I've been on a long road with the devil right beside me
ainlif
rising with the morning sun; it’s a hunger that drives me
Beqanna
Assailant -- Year 226
"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
[mature] Champion.
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11-08-2018, 11:21 PM
She isn’t sure how long she’s been running for, but there is some way down deep part of her mind that has begun to wonder if she remembers how to stop. It feels like an urgent instinct though, a desperation in her chest, an endless surge of adrenaline pushing her faster and further and forever until that tiny dark and autumn body finally succumbs to the sickness that is everywhere.
She tried so hard not to catch it, tried to outrun it and hide from it. There were too many bloated bodies fallen beneath the trees, the tall trunks like monuments to lives ended too soon, so abruptly. Nameless and faceless and nothing. Grey, patchy skin. Blood on their lips and leaking from their eyes. She didn’t need to understand what death was to know she didn’t want to be like them. Empty and ugly and nothing. But now she coughs like they do, dry and heaving until she feels sickness swell in her tummy because the muscles cannot abide the constant contractions her suffocating lungs send in tremors through her body. She bleeds too, though she pretends she doesn’t notice when she wipes her nose on her knee and the dark skin is glazed with new red. Pretends it’s just a scrape, a cut, because she’s tripped so many times. It isn’t until the fever builds in her, burns in her, guides her to the edge of delirum, that she finally slows to a staggering walk. She can hear him coming, hear something massive stalking through the trees towards her. Or is it maybe the forest staggering around her, trees thumping down to sleep because they are so, so tired from all this useless, pointless running. Yes, it must be the trees. So she starts staggering forward again, scowling and delirious and smeared red in too many places, because she’s only just realizing she’s always wanted to see a tree sleeping on its side. “Mmust be sso tiring to sstand all day.” She mumbles up at the nearest tree trunk, squinting and reaching her nose out to give it a push. (ooc - this is being switched to current after-plague timeline obviously since baby warlow is sick. toli okayed it <3 )
11-10-2018, 10:17 PM
I've been on a long road with the devil right beside me ainlif rising with the morning sun; it’s a hunger that drives me @[The Plague]
12-02-2018, 10:00 PM
She has no idea that this man is not a tree. That he is flesh and bone and sinew, soft and warm and with a heart beating so steady in his chest. There is too much sick in her mind, too much fever turning the blood in her veins to sticky fire, slowing her thoughts and her words and the stumbling motion of such small, rust legs as they stagger beneath her.
He is a tree. He is vast and brown and beautiful, missing his leaves and those beautiful greens, but trees did that when they got too cold. Dropped their leaves because their fingers got too cold to hold them. He is a cold tree. But that seems okay because she is a ball of fire burning so bright, she is the sun plucked from the sky and shaped into equine in her molten softness. She will keep this tree warm. But then the tree pokes her, nudges her firmly in a direction she is far too tired to go, so she plants her tiny little hooves and sways wildly, lifts her gaze to the face that is not a face so that she can scowl at him so loudly. Except for a moment the grumbling, childish anger tempers the fever and face does swim through her vision, a shark in deep waters when she doesn’t know how to swim. Then it’s gone again, no face, no shark, no anything but her tree sleeping sideways and the dark root he keeps proding her with. She could go with him maybe, if only she could remember how to lift her feet off the ground. Were they always so heavy? She struggles a little, fights her feet until her legs buckle at the knees and she’s swaying again, falling sideways against something that catches her. But she’s made no progress that she can tell, still in the same place except it’s night now. So dark and no stars, no moon, no anything to tell her where she is. Just something solid against her forehead. Solid and warm and so she leans into it, sighs with a huff that is somehow both relieved and offended. “Imma tree too.” She mumbles, lifts her nose a little so her face rubs against the soft skin behind his foreleg. “I ‘ve roots an’ ’m stuck.” |
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