsed Zeik’s actions; it would have meant throwing his weight behind the decisions he made.

    The mare who comes next stires something in Magnus so that he straightens, eyes locking on her, still the color of a bruise, horns curving dangerously, wickedly, from her face. He had met her here once, had seen her as a mirror. They dealt with it differently, but they were made of the same darkness; they battled the same demons. It was in their blood to rage against fate, to slam bloodied fists against the ground. “Malis,” he repeated softly, her name slipping easily from his tongue. “Of the Chamber.” Once upon a time, he had been Lord there, had worn his internal darkness like a cloak. The dark, furious prince of the Chamber and the Jungle. It had been easy to wield that side of him like a weapon. It had been easy to give into it.

    He had never thought he would have tamed that beast; he did not think it possible. Until he had met Joelle and everything had changed. She had softened him, and he had fought against his nature until he had gained control. Eventually that control had weathered, frayed, snapped, but he had never stopped trying. Looking at Malis, he wondered if it was time to finally stop. To recognize that he was, and never would, be good enough for the Gates. If Bond was still here, he would not stayed there. He would never have left.

    The thought cut at him bitterly.

    His thought process was interrupted by the presence of the fourth, and seemingly final, recruiter. Anger poured into him. He had entrusted the Gates to Nymphetamine, only to have that trust broken. “How could I forget,” his voice was cold. “It is not every day that you meet a man with two faces.” He locked gazes with the other, staying silent for a moment. It would be easy to give into the black tug of rage, but Magnus knew it would not serve any end, although the pleasure of release was tempting enough.

    Finally, with a snort, he dismissed Nymphetamine, shaking his head and turning his attention to the other three. “My name is Magnus,” he finally offered, although it felt unnecessary. Typhon seemed to know where he was from, Malis certainly knew him, and the first mare had still said nothing. But Magnus was a creature of habit and it was hard to break the desire to remain at least a little polite. “I supposed I am looking for something,” he felt quiet, quelling the internal shame and anger and regret, “but I don’t know what that is.” Something diverting enough to forget the pain splitting apart his chest.

    Something loud enough to quiet the screaming in his veins.

    magnus

    [Image: gqYjsHr.png]
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    #7
    it was stupid, really, to come here. of course, aranea realized that in hindsight. her silence was so familiar and comfortable that she had forgotten to think of it as a hindrance - for years it had been her only companion. but as his greeting fell on her ears and she could give him no response except for a small tip of her nose she was aware of her mistake.

    what a fool she was.

    the others came - faces more familiar to him - and she might as well have melted in to the shadows. except that, though she wore said shadows like a second skin, she was not the type to disappear. (okay, okay, you know what i mean!)

    the mare stood by in silence and watched them come. her attention was snagged by the CHAMBER, her eyes instinctively drawn to the mare that represented them. oh the chamber, would they remember her name? if she could speak it for them, would they know who she was? once upon a time she had led them to greatness; she would be remiss to say that her fairy-tale did not have a happy ending.

    he wanted something, but she was not LOUD. she could not drown out whatever screaming plagued him. instead she could offer him silence and reprieve and possibly escape from the demons that haunted him. the change of hands that she knew SO well - ah, no, nation, she has not forgotten you or the lady in red.

    aranea could not throw a spiel his way. she could not try to lure him to where the grasses were greener. HAH. instead she could do her best to muster an expression of empathy and welcome, jerking her head towards the valley (could he smell it on her, the shadows and the fur?) without the words to accompany. fool, fool, fool.

    the shame burned her cheeks and she ACHED to speak to him.

    ARANEA
    (immortal, mute, infrared vision)
    from dust, she returned
    the dream, an enigma... silent

    Reply
    #8
    BUT HOW COULD YOU KNOW THE SWEETEST SUFFERING
    OF MOVING ON
    They flock like flies to a carcass. Many already know Magnus, uttering grated words in hopes of triggering his memory. They want him. They yearn for his company in the growth of their kingdoms, and Tiphon takes note of this. Unlike them, he does nothing to swoon the stallion or stare at him with hopeful eyes. There is a brief hollowness in his eyes while his mind reels with the news of the Gates. He thumbs through the underlying tones and hidden stories of Magnus’ tale, eyeing him with mild curiosity before inching a step backward as the group enlarges.

    The air thickens with their voices, their bodies shuffling in greeting and anticipation, all while Tiphon remains a statue rooted to his place. His mane runs down his neck like silk, his forelock tumbling to the left side of his chiseled face. ”I see,” he finally murmurs almost to no one at all as the clamor continues. The options are weighed. Magnus is a deserter because the new monarchy wasn’t to his standards, but on the opposite hand, if one disagrees with the viewpoints of their ruler to such an extreme, why stay and condone it?

    There is a long pause as though Tiphon will never answer. His ears swivel, listening, but never really comprehending what the others have said. They don’t matter. Their smiles and reminiscing means nothing to him, only Magnus and the predicament he has found himself in.

    The rage that incited Magnus’ abandonment lies deep within. There is a monster inside them all, but the buckskin had unleashed it and ran with it. It clouded his judgment and carried him far from the home he knew. How long would it be until it surfaces again and lures Magnus back to the Gates or to another kingdom, his loyalties left fleeting and jeopardized? Tiphon clutches onto this idea briefly before finally speaking, his voice gravely. ”Well, should you figure out what you want, the Dale would be willing to take you in and offer you another chance,” he won’t linger here rummaging through his mind to convince Magnus or guide him like a newborn. He knows the kingdoms, knows the tales and histories of most. He can handle figuring out what he wants and needs.

    Tiphon doesn’t offer the Dale on a silver platter with a list of reasons to come. Instead, the proposal hangs idle in the air between them, luring Magnus into his memories of back when the Dale has uttered his name (but Tiphon is unaware of this). It carries the lost scents of the deciduous trees and babbling brooks, of happiness and hope.

    With a slow dip of his head and a coy grin Tiphon’s body dissolves into nothingness.


    TIPHON
    STARLACE AND INFECTION
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