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    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


    [private]  Thinking of you is a poison I drink often {Lilliana}
    #1

    THINKING OF YOU IS A POISON I DRINK OFTEN

    He is a lonely one, our Dalten.

    He was not always so lonely though, no, he had once found company in the strangest of places. Far beyond the borders of Beqanna, where wild horses are simply wild and magic isn’t heard of at all, Dalten had settled himself into a new life. A life where things seemed more simple, a more placid way to thrive. Where the trees seemed like just trees, and cougars stayed cougars and water stayed water and no one fought over who lead what and where.

    Ah, simplistic, he thought. The simplistic way to living.

    And then she accompanied him, her with her ebony black mane and taunting spotted flank with a coat tossed of white, charcoal, and blue. She was built in the most delicate way, with a soft dished face and deep brown eyes easy to lose yourself in. Her presence always warm and calming, her tone more allievating than the way a creek stream consoles his pasterns.

    You know, I am so grateful you came here. I don’t know where my life would be if you hadn’t…

    Though her voice disappears into the forest clamor, as squirrels around him buzz and birds take flight for their morning adventure. He refocuses on the here and now, awaking from his moment of reminisce before letting out a large stretch through his front end. As if to pump himself up for another day of Beqanna bullshit.

    Oh, Dalten, it cannot be so bad anymore. It’s been years, remember?

    Vaguely. He vaguely remembers anyone or anything, hence why he had left so suddenly. His pure annoyance had built to the point where he had decided to live a hermit in some faraway nomansland than stay here another hour.

    I will be back this afternoon. Do you care for a visit to the river later?

    Chills fall down his spine. Time to move.

    He exits the forest veil of white snow and ice, emerging from the treeline with sure-footedness and elegance. In the winter, he trades in his fit build for a more robust “fluffy” style. He had exploded with winter hair and turned into a ginormous oversized bunny-rabbit in less than a month and he hadn’t quite come to terms with it yet.

    You could argue that he is admitting insecurity, but that would be quite the leap for our charcoal brute to admit.

    He is casual in his pace. Afterall, when you have nowhere to be you have no timeline to adhere to. It felt nice, almost like an early retirement. As if at his spry age of 8 years, he had worked long enough to call it quits.

    Perhaps not physically, but mentally? Maybe.

    He falls to the river edge, a bank that he had grown preference towards over the last few days being home. Home, how unfortunate that the commonlands are called home right now. There was a time when Dalten had been taught about homelessness and recruitment and the importance of building a kingdom. He used to find horses like himself, quiet and quaint and easily satisfied with minimal drama and aloofness. Unlike most, he found the awkward silence comforting. As if he too could slip into a space of uncertainty with them and pull them out, give them a feeling of relatability and support.

    That was back then though, and this is now. This is after he had invested his last dime into someone who he felt needed it. He is out of change.

    So, our grey-painted stallion stands in a noble form, looking off down the river as he sees a salmon break free of the watered-ceiling like the most cliche picturesque picture of a horse to date. The wind flapping his tangled and matted mane, his tail left to flail behind him like a train.

    DALTEN


    @[lilliana]
    Reply
    #2
    He is fortunate that his coat thickens with the winter season.

    Lilliana has generations of tropical-dwelling horses in her pedigree and in the battle of genetics, it is her fathers' blood that has won out. Despite the frigid air around her, the chestnut coat she wears is barely any heavier than the one that covers her during the warmer months. She should perhaps seek out a warmer climate - such as Ischia or Tephra. The humidity and heat of those kingdoms would have suited her better. There would be no shivering or muttering every winter against the artic Taigan breezes that come gusting through her northern home. Things might have turned out much differently if Lilliana had settled anywhere other than the Taiga but there is no point in reflecting on that now.

    The mare who emerges from beneath the snow-laden trees is one who is determined to keep moving forward. (She had promised them after all - Craft and Anatomy. She had brought them to Taiga with the words that even if it all turned out wrong, the whole point was that they were given the choice, the chance. In that desert, if they remained, there would have been no choices at all except to simply drift with those lonely grains of sands.)

