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  • Beqanna

    version 22: awakening


    OCEANE -- Year 208


    "Because if she had not met him, she knew she would have been searching her whole life for the piece that he filled her heart with." -- Eva, written by Shelbi

    have you met the devil's new right hand | islas
    Most days, the young wolf traveled unseen through the forest. Beqanna was alive with activity, and all the pretty horses seemed to pass through the Riverlands with an unsettling frequency. But even with the uptick in activity, Firen was able to maintain his perfect isolation. Their thoughts were so loud that he rarely, if ever, found himself surprised by the approach of a stranger. Their ideas, plans, and fantasies were deafening, emotional reels that he could no longer understand. They cluttered his mind in ways that made his hackles rise and chased him deeper into the woods with each passing day. 

    Until he found a place they never came. An unappealing, damp corner of the forest that was nowhere near the common route.

    But he feels her mind, and he grows curious - feeling he had not felt for another of his kind in weeks. Her thoughts move in different patterns than the endless streams of strangers. There is plenty of time for him to slip away, but he remains like a stone on the forest floor. Except stones don't lick their paws clean of blood or rise from the earth to better see who approaches.

    Within a moment she is there, in his little piece of the Riverlands, as pale and beautiful as his collection of ivory bones.

    He looks at her with wide, red eyes set like rubies against the black of his fur. But they do not burn hot like the eyes of his sire, despite the brilliance of their color. They are dull and detached. His tail lays neatly over his paws, and above his back, two small flames twist silently in the woodland gloom.

    [Image: Firen-insane.gif]

    isn't it lovely all alone, heart made of glass, my mind of stone

    She follows the darkness, even in the light of day. She is drawn to the shadows because it reminds her of sleeping against the velvet of some forgotten galaxy, she likes it because she can see the way she glows against the dark just the way a star in the endless black of night would. It makes the captive star inside of her soul settle, helps it to feel not so out of place. The dark was the closest to home that she would ever be again, she thinks, and while it is a thought that perplexes her – because she still does not fully understand how she came to be here, does not understand how or why she was reborn inside this strange, equine form, and does not understand why she cannot go back – it’s not something she thinks about overly much.

    She will continue to toy with the starlight every night, she will keep pulling the strings that she can and perfecting the art of it, all the while knowing this is the closest she will ever be again.

    He is there when she presses further into the forest of shadow and tree, but she is not alarmed to see him. Her face remains impassive, the sharp yet elegant angles softened somewhat by the faint glow that radiates from every part of her. Her eyes, an aubergine so dark it ventures on the end of black, have a strange depthless feel to them when they meet the red of his, and she does not seem to register nor care that he is canine and not equine. She does not say anything at first, until her gaze drifts over the small flames above his back, and she asks him in a voice so clear that the peculiar emptiness is not immediately apparent, “Do you make the fire yourself?”


    i don't eat i just devour,
    every one in every hour

    She is curious but measured, and he sits patiently for her evaluation. The flames catch her attention, but his gaze never leaves her softly illuminated face. Cool and clear as ice, her voice cuts across the damp hollow and her question causes the wolf to give an involuntary shrug of his brindle shoulders.

    "In a way," he answers, as the flames twist and flair almost playfully, reveling in the attention. "The're always here, like this, even when i wish they wern't."

    When I'm hunting, he adds mentally.

    There is a pause, and something encourages him to move closer. He yields without much thought; instinct was his only guiding force in these strange days.

    With a shake of his thick black pelt, the warg stands, and begins to shift as he does. Paws become hooves, and legs grow longer as the dark body reassembles itself. Most of the details of the shift are veiled by the thick pelt he wears, until the end. His fur was always the last thing to change. But within a moment, even that has had shrunk away, exposing him as what nature made him.

    The line of Firens eyes is only just above hers, and from here, he finds he likes the endless black of them, likes the way they reflect his firelight back to him. His mind reaches to brush along her own, this time with intention. He only touches what may be on the surface. He does not hunt for anything she may try to hide, not now.

    "Your thoughts are different," he states. He had not yet learned the benefits of hiding such a skill from strangers, even strangers with haunting, dark eyes.
    [Image: Firen-insane.gif]

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