    It's the river current that pulls her close, that hums softly the memories of her youth and that always washes her in comfort.
    It's the closest thing to an embrace that she can allow.

    For a moment, she stops and remembers leading Neverwhere to this place. She remembers the two of them ambling through the darkness with Lilliana entirely unsure of herself and doubting her ability to lead them anywhere but disaster. But the two of them had found it - the River had waited for them that night and it gave Lilli that first boost of confidence she needed. After she had lost everything and the only thing she had been sure of was the emptiness in her chest, Neverwhere had been the first confident step in what has felt like an ever-winding trail in Beqanna.

     
    (There are other memories here too - pulling Kagerus from this same current and the pleasure that came with seeing the dreamweaver regain her strength, with knowing she had reunited with her beloved Solace. She remembers Smidgen in the golden haze of sunglow as the day dims. When the petite mare had learned that Taiga still stands, that it wasn't decimated by the fire. That if she wished, she had a home to return too.)

    The chestnut mare is walking her usual trail, a well-traveled path that bears the markings and scents of other horses that come this way. The cold air bellows from her dark nostrils and dances away from her in plumes of silver smoke, a poor imitation of the fog that almost always curtains her beloved Taiga. Her blue eyes are where they should be, alert and ahead, bright and determined despite the garish light of winter sunshine. An ear flicks towards the River and the other pricks ahead as a shade of gray begins to take form in this pale landscape.

    The shape of a silver stallion.

    From the angle she approaches, she can't quite tell if his mouth is down-turned or if his expression is as severe as it feels. Presumptuous of her but Lilliana asks with a rather teasing quip, "Surely it can't be all that bad?" The last of her words rise to indicate a question as she comes to stand near him and see what he is looking at. A fish leaps downstream and the sound of the cascading splash causes the chestnut to turn her head toward him, curious.

    @[Dalten]
    but it's all in the past, love
    it's all gone with the wind
    Reply
    #3

    THINKING OF YOU IS A POISON I DRINK OFTEN

    Had he known she felt his thickness in coat a blessing, Dalten likely would have scoffed. He dreaded the minute his coat began to grow, feeling the heat already linger on his skin while the evolution-made insulation clung to every warm particle to touch his skin.

    Blah, the weight, the warmth, the awkward shedding stage come spring. All of it, he could kindly do without.

    He too finds comfort in the rushing water and simplistic flow of rivers. Nothing challenging to them other than smoothing the surfaces of rough rocks, buffing away harsh edges and points, only to be cast over a plummeting cliffs edge to bathe in a glorifying bath at the bottom. As if their only lesson is to take away resistance. He had played like water before, pretended to have some sort of power in taking away the harsh edges and points on those he loved most. Figuring out a way to buff the problems out, as if his life could be as simplistic as the hastening river.

    I am a mess.

    So am I, can't you see?


    Alas, he is no such force. Dalten has no hidden talents or gifts, he cannot change or mold. He can cover and band aid, but even the best glue gives way eventually.

    Oh, the woman.

    He is unsure if she has noticed his mental absence, though he isn’t awfully worried either. If she had stayed long enough for him to come to, then it couldn’t have been long at all. And, in all fairness, she did interrupt him.

    “No, it cannot be all that bad,” the smallest of sarcasm creeps into his tone, though he quickly pushes it back into the shadowy hole it emerged from. He couldn’t afford to be emotionally available, not anymore. “Wouldn’t you say though, that sometimes it does feel good to pretend it is, just to cope?”

    Do you think I am beautiful?

    I do.


    There is more truth to his words than he intends, more so because he is far better at festering than distinguishing. His grief never really came out through the other tunnel, not before. It always lead him to the deepest point of the cave before leaving him to hopefully eventually find his way out, like his mind is a never ending trap of dark tunnels and caverns with no real light or guidance. He preferred it this way, perhaps because it’s all he knew or maybe because finding the light meant leaving the darkness he had grown used to for so long.

    “Rivers are for wallowing pity. You must know this, why else could you be here?” He is able to find humour buried deep into a file in his brain most likely labelled for redirection in conversation, use here, remembering that most minds carry their own baggage, and what point would it serve to focus on him.

    DALTEN


    @[lilliana]
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